Stick Figure Family

When people ask, “What kind of dog are you going to get?” I usually reply, “Well, it’s a smaller dog, not quite in the toy dog category. We didn’t want a yapper, but also didn’t want a dog whose size and presence would overwhelm me in the kitchen while trying to juggle a pot of hot water and tomato sauce.”

Our decision to acquire a Cavalier King Charles did not come lightly. As a matter fact, playing into that decision was my belief that dogs resemble their owners. This may happen at birth (the dog’s) or as the dog becomes more a part of the family, in the same way some spouses grow to look alike. Mark and I were at a party recently, and were asked, “A re you two brother and sister.” I spit out my hurricane punch, most likely in the questioner’s face, but I really don’t know that for sure, because my eyes were watering after laughing (and crying ) so hard. We’ve only been married for two years. How could we look alike so fast! Or perhaps this was just confirmation that we were indeed going to spend the rest of my life together (I called “first”, just in case Mark gets any funny ideas about dying before me)

Since I believe in the notion of dogs resembling owners, a more appropriate response to the question, “What kind of dog are you getting,” would seem to be, “Have you seen my family?”

The best way to physically describe our blended family is to imagine a kindergartener’s stick figure drawing, with a mom, a dad, three girls and boy (and now a dog), a rabbit called Midnight, and Subaru, the eternal goldfish, and finally, perhaps an added niece or nephew in the picture because the teacher was not specific enough about the family part. So you have seven figures, plus a dog, fish and rabbit, all lined up, but no one stick figure more than an inch taller than the other.

This is our family. We are not big people. We have no desire for a big dog. It doesn’t even fit our personality profile, even we were big people. Mark is 5’4”. I am 5”, so it would stand to reason that any of our offspring would not develop into collegiate basketball players. At 20, 17 and 14.5, the girls have quite possibly stopped growing. I know I did in tenth grade. Davis still has the edge, in that his birth father was 6 feet tall. If he winds up in the middle, he could still win out. But his fuzzy math also includes Mark into the equation, so he doesn’t believe me when I tell him he could grow taller than the rest.

At any rate, this is how we stand as a family. And our dog Enzo, whose breed’s maximum height is 12-13 inches, will fit in quite nicely.

Dog Dreams

I am not only seeing dogs up and down the street. But now, they are appearing in my dreams. Mainly my dreams are about water and high school. In the water dreams, I am usually, surprise, drowning. I wake up feverish, overwhelmed and under rested. There is no need to get out the Dream Dictionary, as I completely understand that if I weren’t under the water, I would be under the bus. My high school dreams occur when I am knee deep in learning, a new technology, or a new relationship. The dreams involve lost locker combinations and sitting in Vice Principal Bob Boynton’s office, being reprimanded for painting the bus barn.

But two nights ago, I dreamt I was at a house party. Plenty of humans around to keep me occupied. But on this night, behind a large oak door, there was a shuffling of feet, or rather of paws.

I crept behind, slowly walking around it, to see a Cavalier king Charles puppy cowering in the corner. He was older than some of the pics of my puppy that I have seen lately, but a CKC nonetheless. I put my hand out to him ( I presume it to be a him, but I could be projecting this as well.) He slowly started towards me, then leapt up into my arms.

In that instant, mid-air, he changed over from a king charles to some variation on a poodle. A tan poodle, one that more closely resembled various cartoon dogs over the years, than any real dog I had ever known.

So, now I am dumbfounded, at a party where I know no one, with a dog in my arms that is not the dog I am yearning for. Dogs in Dreams dictionary states this: “Dogs are territorial so look for some issue in your life involving control of territory. Dogs can symbolize good friends and devoted family. In a negative sense dogs may link to stale ideas which just follow the pack and have no imagination.”

