“What’dya want for your birthday?” he asked me last
spring.
“A new dog,” I answered.
“What else would you like?” he said, hedging the
inevitable.
We sent our exotic-eyed, playful girl, Sydney, home
to Jesus in February. It was time. It was painful—for us. She was the lucky
one, though, bounding across heaven and chasing birds with my Best Friend while
we missed her like crazy and forgot every night when we went to bed that we
didn’t have to let her in and out the back door anymore.
“What’dya want for our anniversary?” he asked in the
fall.
“A new dog,” I answered.
“Isn’t that what you wanted for your birthday?” he
asked with a smile.
“I’m a woman with limited imagination,” I told him.
But we had a big cruise to Alaska planned to
celebrate our 40th anniversary and we didn’t book the doggie suite.
“Whatd’ya want for Christmas?” he never asked this
winter. He just quietly went shopping, wrapped some presents too small to be a
puppy, and watched while I opened a bright red envelope perched in our decorated
tree on Christmas morning.
I began to cry.
“It’s time to
go find you a new best friend,” the card read, with a photo of somebody
else’s Labrador taped inside. I practically kissed Rob’s face off.
Two days later, we wandered the noisy, smelly halls
where they keep the fortunate and unfortunate strays and castoffs at the animal
shelter, looking for the one gentle hearted animal who would stop us in our
tracks. We weren’t sure what he’d look like. Rob thought he’d be dark, with brown fur
that would blend in with the floor. He also thought he’d come in a portable,
lapdog size.
We zoomed in on a six-month-old cream colored
yellow lab who was bigger than our four-year-old grandson and only half grown.
“You would
fall in love with another big, white dog,” Rob teased.
I wasn’t the only one. Five other families wanted to
own this sweet guy, happy to sweep up his white sheddings from their floors every day.
“There’ll be a raffle for him if anyone besides you
wants the Lab,” the weary desk attendant told us. “Be here promptly at eleven
tomorrow morning if you want a chance at getting him. Don’t leave the lobby,
not even to go to the bathroom, or you’ll miss out on winning the raffle.”
We got there at a quarter of eleven and stood our
ground in the swelling crowd—all waiting for one particular dog, apparently.
“Did you see the yellow Lab?” I heard again and
again behind me. “I’m trying for the Lab. I think everyone here wants to take
him home.”
My heart sank. I’m not lucky. I never win anything. One
time my name was printed in the newspaper announcing that I’d won a free pie at
Marie Callendar’s. When I called to claim it, they checked my address and I
learned that I was one of two Eula Marie McLeods who lived in the Phoenix area.
Saddled with what I thought was the most unique name on earth, I discovered—pieless—that
I was the wrong Eula McLeod.
“Praying you win,” our daughter texted us as we
waited in the shelter’s lobby, shoulder to shoulder with our competition. “Have
Dad enter the raffle. He wins everything, right?”
It’s usually true. Rob has a lucky streak the size
of the Vegas Strip. I, on the other hand, can’t even win when the odds are one
out of two. Rob, representing our family, stepped up to the counter with five
other people, dropped his name in a bag with theirs, and waited while a
stranger pulled out the winner.
I watched from the back wall, struggling to hold
back tears. There was no way on earth it would be us. Despite all the providential
hutzpah my husband is made of, the sad truth is he’s married to a doubter with
all the confidence of Murphy’s Law. He doesn’t even bother buying lottery
tickets anymore—my dogma runs over his karma every time.
This was hopeless.
A winner was announced, a group of women rushed the
counter, and I slipped outside to cry in private. One out of six. That poor
puppy. Convinced that he was about to be adopted by some family who already owned eight
other dogs and destined to spend the rest of his life fighting for
leftover scraps, I blew my nose and accepted our mutual fate. Then I went back
inside.
Rob still stood at the counter. What was he doing?
Was he the alternate? I mean, who cared who
the alternate was. Everyone knew the winner would be taking home the Yellow
Lab and the alternate would be asking me for a spare Kleenex. I watched in
confusion as Rob stood glued to his spot in the crowd. I waved at him as he
turned, searching the room for me.
“Come on,” he mouthed, heading for an inside door. I
walked over to meet him, uncertainty painted across my face.
“What’s going on?” I asked him, as he held open the
door to the hallway for me.
“We won,” he said simply.
“We won?!! We
won the dog? The Yellow Lab? We won?!!”
I couldn’t believe it. It was as though I could
actually hear Jesus laughing with delight in my ear.
“That’ll teach you to trust in luck,” He whispered
to my shocked heart.
Two days later we brought him home. I bought a dog
tag with his new name on it—Buddy.
Because he’s my buddy. Today I’m buying him another
dog tag with his real name on it—Brody.
Because we changed his name to Brody. I may have named him too fast. We
call our grandson “Buddy” more than we use his real name but we never call him
Brody. So the boy remains “Buddy” and the dog is going to be “Brody.”
Hopefully. So far I’ve called him Body, Brady, and Buddy. I may have to get a
tattoo on my hand so I’ll remember what I named him.
I probably should have stuck with “Yellow Lab.”
Our floors will be shadowed by white fur once more.
The carpet has already been baptized by puppy pee. And the new legal pad of
paper I paid too much for at the Mailbox store has a corner chewed off now.
And we have a buddy named Brody to keep us company
and lick our faces and wait for us at the back door. He’s my favorite Christmas
present of all time.
“Leave it to Dad to win the raffle for you when it
counts!” our daughter said.
She was right. That man who wanted a tiny dog and fought for the big one is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
I must be luckier than I thought.
