This weekend Mr. Sapphire Cat and I had a very simple agenda: buy shelves from Costco, assemble shelves, and organize basement by putting stuff on shelves. Despite the simplicity of this task, we didn’t accomplish even the beginning of this agenda.
We woke up and ate breakfast, then, as we walked to our car, Mr. Cat looked up and said, “Petsmart, let’s go pet some dogs.”
Petsmart didn’t have any dogs. So we went to the shelter.
The animal shelter is very similar to being at an exposition, confronted by hundreds of salesmen.
Some are natural salesmen. Some monopolize your time. Some are terrified. But all of them are depressed about their lack of success. When a customer shows a salesman the smallest interest, their colleagues go nuts with excitement and jealousy.
We looked at lots of dogs, even walking some around outside. We asked about some, and their history, knowing they weren’t coming home with us.
Just like an exposition, our shelter trip extended long beyond our plans. After five hours of being sold on each animal’s lovability, we looked at each other, dirty and exhausted, and said, “Let’s go home.”
But as we headed for the doors, Mr. Cat said, “Let’s look at the mini-pincers.”
I followed him back inside the little dog area, trying to remember a mini-pincer.
Seconds later he announced, “There she is.” He opened the cage and dove into a litter of tiny dogs.
I stood outside, watching my husband cuddle a small black dog. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I said, hoping we would leave on my return.
After the bathroom, I found him sitting on the floor with little creatures crawling all over him. He wasn’t leaving any time soon, so I opened the door and joined him.
The “mini-pincer” was not a pincer at all, but a Dachshund Chihuahua, who was possibly the cutest, sweetest animal alive.
“I like her,” Mr. Cat kept saying. “Too bad we aren’t getting a dog.”
“Yep, too bad,” I said, as she wiggled under my hand, then flopped onto her back.
“I don’t want a dog again,” he said, rubbing her belly.
“Me neither.”
“It’s a ten-year commitment,” he insisted, as she dozed off on his lap.
“At least,” I agreed.
One hour before closing, we left the shelter dog-less. We got home dog-less. We slept in our room dog-less. We woke up the next morning and rushed back to the shelter to get the Chiweenie, afraid she would be gone.
She was still there, but as we adopted her, two families came in, saw us with her, and said, “We came to get her.”
Having been dog-less for so long, we went straight to Petsmart to arm ourselves with little-dog necessities. While there, a new side of Mr. Cat revealed itself. He picked out a pink feeding dish with green hearts and Princess written on it. “I like this one,” he said.
He outfitted her in a pink dress, trimmed with a tutu. “Because it matches her bed,” he explained.
After staring at her for a minute, he said, “I don’t want to leave her. I’ll rush home from work tomorrow to see her. I feel like I’m in love.”
This morning, before going to work, he laid on the floor with our Mia and said, “Maybe I should call in today so I can spend all day with her.”
I never thought a dog fit in with my plans of Home, but now that she’s here, it kind of makes sense.
We woke up and ate breakfast, then, as we walked to our car, Mr. Cat looked up and said, “Petsmart, let’s go pet some dogs.”
Petsmart didn’t have any dogs. So we went to the shelter.
The animal shelter is very similar to being at an exposition, confronted by hundreds of salesmen.
Some are natural salesmen. Some monopolize your time. Some are terrified. But all of them are depressed about their lack of success. When a customer shows a salesman the smallest interest, their colleagues go nuts with excitement and jealousy.
We looked at lots of dogs, even walking some around outside. We asked about some, and their history, knowing they weren’t coming home with us.
Just like an exposition, our shelter trip extended long beyond our plans. After five hours of being sold on each animal’s lovability, we looked at each other, dirty and exhausted, and said, “Let’s go home.”
But as we headed for the doors, Mr. Cat said, “Let’s look at the mini-pincers.”
I followed him back inside the little dog area, trying to remember a mini-pincer.
Seconds later he announced, “There she is.” He opened the cage and dove into a litter of tiny dogs.
I stood outside, watching my husband cuddle a small black dog. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I said, hoping we would leave on my return.
After the bathroom, I found him sitting on the floor with little creatures crawling all over him. He wasn’t leaving any time soon, so I opened the door and joined him.
The “mini-pincer” was not a pincer at all, but a Dachshund Chihuahua, who was possibly the cutest, sweetest animal alive.
“I like her,” Mr. Cat kept saying. “Too bad we aren’t getting a dog.”
“Yep, too bad,” I said, as she wiggled under my hand, then flopped onto her back.
“I don’t want a dog again,” he said, rubbing her belly.
“Me neither.”
“It’s a ten-year commitment,” he insisted, as she dozed off on his lap.
“At least,” I agreed.
One hour before closing, we left the shelter dog-less. We got home dog-less. We slept in our room dog-less. We woke up the next morning and rushed back to the shelter to get the Chiweenie, afraid she would be gone.
She was still there, but as we adopted her, two families came in, saw us with her, and said, “We came to get her.”
Having been dog-less for so long, we went straight to Petsmart to arm ourselves with little-dog necessities. While there, a new side of Mr. Cat revealed itself. He picked out a pink feeding dish with green hearts and Princess written on it. “I like this one,” he said.
He outfitted her in a pink dress, trimmed with a tutu. “Because it matches her bed,” he explained.
After staring at her for a minute, he said, “I don’t want to leave her. I’ll rush home from work tomorrow to see her. I feel like I’m in love.”
This morning, before going to work, he laid on the floor with our Mia and said, “Maybe I should call in today so I can spend all day with her.”
I never thought a dog fit in with my plans of Home, but now that she’s here, it kind of makes sense.