So this dream came after Valentine’s Day, an evening out with my husband to celebrate what seems like a culmination of two year’s hard work of blending, mixing and turning upside down. So maybe I have lost control of my household of the two of us, given it over completely to a family unit of six and not two. The other explanation is that I have lost control of this family by agreeing to get a dog, period. They scream, as if the latest heartthrob has just entered the home whenever the breeder sends new pictures. They talk of job assignments, and how the first one up has to let the dog out. The first one always being Davis. And the second one up has to feed the dog. Usually Kaitlyn. And the last one up always get the least palatable job, as scooper. Shannon, the sleeper, has not heard these conjectures yet, but no doubt those notions will only last as long as the ice cream in the freezer.

So that sums up the control and the devotion issue. But what about the in negative sense, stale ideas which follow the pack and have no imagination. This one I refute on the basis of my dreams where upon the king charles turned to poodle mid air before landing in my arms.

Perhaps the other negative sense that the authors might have meant, is a reference to the fact that Pinot Noir makes a great pairing with salmon. Pinot Noir is also an acceptable accompaniment to White Castle Sliders. But salmon and White Castle, paired together, will always produce a negative outcome.

What to Expect When Expecting

One begins to see things, notice details, listen more attentively, when one is presented with a new situation. I bounced down the steps in the morning, and with the morning sun shining into the dining and onto the ivory colored carpeting, I saw three smudges, each about a foot apart, as if made by a quadraped. Each stain had three prongs to it, as if from a paw print. Upon closer inspection, they were footprints probably made by one of my nieces during our last family gathering.

But even so, I realized I am making myself OK with this decision. I am also making space for him as well. I keep wondering when Subaru the beloved yet oft ignored goldfish will perish from this earth, his tank. He has been swimming contentedly in that tank for more than four years. It teems with algae for weeks before any one even considers feeding whatever is still alive beneath seaweed. Subaru’s tank sits atop a coffee table, which is conveniently located in a spot that might be perfect for a dog. Perhaps that is how Subaru arrived in that location.

The sun shines in the window in the late afternoon, it is a cozy corner of the family which sees less and less family in it these days.

I walk with Mark, or my neighbor and notice dogs on leashes, behind invisible fences. I hear dogs barking from within the confines of their home where the the owners have left them behind, not of neglect, but perhaps something more pressing.

The feeling is somewhat akin to being pregnant. When I was expecting Davis, everyone around me appeared to be expecting too. Or perhaps there was an obesity epidemic at the time. I still have pictures taken a few months after Davis was born when there were a rash of births at the Tillamook County General Hospital, in Oregon. There were 11 in total, all born within a month of each other, and for this, the hospital was full and the community grateful that there was a new generation of future farmers to milk the famous Tillamook cows. Davis would never be one of them due to our move, but I doubt he would have been one of them anyhow.

Mark has subscribed to a daily e-mail which gives a tidbit a day about our chosen breed. Now, I receive once a day, the Writer’s Almanac, filled with poetry, important figures born on this day in history and a greeting from Garrison Keilor “Be well, do good work and stay in touch.” This is all meant to inspire me at 6 am when I rise with coffee to write. But I don’t understand the intent of a daily e-mail regarding tidbits about raising a Cavalier King Charles. This would be akin to receiving daily phone calls from my mother about being pregnant, or even afterwards, on how to raise kids. Remember that book, What to Expect When You Are Expecting?

I don’t need to know everything about Enzo – I expect to be surprised.

Going Down

That night, the snow fell incrementally until we had accumulated a dozen inches. Mark had spent four hours on the road, arriving home exhausted. I could barely hold off dinner, I had attempted to make pot stickers and could not contain my joy at having partially succeeded.

But inch by inch, the snow continue. Six inches were piled high before we sent the kids out to shovel, encouraging them to do it now, or be sorry in the morning. Or that Mark would not be able to leave in the morning. As as doc, he was an emergency responder, unable to ignore the emergency alerts scrolling across the TV each night. Mark continued to encourage me to tell the kids, but I didn’t want to spend the next snow day while they fixated on a new puppy, pestering me with all sorts of questions that I would not have an answer for.

