April 5, 2011
It’s a typical Tuesday night. We’re all curled up in our respective corners making a dent in our DVR’d shows.
I’m noodling around on my laptop, and I happen to start scrolling through the Animal Welfare League of Arlington’s (AWLA) adoptable dogs site. How does this happen? Not sure, although it probably went something like: Facebook, ModCloth, Netflix, LinkedIn, AWLA. (All roads pretty much lead to “dog” at this point.)
I scroll through the adorable mugs of dogs available for rescue and adoption, and I almost drop the computer. There’s a picture of a small, round puppy that’s mostly pink snout. Her ears are tucked back against her head and she’s looking with blue (are they blue?) eyes at the camera in true doggy-fishbowl fashion. We take a look at her profile, but there’s not much there.
Her name is MJ. Her dad’s a red-nosed Pit Bull and her mom’s a Catahoula Leopard Hound (go ahead and click that link; I’ve never heard of it either). She’s from a litter of 11, 8 of which were dropped off for rescue. She’s been at AWLA for over a week, which is odd since puppies don’t really hang around much.
It can’t hurt to file an application, right? Get to the head of the line, since it looks like she’s just been cleared for adoption…
We submit our app, and then we promptly rearrange our work schedules in order to stop by AWLA to meet MJ first thing in the morning. We’re giggly. We ask Doodle and the Diva what they’d think about having a little sister. Just like when we were waiting for Zo, it’s an anxious, restless night.
April 6, 2011
We’re up with the sun, which isn’t super-abnormal considering both pets get nibble-y around 6. Everyone’s working from home until we can head over to the League at noon, and it’s the longest. 6. Hours. Ever.
We’re by the front desk the moment the adoption area opens for the day, and we proudly say “We’re here for MJ.” I, apparently, shout it, because the woman behind the desk remarks on our (my) enthusiasm.
A volunteer takes us back to a puppy room, which is a small play room with a drain in the middle of the floor and toys safe for baby teeth. She says she’ll be back, and we sit on the bench and fidget. We don’t talk.
The volunteer returns with a small, pale cannonball of a puppy, who is pulling at the leash so she can come say hello. Doing that funny Pit Bull “I can’t bend my elbows” strut. She winds between our legs like a cat, licking our shins and hands and anything her tongue can reach. James pulls a toy from a tub and they start to play tug. I sit on the floor, and MJ leaves the toy and wiggles over to me. Her rump is the perfect size to nook in my crossed legs. She touches her nose to mine (her eyes are most definitely blue), she sniffs, and then pees all over my jeans.
I’ve been marked. James laughs and the volunteer apologizes. It doesn’t matter. There is no way we’re not bringing this girl home with us. She’s mine now.
Ours. I mean ours.