For the Love(?) of Dogs

I have to admit up front that I own five dogs. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. With three daughters, there are certain things you can never explain. Even though three of the dogs are chihuahuas and probably equal one full dog, the standard poodle and the boxer/lab mix more than add up to five.

Three weeks ago, we had four dogs and all seemed well with the world. Probably too well as it turned out. I may have forgotten to mention that in addition to the four dogs of three weeks ago, we also have two cats, a cockatoo, and two fish. Of all the animals, I am particularly fond of the fish - low maintenance, they need to be let outside very infrequently, seldom visit a Vet, and I have yet to use a shovel in picking up after them. Despite the crowd at the Graves' household, all was well - everyone seemed to get along together, played together, and as long as no one ever came to the front door, life was quiet and good.

I should have seen it coming. There had been nibbling around the edges for several weeks, furtive internet searches, some whispering, etc. However, I thought my very definitive and frequently voiced "no" would be sufficient. Now, I love animals as much as the next person, but I figured that I had my fair share and more. That and the fact that no matter how cheaply you acquire an animal (shelter, SPCA, friend, etc.), the long term financial cost is always exponentially more than you could ever imagine.

Turns out, my certainty and supposedly fixed dog-limit was only an illusion when they pulled out the big gun - my middle daughter, Katie. One evening, I was outside in the garage minding my own business when Katie came down the steps. She asked me if I would consider another dog because they had found a really cute one at the county shelter. Weak, tired, lazy or simply a sap, I agreed that they could look more seriously at the dog.

Less than forty eight hours later, I found myself at 3:00 in the morning, in my truck outside the Spotyslvania Animal Shelter surrounded by police. As it turns out, my assent to the girls to "consider" another dog, was immediately interpreted as a license to actually get one. Long story short, shelter dogs are released to new owners after a certain period on a first-come, first-served basis. While at the shelter the afternoon before the release of what we hoped was our new dog, "Fancy", Julie overheard another woman say she was going to camp out at the shelter beginning at midnight in hopes of getting the same dog.

So . . . Julie informed me that she wasn't leaving the shelter - this was at 3:00 pm, and that she and the girls were going to spend the night in the car to assure them of getting the dog. Needless to say, I would not allow them to spend the night outside the shelter. Instead, I took the late shift myself - a little reading, some peace and quiet, and all was well until the police showed up.

Turns out that the early morning newspaper delivery guy, despite or perhaps because of my cheery good morning wave, thought I looked suspicious and called 911. When the police arrived and I told my story, they told me it was too incredible to be made up and laughed as they walked away. Twenty minutes later, the alleged "midnight lady" finally showed up, discovered I was there for Fancy and graciously conceded defeat. Before I knew what was happening, the police pulled up again. Turns out that the two of them had a bet as to whether or not the woman who showed up was the other dog lover or my wife. Who says we aren't protected by Fredericksburg's finest . . .

Our efforts of course and my potential arrest, were not in vain. Fancy is now a happy and healthy part of the family. As an active puppy, the quiet times have disappeared for awhile, but even the cats are beginning to tolerate her. Remember my exponential cost theory? True to form, Julie and I estimated that Fancy has cost us about ten times her original purchase price so far in Vet expenses between a bacterial infection in her stomach and a pulled tendon in her leg.

Ah, the things we do for our daughters . . .