My sister, known here as SoulSista, has a 12-year-old Boston terrier named Buddy. He’s in pretty good health for an old man of a dog, but SoulSista knows that he’s not going to live too much longer.
On the Friday after Christmas she called me at work.
“Do you remember the conversation you had with Cousin K about picking out a puppy?” she asked.
“I don’t remember any such conversation, SS.”
“He was talking about squeezing their paws, and other tests like that?”
“Uh, no. Are you sure it was me?”
“Did I have kids at the time?” Because I have had entire conversations while monitoring my children — or while being pregnant — that I would be hard pressed to recall.
“I don’t know. Well, do you have Cousin K’s phone number?”
“We might have it at the house, but I’m at work. Wait a minute, why are you asking about picking out a puppy?”
“I think Dad and I are going to go pick out a puppy.”
“Why are you picking out a puppy?” I practically yelled.
Well, maybe we just should have started there, SS. “Okay,” I said.
“Do you think I would sound this calm if something happened to Buddy?” she asked.
Hey, I don’t know. Drinking and/or medication can flatten affect. “I guess not.”
When we got to Erie, SS presented Roxy, a 9-week-old brindle (I think that’s the correct term) Boston terrier.
And now I (and Monkey) want one too. The day we were leaving Erie, Monkey sat on my lap, and Roxy was laying in Monkey’s lap, sleeping (and snoring — much more adorable in a Boston terrier pup than in, say, an almost-40-year-old husband).
Monkey whispered, “I want to take Buddy’s sister home.”
Not this year, Monkey. But soon — sooner for me than for you, because three years sounds like an eternity to you. But someday I am going to turn around, and you are going to be 7 years old. And I will buy you (and your sister) a puppy. Promise.