How queer everything is today! And yesterday things went on just as usual. --Chapter 2 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
I made a huge mistake last Friday. I went to meet a little dog who was not Higgins. I have been talking myself out of all sorts of things lately, especially things that require change or, at the very least, motion or discomfort. So I said, okay -- come home with me. We'll make this work. I wrote a check (it was payday), and led this little shaved Bichon Frise to my car. He trembled a lot. His name was Lucky. All I was told of Lucky's story: he belonged to a man who had four dogs and a couple of cats. The man, who was aging, fell ill and went into a nursing home. The animals were put into the basement by his daughter who came by daily to put out some food. I don't know for how long. The man passed away, the daughter inherited the house, and got the word out (somehow?) that the animals would be put down. A rescue organization in its infancy with only cat experience found someone to foster two of the dogs. A Jack Russell without a known name, and Lucky. When we left it was clear that Lucky didn't want to leave the Jack Russell. The foster mom told me that she and her husband work, and that she'd been leaving the dogs in the small family room with some dry food and water for about 9 or 10 hours a day. She said they never messed or destroyed anything. I suppose the dogs kept each other good company.
Once in my car I became a bit unnerved. Well, there was this terrified dog next to me having a hissy-fit. I phoned Clea, my daughter and she and Keira (my four year old granddaughter) came with me and Lucky to Petco where I spent an inordinate amount of money. We took Lucky to my apartment, got his stuff set up, took him for a walk (which did not elicit any elimination). Then Lucky and I were on our own. There was some chatting, some petting, some basic getting-to-know-you stuff. All of which confirmed the fact that I know absolutely nothing about dogs! 
Well, Lucky tolerated the crate for about 20 minutes. Okay, it was a new thing. So I put his little bed in my small bedroom, put him in it, and gently settled him down. He seemed to sleep; I managed some of that luxury for about 20 minutes. He had left the little bed and was sitting in front of the door. I thought he needed to go out, so I took him to my little back yard. No result except lots of cold night air. He didn't want to be in my room; I put the little bed near the door where he was hanging out waiting, I guess, to go home. At around 2:30 a.m. he came into my room crying and led me to the door. I put on my robe with coat over and we went for a walk up and down the street. No success. The night went on this way. When day was almost breaking I got up, put him in the yard while I got dressed, fed him breakfast which he didn't eat and we went for a long walk.
Saturday. All seemed fine during the days. He was very sweet and affectionate. My friend, Bobbie, who has lots of doggy experience came and clarified several things for me. Like scooting. In the meantime, I made several calls and finally got an appointment at the Danvers Veterinary Hospital; I wanted Lucky looked at to make sure he was okay. Bobbie's visit and the very kind doctor reassured me and gave me some insight into Lucky's behavior. The doctor also told me that Lucky was most likely a lot older than the six years told to me by the foster mom. His teeth are completely rotted and within a few months he should have dental surgery -- $600 worth. Clea and Keira came with me to the hospital. We had lunch together and all spent the day with Lucky. We left him in the crate for almost an hour to help him get used to it. Saturday night was not a good night -- lots of running around, coming into my room and barking; walking in the cold; going into the back yard. Okay, two nights without sleep. This old girl was beginning to hurt.
Sunday: we had our morning walk in time to see the sun rise over the ocean. 
I took Lucky to my meeting and rehearsal in Concord. Of course, because he's small and cute, he was much fussed over. Clea and Keira joined me in the late afternoon and we walked again. Sunday night Mr. Hyde appeared with a vengeance. Lucky would seem to be sleeping, then run into my room, cry or bark and run back into the living room. I'd follow him in to find a mess on the living room rug. This went on all night. One trip to the yard was marginally successful, but didn't stop the antics. And somewhere toward morning I came to a few interesting facts about myself: I'm probably not a dog-person at all. I've lived alone for almost 20 years and have learned how. Holding a full-time job with a commute of 1 1/2 hours door-to-door twice a day, plus two to three nights a week and Sundays in Concord at rehearsals, -- well, this added pet feature was probably not the best idea. Plus commitments to my daughter and her family which precluded time with friends. And the economy I struggle with that was already over-taxed -- dog walkers?? dental surgery???
Monday: Clea came while I was at work and took care of the dog the entire day with a couple hours break in the middle of the day. I had left Lucky in the crate and she put him back in while she went to get Keira off her school bus. Had I been able to crate him at night without the howling and barking (the three other families in our condo-converted house would not have put up with that racket), the outcome might have been different. After much aggita, and my blood-pressure soaring most of the day, and lots of attitude from the woman who is creating this rescue group and the foster mom, I returned Lucky to his foster home. He was so happy to be with the Jack Russell -- the two of them were rolling around the floor when I left. I gave the woman the report from the vet and the heartworming and flea/tick medications ($85 worth of medicine) -- but it did not assuage the contempt she flashed at me at her back door. I went home feeling some guilt -- not for Lucky -- he'll be scooped up before the week is out. But for Keira and Clea who were so tickled to have a little dog to play with. I told Clea that she now understands the benefits of being a grandmother. She got it.
Of course Lucky needed at the very least a good week to make the adjustment. I had always told Clea that I would not adopt a dog until I could take a week off from work to devote to settling the dog in. I don't do well when I break promises to myself. I told myself all weekend -- maybe I'm too old for this huge commitment. This very big change in my life. Last night it occurred to me that maybe I'm not old enough. Maybe having a dog means having a companion when I'm not working anymore (fat chance!) and need the responsibility of a pet to keep me moving. Whatever the reason or the excuse, I'm very disappointed in myself. Worse, I'm very sad because I feel that this is the end of a dream called "Higgins." What did I think it would be like? What did I want it to be like? I can't answer that. Clea wants to get me a web-kin. That would probably serve me right!
She tried to fancy what the flame of a candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember ever having seen such a thing. -- Lewis Carroll: Alice chapter 1
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