Ode to Tiffany

There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who carefully select their dogs, and those who take whatever shows up, usually the dog who looks pitiful and neglected.  Most of my family members are in the second group.

About ten years ago my parents’ toy poodle Kiki passed away. He was my mother’s dog, an annoying dog who peed religiously on upholstery, barked incessantly, and bit people, even my father when he got into bed at night.  But he was my mother’s companion, at her side, next to her on the bed. She loved him. We tolerated him. We understood what a loss it was to her when he died.

My father and I discussed getting another dog for Mama, and since it was near Christmas, we thought it’d be special to find one and surprise her. The secret lasted about five minutes; no one in our family can keep secrets. But Mama agreed that she would like another dog, felt lonesome without one. She wasn’t particular about what kind, as long as it was small.

I began looking online at rescued dogs.  I knew nothing about the subculture of animal rescuers, the drastic lengths these people go to in order to “rescue” dogs. One woman told me that she spent several hours every day driving around looking for stray animals. And spent most of her money taking them to the vet, putting ads in the paper, and more time trying to find them homes.  I should have known not to trust anyone like that.

The picture was blurred, just a head-shot of a dog named Sweetie. A Pomeranian mix. Small. The magic word. I called the woman and told her it was for my mother, but that I would like to look first. I was determined this time NOT to just take any dog, but to really try and get a good dog for her.

I should have known something was up when the woman insisted on bringing the dog for me to see right as I got off work. I told her I’d be waiting in my car in the parking lot. A woman drove up with a dog sitting on her lap whose head touched the roof of her car. Small dog, right.

But I’m a sucker. I looked at her anyway. Then I fell under the spell of the rescuer who got me to agree to take her home, just for one night, to let my mother see.

 I called my mother and found myself parroting what the rescuer had said, “She’s really sweet, a Pomeranian mix.”

“But is she little?”

“Uh, well, sorta.”

“But she’s homeless right?  Oh, go ahead and bring her.” My mother is the worst sucker in the world when it comes to animals.

My mother was waiting at the door. “That’s not a little dog!  Pomeranian, my foot. Oh well, bring her in, poor thing.”

I relayed the saga to my parents, telling them that they had no obligation to keep that dog, that I knew that’s not what they wanted, that I didn’t know how I got roped into bringing her home. My mother started laughing, saying, “That’s the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen! I wanted a cute little dog.”

 We both ended up laughing so hard we cried, one of those long laughing fits that makes you feel wonderful.

“Whoo. I haven’t laughed that hard since before I got diagnosed with cancer,” said my mother.

Sweetie walked over to my father sitting on the couch and gently and quietly put one paw on his leg and stared at him with love.

“You don’t have to keep her,” I said.

“She needs a home, right?” said my mother. “I don’t see how we could turn her away. Look, see how she loves George. And she’s probably been abused.” (I found out later from a vet friend that people are always saying that about dogs who have a certain look. Sweetie had that look.)

Sweetie stayed. They changed her name to Tiffany. We found out she was an Australian sheepdog that shed copious wads of fur year-round. After a few days she developed an ear-piercing bark whenever someone came to the door, so the signature greeting in the Gresham household became, “Shut up, Tiffany!! Hush!!”

My parents both agreed they wouldn’t feed her anything but dog food, but each confided to me that they snuck her treats behind the other one’s back. She got fat.

 Tiffany attached herself to my father like no pet we’ve ever had. And my father responded in kind. Who wouldn’t fall in love with an animal that stared at you adoringly for hours on end?

Almost ten years passed. My father took that dog for walks every day at specified times,  leaving social functions early, saying,  “We’ve got to go home. Tiffany needs her walk.” In the last year she developed diabetes, then cataracts, so my father spent thousands of dollars on vet visits, special dog food, insulin shots that he gave her himself.

My mother cleaned up the pee. “Tiffany can’t help it, poor thing,” she’d say.

Yesterday they had to put her down. We’re all sad, but I’m sure no one will miss her as much as the one she spent her days gazing at with love…my father.