As my eating revolution tempers into my just-the-way-it-is habit, my mind trolls the hills and valleys of this fine cold land for something new to chew over. There on a hill, peeing on a lone apple tree, is a pooch. A chihuahua mix named Jessie who needs a home.
No really, Jessie is a city street doggie I met in a Winnebago outside my neighborhood Petco. She came from Philly PAWS.
I think she’s an old soul. Look at that face. Hello Jessie! Hello!
I’ve only owned cats in my life, but my house keeps chanting for a dog. The sidewalks in my neighborhood want to see more of me with a canine companion and some biodegradable poopy bags.
This new yearning does not feel like an escapist delusion, like say, back when I yearned for a weimaraner as a freshly minted college grad with no home or job to speak of. This is more basic. Almost biological.
Now my friends have another reason to think I’m insane. Dogs are hard work. Like having another child. Am I crazy?
I’ve been strategically wearing Swamp Chicken down for the past year about this. Because he thinks it’s the dumbest idea ever. No really. He likes the idea of playing with a dog. Not a chihuahua though. He likes the idea of playing with a not-too-drooly lab or an Australian shepherd. But when I returned home from my walk the other day armed with these pics and an adoption application he said, “All right, go ahead.” Then he got rip-roaring drunk.
Kidding! Really I think the words “city stray” got him. He is borne out of a serving family after all—a preacher and a dialysis nurse. A mangy stray from the gritty streets should be right up his alley.
Sounds logical to me.
So I’ve taken the next step and applied to adopt or maybe foster Jessie. Her mange is clearing right up you know. Mange from being malnourished.
I think she’ll like a Paleo doggie diet.