I snuck out for lunch the next day with one of my girlfriends, fending off 10 inches of snow. This was snow day number 5 and it would prove to be eventful. Following lunch I decided I needed to go to the post office and drop off the deposit for the thing, as we say in a whisper around the kids. I tossed a few envelopes into the mailbox at the post office and swore I was not in my right mind. Lucky for me, because as I was considering turning the opposite direction of home more towards kohls and Target, my phone rang. It was Jen Vezdos on the phone. “Davis hurt himself sledding, and he is not getting up.”

Now, I’ve known D to be somewhat melodramatic in his day. Last summer, after making a dive for a missed catch in center field, one of the father’s from his baseball team, who is a peds doc, swore that he had dislocated his shoulder. I flippantly tossed that notion aside and encouraged Davis to get up, all the while calling Mark on the phone to come quickly. An hour later, Davis was medicated with Advil and asking if he could play at a friend’s house. Just like the old Bo Jackson commercials, no one knows Bo, like Bo. Know one knows Davis like me.

I arrived at the hill behind the Vezdos house to find Davis sprawled across ice and snow. I did not see the ramp that would only later be revealed to me as the source of him flying into the air. I was more concerned with the immediate sense of hysteria that Davis had slipped into. Mom, I’m scared. Mom I cant move my arm. My arm is tingling. So many thoughts rush through one’s mind, as a mother, including, why did they call off school today, I wonder if he is wearing clean underwear, I wonder how much is just Davis, and how much is pure agony.

My questions were answered with the fact that he was diagnosed with a broken humorous bone –not funny at all. For the next 48 hours, I was back in the role of caregiver, which I so often tried to escape from. By the end of day two, I could no longer stand watching him in pain. So, it was then, we called all the children to the kitchen. “We have something to tell you.” I love how their first impression is always, “Are we in trouble?” Because then I begin to wonder what else have they been doing that they would even suspect us of finding out. “No, no one is in trouble.”

I held the picture of the puppies in my hand. I had already declared to the breeder and the post office that I was following through with this. It was time to declare it to the children. “We wanted to share with you the newest member of the family,”

All three erupted in what might be a scream one hears as a plane is going down. Or perhaps that’s how I heard it. The end of one life, the beginning of another.

Stain Removers

I called the breeder on Tuesday, when no one else was around, after yoga, after the cleaning lady has disappeared. I had a few questions to ask, mostly nonsensical, female oriented questions like, when can we come pick him up? Oh sure, I have a thousand other questions about which stain remover is best for dog urine but I had moved right to the heart of this decision.

When we actually spoke, the question I asked was more along the lines of “Can you tell me a little bit about the process?” This was always my standard phrase when caught in between uncertainty and death. And it certainly felt like it here. If I didn’t do this now, my husband would kill me. After the hours of research he put in, and the time that he gazed at me, with tears in his eyes, unsure if he could let the pup sit in Petland one more day.

Ok, so I had stumbled on the Petland decision. I could not let this puppy sit and wait for another good home. I knew we could be one. But I had to let it go. I would be in conversation a week later with a neighbor who has also visited Petland (She already has a dog, but perhaps was angling for another) and right away, her first reaction was, we saw that dog. He was so cute.

After a brief conversation with the breeder, I hung up the phone. My instincts from my recruiting days were coming back to me. I used to hire based on my gut. I had such similar outlook to my boss and it seemed my co-workers and I shared such a common vibe, that it was easy to just hire someone that struck me as true. The same could be said for Debbie. Over the phone, her enthusiasm was palpable through the phone lines. I could almost hear the puppies purring in the background as if she was channeling them for me to hear.

I asked a few more questions about where and when to send the contract, then hung up. When Mark arrived home, we had another closed door session. We kept having them, I am surprised the kids did not pick up on that. Except that during the Super Bowl, Kaitlyn was playing with my niece, creating crayon drawings. And Kaitlyn's resembled more a kindergarten drawing (she’s almost 15) with a stick figure of Cheryl, Shannon, herself, Davis, my niece Sophy and a puppy. Talk about channeling.

