And liberty she pirouette

The Little Warrior, like the Elder Boy before him, went from 0 to 60 in potty training. Literally from shitting in the sink on Sunday, to asking that we vacate the bathroom so he could vacate his bowels on Thursday.

Even though potty training is it's own reward, Wy's newly minted Big Boy status awarded the Team a new member. Ruby the dog.

We met Ruby, née Gretchen this past Saturday. She was part of this gonzo animal lady's cavalcade of unwanted dogs. My Lovely Bride had met this lady, and heard of her work soon after dog dog died. She was/is a true warrior animal rescuer, trolling the local animal shelters that have a kill policy. When she finds a dog that is unclaimed and/or unwanted, about to be whacked, she descends on the shelter and gives the poor dog their reprieve. Then she places them in a foster family for temporary custody, until she finds someone who wants the dog. She accomplishes this by taking the unwanted dogs on tour, usually in front of a heavy traffic, animal friendly establishment like Petsmart.

Which is where we met Ruby. Only she wasn't Ruby then. Her name was Gretchen. She also wasn't our first choice for a dog. Hell, she wasn't even our second choice, or third, or fifth. Ruby is the last dog I thought we'd get, and living proof that Mick Jagger had the right idea when he sang, you can't always get what you want (you get what you need.)

My Lovely Bride thought we would get Iago. He was a handsome dog. Big. Strong. Short hair. Male, thus he could become Archie (this was the name for our future dog when we discussed it at home.)

At first glance, Iago seemed perfect. Then, when we started walking him around the store, we learned that he might not be the best dog for us. He was exceptionally strong. So much so, I was afraid to let either of the Boy(s) walk him, in fear that he'd pull them down and escape. More than that though, Iago didn't seem give a shit about the Boy(s.) He didn't pay them any mind as he walked around Petsmart. Finally, he sealed his fate. He peed. In the store. I need a nearly grown dog that isn't house broken like a hole in the head. The whole reason to get an older dog (read not a puppy) is because it is house broken. The whole reason we were getting a dog was because we had moved beyond cleaning up shit in the sink, or floor. Sorry Iago, Godspeed.

It spun out of control from there. We couldn't find one unwanted dog we all wanted. I was beginning to think we were going to leave empty handed when I came upon a small cage in the back of of the store. At first I thought, this poor dog must be the reject of all rejects. Why else would it be in back? Most of the dogs were out front? Strike two was the size. Small. At first, I mistook this to mean this reject was a puppy. We didn't want a pup. Strike three, long black hair. We wanted a mid to short hair dog. Out of curiosity, I stooped down to give this reject pooch a cursory glance, and as goofy as this sounds, I saw something in the dog's eyes that stopped me. This isn't TV though, real life, and I was playing my logical Dad role, so I didn't stop for long. I continued the search and found nothing.

After a few minutes of nothing, I decided to go back over and ask about the reject dog. That is when I learned that it was a she and that she was full grown - or so they thought. They weren't sure because they didn't have her paperwork.

Nice, I thought, more strikes for this poor thing. She's a female so Archie won't work. Full grown thus much smaller than we had discussed. And they don't have her paperwork. Serioulsy? I'll admit, I'm a jaded man and I didn't buy that story, I figured they lost it (or shredded it) to hide the fact that the dog was nuts.

I guess the rescue worker sensed that I was about to walk away - that she needed to offer me something more - which is when she said, to the dog, dance.

And she did.

First with the young lady, then with me. Later with the Boy(s), who thought it was about the coolest thing they had ever seen. Ruby liked to dance. She also seemed to genuinely like us. That flicker in her eyes, well it wasn't some apocryphal account. It was true. She happily let the Boy(s) walk her around the store. She looked at fish with them. Hamsters. Wherever they wanted to take her, she gladly went.

My Lovely Bride and I stood near the fish, discussing all the reasons Ruby was wrong, while the best reason for her becoming our dog was right in front of our face.

$200 or so dollars later ($140 was Ruby's price) we left Petsmart with the reject of all rejects. Ruby, who was going to be our dog.

On the way home, Ruby was perfect in the van, sitting between the Boy(s). I was happy. I guess because I was so excited. I thought to myself, I need to call my Mom and tell her about Ruby.

As if. Mom is dead.

It was odd, for the briefest moment I had thought calling her was a possibility. Then, in a flash, the profound reality of her death hit me. The first time in weeks actually. Strange. I'm always aware that she is gone and I don't mean to imply that I'm not sad, or don't miss her. But, the past few weeks the pain has been different. Not as raw as it was around New Year's. Then something happens, trivial, simple, like getting a dog, and I'm struck down by the finality of her death. Of all that she lost. All that we lost. To which I say: Fuck cancer.

Until I BLOG again...When I think that I am free.