On Saturday night, P and I sat down to watch the movie "127 Hours" together. The flick is the story of Aron Ralston, the hiker who amputated his arm in order to free himself from a boulder that had fallen on him. In case you are wondering, no, I did not watch the amputation scene. I turned away and read a magazine until it was over. Watching my husband (a former Marine) freaking out over it was all the proof I needed to know I made the right decision.
Shortly thereafter, I got a call from Kim, my friend and fellow rescue volunteer. I took the phone into the office/spare bedroom to chat with her.
"Whatcha doing?" she asked.
"Not much," I replied. "Watching a movie, having a little wine, that sort of thing."
"Do you want to foster a puppy?" She sent a photo of the ten-week-old pup to my cell phone. Kim had pulled the dog from the stray facility so as to save her life. Everyone knows I do not like puppies (I've been fostering Boxers for over 11 years and puppies wore out their welcome in our home at least 10 years ago), but I had to admit she was kind of cute. Plus, there was the issue of the wine I'd consumed. My judgement was clouded.
"Let me check," I said. I turned and yelled to my husband: "Hey! Can we foster a puppy?"
With zero hesitation he yelled back, "No!"
"What? I didn't hear you exactly," I responded.
"Hell no!" he hollered.
I turned back to the phone. "Sure, we'll take her."
Well, Kim does not mess around because she had that puppy delivered to me within 24 hours (I met her husband about a half-hour from my house - he, too, was anxious to send the pup packing). Kim has had some fairly serious issues with her eyes and does not see well, so I know it is tough for her to have a puppy in her house. They are too small and move too quickly. So, I wanted to help her, but seriously - have I lost my mind? The ride home was pretty much a nightmare. First, the pup crapped in the back of my van. I, not realizing she had also walked straight through the poop, pulled her up into my lap. So now I had poopy pawprints all over my pants. Then, she climbed onto my shoulder like some sort of demented parrot and started chewing my hair. When I pulled her down from there, she got busy gnawing on my hands with her needle teeth. For her encore, she hopped down and peed on the floor of the van. Gah!
Although P and I weren't too thrilled, our kid was over the moon. She named the pup Willa. I have a feeling we will also be calling the little pooch by several other names. My goal is to get her adopted by Christmas. If there's a God . . .