I popped the envelope in the mail and then had to wait.

Snausages

The pictures arrived early Monday morning. Mark and I snuck down to my office so we could view the pictures on a full screen. They were incredible and beautiful and the first thing that came to mind was the word “snausages”. You have to remember I am a writer first, then potential dog owner. Snausages were the original dog snack made popular in a commercial from the 1980’s. I don’t recall what type of dog was in the commercial, but we all can call out accordingly, snausages as if it were yesterday. Upon viewing the pups, only hours old the eh picture sent to us from Debbie, it was clear no other word could describe the elongated shape snuggled up against its mother’s teats. Yes, snausages, I was now falling for a puppy that resembled a dog snack. And if that wasn’t enough, probably more closely resembled the peanut butter and apple version of the snack as well.

I could hardly contain my excitement and looked at the pictures many times through the course of the day. The pups were listed from left to right as two girls, two boys, one girl, two boys. I don’t know anything about the birth order of dogs but one must presume that it is similar to people. I was / am a middle child. I have all sorts of complexes from this, just ask my siblings, they be more than happy share how often I waxed poetic or not so poetically about the middle child often being overlooked. Of course, they in turn each exhibit plenty of their own birth order characteristics and if Jeanne isn’t the epitome of youngest child, then all stats on birth order should be thrown out. You know what I’m saying Jeanne Marie. Of course, my grandmother also told my mother that Jeanne would be a blessing to her in her old age, and this has proved to be true. They do have the most heart.

So, there I was, looking over the pups, first identifying the boys. Then keeping in mind each of my siblings and other large families I know, ruling out the first born. We have a bevy of first borns in this household. Mark, Cheryl. Then in my family, Davis. And while Shannon and Kate don’t apply for first borns, they are type A personalibities. And I borderline on the A/B scale. I do not want first boy born. That settled that.

What about the baby, the runt. They say you don’t want to buy the runt of the litter, perhaps that pup will have more health problems than the rest. This suits me fine, as I compare the runt to Aunt Jeanne, or better yet, accept the fact that we also have two youngest children in the family, this is how it goes in blended families. Davis is not only type A, but was also doted on enough to be thrown into this category of youngest, while also now occupying the official spot of youngest in all the kids. Kaitlyn served 12 years as youngest child in her family, and again, despite her type A manners, she definitely does not want to easily let go of that status.

No, I am looking for an independent type. When I consider how dogs resemble their owners, I think of Aunt Jeanne and her fluffers – Biney and Sugar. OK, who names their dogs Sugar and calls them fluffers. Only Aunt Jeanne.

Or Beth and David, with three dogs total. Three large golden retrievers. They too resemble Beth and David. They like to do things in a large manner.

I want a dog who is cool, calm and collected. Somewhat independent. Faithful, Loyal. These are words that can only describe a middle child, er, I mean, dog.

By the time I am able to select one of these pups that resemble snausages, I may or may not know which one is the middle pup, but for sure, he will know me.

Sweet Males?

Late that night, the Steelers won a rollicking good game against the Cardinals and Mark was still researching. He was on a mission now. He looked up at me, with eyes somewhat glassy, perhaps from the Scottish Ale consumed during the game, but more so, in his eyes, I saw the same man I married. He just could not let this one go.

I didn’t have an answer, or better yet, the fact that I did not have one indicated that I did not yet feel right. Thought I wasn’t sure how long Mark would wait for my decision (of course, he’ll tell you that no one tells me what to do) he was also waiting on something that I had no idea about. He had made an inquiry to a Cavalier King Charles breeder outside of Cleveland prior to our leaving the house for skiing that Sunday morning.

The breeder wrote back at 4 pm. sometime between showers and kickoff, indicating that she and Mark had already corresponded. Her dog Holly had just given birth on Saturday, the same day we had been looking at the other pup in Petland. And now, she was sharing all sorts of information on puppies that were a mere hours old.

