Hank

So, a funny thing happened to me on my afternoon walk today.  I ventured out to beat the storm and stretch my housebound legs . . . and returned with a new family member.

I'm here in Woodbury, still helping my mom on the post-operative side of her back surgery.  This is a small community.  Your feet can get you anywhere in a matter of minutes . . . especially if you're a daily quick-trotter like me.  My right turn onto Main Street took me past that antique store into whose windows I peeked yesterday.  Today it was OPEN; it pulled me in with the hopes of possibly finding a bookshelf or cake stand.  And I just about tripped over a plump white and yellow puppy chained to the door of the establishment.  Of course, like anyone with eyes to register cuteness and any affection for animals at all, I bent down and gave him a good rubbing over, cooing over how handsome a fellow he was, before moving on through the store to admire its contents.  A simple framed needlepoint of woodland mushrooms caught my eye.  The colors, it's unique nature, a warmth it exuded, beckoned and asked if I might want to buy it and take it home to mount on my study wall.    I wasn't sure, so I moved on to the shelves and tables laden with dishes to see what else might call my name.

MAGIC MUSHROOMS 

Somewhere between a creamer and sugar bowl composed of that iridescent orange Carnival glass and a display of assorted China teacup sets, the two women who'd entered the store behind me (one of them had asked if I wouldn't mind scooting out of the aisle, where I was bent over the pup, so she could squeeze by -- she was polite and I WAS in the way) approached the older woman in charge of the place to ask if she had any matching strings of lights.  They obviously knew her, addressing her as Jenny, which is also the first name of the store, 'Jenny Rose.'  "No," she didn't think there was anything like that in her inventory.

"Well, that's too bad," the younger woman stated before asking, "Did you get yourself a new dog?"  At this, she settled hesitated a moment before explaining the origin of the friendly canine youth resting beneath her antique rocker, "Well, I did but he's not really mine.  I'm trying to find a home for him.  A couple of weeks ago, a lady came in here and asked if I would hold the little guy while she ran to her car to get someone out.  I said I would and played with him while she was gone.  I waited.  And she never came back!"  My curious eavesdropping ears took all of this in, thinking it would make a great piece for the blog.  I mean, what a dirty trick to pull on someone . . . both the pup AND the proprietress.  Rotten.

JENNY ROSE

By the time I returned to the front of the store, glancing longingly once again at the fabulous threaded fungi, Mister Puppy thought it his duty to beg for one last belly scratch.  I obliged.  For the next fifteen minutes.  Talking to him.  And to Jenny.  And the two lady customers.  "Are you gonna be his new mommy?" they asked.  "Oh, goodness no, my husband would shoot that down in a second.  And I've got too much going on.  Though . . . he is awfully cute . . . those eyes . . . all that white fur . . . handsome . . . so loving . . . just tugs at the heartstrings."  Eventually, I tore myself away from my newfound friends, both human and canine, and headed off with earbuds connected to the iPhone, pumping a podcast into my ears.  Only, I wasn't listening.  An 18-wheeler loaded down with raw timber made the turn next to me, and I shot a picture of yet another highway death cause to share with one of my Earth Divas.  (Inside joke.)  But my attention didn't remain fixed for long.  The strong urge to call my husband and explain this strange feeling within wouldn't leave.  What in the heck was I about to do?  

