If you’ve been reading the blog for a while, you know all about Skippy. Ah, Skippy. The dog who made me realize that I am not meant to live with a toy breed. He stressed me out. He was yappy. He pooped in the house. We were not a match.
Today, I got a call from Skippy’s new owner, who needed a couple extra bits of medical history. “How is he doing?” I asked, hoping the answer would be, “OK, despite running away and pooping in the house. We still like him.”
The person paused. “He’s SO great,” she said. “We just love him to pieces.”
“Oh,” I replied, pleasantly surprised. “Is he housebroken?”
“Yes,” she said, and then I was just shocked.
Skippy is living with a family who has a history of adopting shih tzus, Lhasas, and other small, yappy dogs from rescues. He moved in with a 17 year old chihuahua, who within 2 months of Skippy’s arrival decided death was preferable and quickly made his exit. He has that effect on dogs, I’ve noticed.
Nonetheless, his family found him a great source of solace during their time of loss, and I can’t tell you how relieved I am that he has found, finally, his true forever home. These people are in it for the long haul. They love him because of how he is, not despite it. He deserves that. I can now happily file that debacle under “Everything happens for a reason.”
While I was on this rather long phone call, my husband arrived home from a long morning bike ride. I was glad to see him well, since this was his inaugural ride on his bike and I was a bit concerned about him out in the heat- he took one teeny bottle of water and that was it, despite my warnings. Men.
“Can you help me get something out of the car?” he said.
“Hold on,” I told him. “I’m getting a Skippy update.”
He waited impatiently while I finished talking, then gestured me to follow him out to car. “What?” I said. “Is your bike in pieces? Dead biking companion?”
World, meet Brody. Proudly owned by a blubbering vet and her really, really good husband.