“All look really good and are nursing very well. Misty , my Black and Tan is also
pregnant and is due on Feb. 19. These will be my two litters for the year. Both Holly and Misty were bred to Rocky. Holly is 5 years old and still heart clear. Holly had 1 litter of puppies when she was 2. 5. Rocky is almost 3 years old and is almost an AKC Champion. I will include pictures of both. Holly and Rocky have super personalities.

Misty is a 2.5 year old Black and Tan. She had 6 beautiful puppies over the summer and this is her second litter. She will not be bred again for at least 1 year after the puppies are born. Breeding a B/T to a Blenheim can produce all 4 colors. In her last litter, she had 4 B/Ts, 1 Tri and 1 Ruby. I did breed her to a different sire this time around. Rocky and Misty are both fantastic dogs with a great personalities. I am expecting great puppies

These were pups with a full 1 year health guarantee; AKC limited registration, 8 week old vet examination, all the health certificates of the parents and even some of the
grandparents, pictures and the first set of shots. We would know more about this puppy’s family tree that most WASPs can trace their roots these days.

She would send the pup home with a puppy kit and food sample. All parents live on site. The puppies would already be accustomed to the teenager mode, though can anyone say that for certain, but her 4 teenaged children were around plenty. Their household could rival ours, sans the dogs.

Wow this was so much more information that we could have ever hoped for. Mark was holding back, finally forwarding this messages to me late that night. The females somewhat independent. Certainly a breed I could live with, though we had no need for any more females. Sweet males? They would fit right in.

Coded Exchanges

We didn’t have much time to sober up. We were expected at a fundraiser for our niece’s jazz band in Lakota. Sober up may be too strong a word. I didn’t have much time to process the whether somewhere inside of me, I had committed to a dog. We arrived home, fed the kids dinner and were back out the door to learn to swing dance from some Stepping Out studio. Men dressed in vest and ties, women in dresses that twirled.

The jazz was extraordinary, our steps were not. Right, left, rock back, right, left rock back. Even as I write, I had to recreate in my body and not try to remember it from a brain already soggy from wine and overthinking this dog thing. It is true about muscle memory and since that is the case, I will work more on building my muscle strength than my brain aptitude, so that I can retain more when I get old (or already am)

I threw myself around the dance floor, Mark at times throwing me too. I fell for the music and the triple jive – one two three, one two three. By 11 pm, we were home and in bed and though my feet ached, my heart ached more for a little puppy whose life was seemingly out of, yet in our hands.

We (I) had promised to take the kids skiing on Sunday morning, so there was little time for me to review the events of the day before, though Mark seemed to have ample time to sit at the computer and research puppy mills, breeders, Petland, etc. Over coffee we offered to each other coded exchanges about such topics, disguising our phrasing enough so that the kids would not catch on. “Oh look, the Westminster dog show is coming up in a few weekends.” “I wonder if all those dogs are AKC registered.” Or “I wonder how much time they take to train those dogs.” “I wonder if they show Cavalier King Charles, you know, like Bandit, (the sister’s dog).” Davis was deep into his cartoons and Kaitlyn was enthralled by the colered comics. Shannon was still asleep. None of them registered any interest in our conversation.

I was grateful for the ski day, for many reasons. The first just feeling blessed enough to enjoy this sport, the snow and the sun. Second, we were together as a family, and a few years ago, I could not envision this group, in particular the girls which I always viewed as wanting to watch reruns of Friends more so than go outside. But we have all grown, and despite Shannon’s desire to live somewhere warm, she manages to enjoy the skiing as much as the rest of us and, honestly, her technique is better than mine. I am always fighting off the bow legs, which don’t work with parallel skiing.

For four hours, I spent my energy concentrating on the moving around the moguls and not moping about a puppy that may or may not be joining our family. We drove home that afternoon past the exit we would be required to take if we were going to stop by Petland. Mark kept giving me the “what do you think glances” for the five miles preceeding the exit. It had not yet been 24 hours, ok, I was one hour shy of it, but I shook him off and told him to keep going. The kids were all fast asleep in the car and while I know they would wake for this, I could not steel myself for that decision.