'DEATH BY HIGHWAY' OPTION

"Mim?"  I echoed into the phone, straining to be heard against the increasing winds.  "I think I just fell in love!  With a dog.  And that hasn't happened since my childhood when I owned Bonnet.  You remember how I've talked about Bonnet?  My first dog?  How much she meant to me?  Our connection?  I mean, what is wrong with me?  He's so handsome and cute and . . . a boy . . . I don't go for male dogs . . . and there's just something about him.  His nose is a swirl of brown and blonde pigment.  Brown  I can't get his face out of my mind.  Let me send you a picture.  NO, two pictures, or three.  You'll see.  You will love him, too.  He has a story.  Let me tell you his story."  All of this tumbled out in an exuberant rush of excitement mingled with puzzlement over what was happening here.  What WAS happening here?  Was I about to add another thing which needed attention and care and energy to my laundry list of TO-DO's?  Yet one more being to love and tend as if there was an infinite amount of love and energy springing from an endless fountain within me!  Hadn't I agreed with my spouse when he said we shouldn't usher in a replacement for our elderly dog when she passed away.  Too much work and time and trouble?  And what about that book-turned-movie with Jennifer Aniston about a lab pup who went rogue right outta the gate after initially beguiling his owner with false pacifist charm?  My husband, this guy who has loved me for 22 years, laughed with me, at me, and wondered aloud only one thing, "Did you recently take your Happy Pill or something?"  This is his appreciative term for the anti-depressant I added to my daily routine about a month and a half ago.  Giggling, I replied, "Nope!  That was last night.  This is all-l-l me."

I did an about-face back to Main Street to retrieve my little girl heart.  The owner was not surprised to see me at all.  We chatted for a good twenty minutes, with my husband texting questions in between concerning shots and fleas and trucking down to Woodbury after the inclement weather passed.  Jenny Rose hailed from Woodbury but moved to Oak Ridge, Tennessee after marrying her husband, whose surname was Rose.  (Initially I thought Rose might be her middle name.)  They both worked at the famed nuclear facility where the atomic bombs which were later dropped over Japan in World War II were developed, exposing themselves to uranium and the accompanying radiation to their detriment: cancer, two types for her, blood and intestinal, and one type for him.  After their kids grew up and left the nest, Jenny and her husband packed it all in and headed back to Woodbury for retirement and their dream of opening an antique shop.  Sadly, a major stroke interrupted their journey, and a life flight to a major city did little more than keep him alive for two more weeks.  Now, she runs their business alone, often sitting in her rocker outside the big windows which display the timeless contents within to passing pedestrians and drivers alike.  Fortunately, friends and relatives yet populate the area, so she's not quite as alone as one might think.

One intense thunderstorm and tornado warning later, after gathering with the residents of the Holiday House in the lobby with up-to-the-minute news of the ever-changing weather blaring from the television, my sweet man pulled into town and picked me up to hurry downtown in the hopes that Jenny had not closed shop.  Though the doors were pulled shut, the open sign was facing us, and through those full windows I caught a glimpse of Jenny wrapped in a knitted blanket . . . but no sign of the pup on the end of that chain.  I steeled myself to hear that one of the many customers who had dropped in and promised to 'come back later' to get the friendly ball of fur had made good on their word.  But then he darted out from under a table, scurrying across the old rug between us, and slammed into my legs.  "He hoped you'd come back and you did!  I'm not worried about him at all now.  I do believe he's gonna have himself a good home and lots of love.  Cute little fellow," Jenny was smiling, pleased to see me, happy to have done her duty where her unexpected charge was concerned.  She had two aged chihuahuas at home, but they wouldn't take well to a full-sized dog in their domain.  "And you know what, I'll take that picture, too.  Will a check be all right?"  and I signed with a flourish, handed the check over to her, picked up the pup, and brought him to the interim owner who'd shown him love over the past two weeks for their good-byes.  She pressed her cheek to his muzzle, wishing him well, whispering that she'd miss him.  I let her know I'd drop in from time to time to update her; I would send pictures, and treat him like the precious thing that he was.

It's after midnight now.  Hank, as we decided to call him, is hopefully sleeping in his crate on the floor next to the couch where my truly understanding, if somewhat in shock, husband is also hopefully sleeping.  There's been accidents involving excrement and urine.  My daughter rushed to Petsmart for food and toys; I want to be the one to choose his dishes, collar and leash.  In my absence, the family had rallied around it's newest son.  Soon, I'll be the one on the couch, and in the yard at dawn, with the little blond-haired brown-eyed Valdez pup.  Me and my little girl heart -- that young girl full of wonder at everything and idealistic to a fault, the one I like to remember best -- are ready to raise this roly-poly baby into a trained but fun-loving girl's best friend.  Here . . . we . . . go-o . . .