The following story is nearly all true, and I want you to laugh at the unlikeliness of it.
It began at the dining room table. I was sitting, as I often do, with my friend Sharon, who lives in an apartment around the corner from mine. (The company that runs the building also provides three meals a day in the dining room.)
Sharon and I have a lot in common, as do several other tenants who often dine together. The other night, five or six of us were at the same table. I mentioned I was looking for a subject for my next column. “Why don’t you write about dogs?” Sharon suggested. And that’s when this story started.
I have owned dogs (all of whom I loved), while my late wife had a passion for kittens. In fact, we had five when she died, along with my dog, Gibbs, a part-Yorkie I had grown to love an awful lot. I don’t remember the names of all the kittens, but they mostly came from the shelter on College Road, as had Gibbs (named for Mark Harmon’s character in the show “NCIS.”)
Several months later, after Patsy had died, I was moving from our house to an apartment. I knew Gibbs was coming with me, as was Charlotte, a Himalayan kitten who needed fluid injections every few months. After Patsy died (whom I loved most, of course), Harry the kitten attached himself to me. So, I brought him along as well. I sadly had to take the other three kittens back to the shelter. I hope they found loving owners.
Over the years, Gibbs, Harry and Charlotte all died, so I’ve been without pet companionship for a long time.
Then I read a message on Facebook from a friend. She had a friend who had an “extra” pup and was looking for an owner. I thought about it for 15 minutes and told my friend I wanted the dog, a 4-year-old Yorkie (my very favorite breed). In subsequent conversations, I saw a picture.
Oh, God. I was hooked, even more so when my friend indicated I was likely getting the little gal.
Over the next few days, I silently made plans. I’ll need to find a groomer. I thought of potential new names for her. Where would I put her food and water bowls? I committed myself to spending more time in my apartment with her, and walking her at least twice a day, in the morning and evening.
Then I received the fateful note. The owner of “my” new dog was giving her to someone else. She hoped I understood. At first, I didn’t. I was angry, very angry. But I got over it.
Then I joined Sharon and the others at dinner that recent night.
I knew vaguely that Sharon was getting a dog, but no specifics had been mentioned. As she suggested I write a column on dogs, she started talking about her new four-legged friend, a 4-year-old Yorkie. Then she mentioned the dog’s name.
“What?!” I probably yelled. “That’s MY dog!”
Well, she wasn’t mine, as I had already been told I wasn’t getting her. I had gotten over it, but wasn’t letting Sharon know that, at least not immediately.
But how small can this island be that two next-door neighbors, through different friends, get somehow connected to the same puppy? I kidded that I had been chosen as the new owner. And Sharon got as angry as I had when told I would not, in fact, need food and water bowls.
We went back and forth for a while, then settled down. Of course, I eventually told her the
truth and wished her and the dog the best. Sharon is a nice person, even if she is a Republican. (I once went with her to a GOP gathering. That may result in another column some day.)
P.S. Sharon eventually also learned she wasn’t getting the puppy either. What?! There goes the neighborhood.