When we arrived home, I showered. Mark went online doing more research. “What if I call Petland and he is still there?” “Well, then, we can ask all sorts of questions,” was my reply. So Mark called. Not having been a dog owner, I didn’t know what kinds of questions to ask. Having not been a fan of some dogs in my life, mainly due to owner neglect, I at least knew what kind of owner I wanted to be.

Mark quickly came into my office, “he’s still there,” then began whispering all sorts of information into my ear, none of which were sweet nothings. He was offering up the name of a breeder from Williamsburg, Indiana, which we could not find any references for. There was also mention of the CKC vs. the AKC, the CKC being be a rating system not devised by the Westminister dog show committee. In an unscrupulous world we live in, it is easy to be suspect of anything that sounds out of the ordinary.

We were having company in an hour, and I was through with this conversation. Though each time, I closed my eyes, I could still see the future Enzo and feel his fur brushing my cheeks.

Loveability

We loaded our groceries from Jungle Jim's, and Mark hardly had to suggest we go to the Petland next door. I was already inside in my mind, with one singular breed in mind. Mark’s sister has a Cavalier King Charles named Bandit. We have all loved Bandit in the same way my kids have adored my two nieces at age five. It is something about their size and loveability (not sure that’s a word, but if Budweiser can use drinkabiltiy, then yes loveablity is a word).

Pet stores usually have what, eight, ten dogs at anyone time. We walked in and past a German Shepherd, a tan and white Huskie, which if I lived back on the Oregon Coast, that’s what I would want. But he would somehow seem out of place in a Cinci burb. I ruled out yappers such as the Pekinese and shitzou, and anything with a terrier in its name or its nose. And there it was, a lone Cavalier King Charles.

AKC lists a hundred plus pure breeds on their website. The chances of walking into a pet store and finding the breed we were hoping for was about 10-1. The chances of finding the breed after not supposed to be in this part of town were 20-1. The odds of locating the breed in a store where we were not supposed to be and were not supposed to be out at all because of a snow day canceling a basketball game were not even ones that the Vegas bookies would touch.

But signs and overcoming odds is a rather large theme in my life. I get excited about them and use signs to move forward on a decision but more often than not as an excuse to not do something.

Imagine my surprise then to find a king charles, in a pet store, in a part of town that we were not supposed to be, on that particular day, but for the snow day preceding it! The sales person recognized suckers when he saw then, or maybe when he figured out they had just stopped in after a wine tasting next door. I am certain we were not the first customers to visit Petland following a Jungle Jim’s tasting event since they host beer or wine events once a week

The salesperson, Carol, immediately brought out the dog without even waiting for me to ask. Though in hindsight, the eyes in the back of my head saw Mark behind me shaking his head yes, when I shook mine no. But I only remembered that later. We were immediately escorted into a large cubicle space, lest we try to escape, and were encouraged to sit down on the bench inside, and held this tiny ball of fluff.

I must admit to a certain mistiness about the whole thing. Mark and I are a blended family. I brought a son and smelly socks and he brought teen age daughters and a a few extra hormonal cycles to the home. By the time we joined together in matrimony, we figured having more kids was not where we wanted to spend our time. We were through with the bounce house birthday parties and waiting for the kids to arrive home after school. Our kids looked after themselves, dogs could not.

Mark is a type A. When he makes up his mind to do something, he would just as rather do it than to agonize. Which is why he asked me to marry him, after dating for a year and half. I on the other hand, while proclaiming to be in touch with my intuition, will drag my feet on something until my toes wear out especially if its a decision that really involves me more than anyone else. I am under no illusion the kids will take the dog for a walk, pick up his poop or in general play with him. I watch them with my niece Sophia. They are all excited when she comes, but, like a puppy keeps coming at you, asking, “Why won’t you play with me?” Soon, the kids lose interest in what becomes a broken record.

