I fell in love with a new puppy last week.
I never met her in person; just saw her photo and description on the Marin Humane Society's adoption website.
Oh, I knew she was the girl for me. And she was the girl for Bartlett, too, I was almost certain.
Bartlett would love a companion. And I come from long years of raising a pair of pooches at the same time.
But I'd never had a dog as difficult to raise as Bartlett. She's almost 18 months now, and only just now so much more mellow. Was I ready for a new baby (five months old) this soon?
I kind of didn't think so, not yet. Also, it's a terrible time of year for housebreaking a doggie. So I let it go. I didn't jump.
I was probably too late already. So it goes.
Cranky was so, so gentle and understanding. It would be OK, he said, if I was really sure it would be OK.
And I wasn't sure.
In a couple of days, the pretty girl was adopted by somebody else. I knew it would happen. Fine.
But I mourned. I grieved. I was really surprised by my emotions. I'm not suffering, but this is interesting.
So maybe in a few more months. I'll renew my insider connection at the pound, and find out when litters of puppies are expected to meet the public, and I'll be first in line.
This doggie who went to somebody else's forever home? Her name was Miracle.
I'd probably have changed it to Miracle Whip. (Not!)