Carl continued to push, push down the price that is. We were not even sure if this dog was AKC or CDC or whatever registry it is supposed to be on. I had heard what he said about guarantees, but did not retain the information. I was too busy fending off what is termed a mouthy puppy – yea, like I need that in a household of three teens – a puppy that bits a lot, not out of meanness, but out of playfulness and because he does not have anything else to bite.

I saw the look in Mark eyes. It’s the same as when he asked me to marry him. We had drunk a lot of wine then too. But after a year and half, I was pretty sure anyhow. I looked away and heard the salesperson declare, “This is my last day on the job and I am not going home until I sell a puppy. Well, Carl may still be there because I promptly rose from the bench to announce, “I need 24 hours.”

And with that, we were out the door, still thinking, considering, deliberating, but each foot was drawing closer and closer to the car door, then one foot the other is stepping inside the car, our doors slammed and we were on our way to a home we should have never left.

Snow Days Make People Do Crazy Things

Snow days make people do crazy things. For instance, last week, school was cancelled on Friday. Loveland schools have a policy that if school is not held for that reason on Friday, then no evening activities or weekend events are to take place. This is all well and good, but it leaves the children and their parents to devise a scheme that will keep all busy over the weekend.

As such, my son’s basketball game, schedule for 4 p.m. on Saturday had been cancelled. And too, was Mark’s coaching return, after their first victory following several defeats. This left our Saturday wide open. Sometimes, we go yoga-ing on Saturday mornings, but we both felt the need to be out doors and walked in the snow, illegally, in the new woods being created, or recreated next door.

We returned home to find the children in the same position as when we left, hurriedly doing homework for which they had five snow days to complete, or chill-axing in front of the computer playing games. No surprises there, they would remain in those positions all day, if we didn’t stir them.

Mark and I showered and decided to head to Findlay Market to buy items for the Super Bowl party that we weren’t hosting the next day, due to our invites unable to attend! We waited the obligatory ten minutes on Fields-Ertel to get to the interstate, though we only live 2.5 miles away. Its always ten minutes, whether its Saturday afternoon, sunny and the shoppers are out in hoards or on a Sunday morning, church crowds not even awake yet. The lights are designed to move traffic up and down Mason-Mont Rd., the crossroad, but not to move them across Fields-Ertel Rd.

As we waited somewhere near the Target intersection, Mark suggested, “Hey Jungle Jim’s is having a wine tasting today.” I looked at the clock. As avid followers but not attendees to Jj’s wine tastings, we knew the events were held in Fairfield, a ½ hour away, beginning at 1 p.m. Hmmm, I thought, and then said, “Well, let’s go there.” Many of our friends are usually there, folks we have sipped and shared wines with while on a tasting trip to Oregon. Each year, they try to get us to return, but like a good wine made in the Amarone style, where they lay the grapes out in the sun, I am still drying out from that trip, three years ago.

In thirty minutes time, we found ourselves surrounded by friends and twelve wines to taste. For two hours, we laughed, bemoaned the kids being off all week, and talked excitedly about memories from our back of the bus days on the Oregon trip. Our friend Dave, the wine manager at JJ’s even suggested that next trip, there will be two buses, so everyone can sit in the back of the bus. I think this included him, because he was always up front, trying to appear prim and proper, despite having tasted 27 wines in one day.

When Dave had rolled away the lone remaining banquet table holding the last of the tasting wines, we knew it was time to go. We shopped a little in the store, and then rolled our cart over ice and snow towards the car. As we proceeded down the sidewalk, the Pet store next store loomed large.

We had been talking about getting a puppy for sometime. Actually, I had a read a book called The Art of Racing in the Rain I realized I wanted a dog. The main character is a dog named Enzo. Enzo is also the narrator and I fell in love with his personality, he is dedicated first to his bachelor owner, then to the owner’s new wife and daughter. He is just a really cool dog. I set the book down after finishing it, looked over at Mark on the couch reading something else and said, “If we ever get a dog, it has to be named Enzo.” And that was the beginning of the thread of this story.