Warm comfort in cold January

Ali in El Paso on reconn.... Ty and Cousin Brooke check out Sir Otis

Last month, as my brother Jake and I were preparing to view Mom’s body for the last time, our sister Pauline texted us that her beloved dog Loop had collapsed. Instead of coming to Mom’s final viewing, her husband and daughter would take Loop to the vet, and there they would put him to sleep. Loop was ill, but Pauline had been told they had another month with him.
 
“Not a good year to own a dog in the Young clan,” Jake mused, reflecting on how we lost our sweet Homie in July. “Maybe I should take out insurance on Bandit.”
 
I think of how traumatic it will be for Pauline to see Mom for the last time, then walk into her home for the first time without Loop there to greet her. Worst day ever.
 
“Why don’t you get a new dog?” Jake continues. “Your kids are at the sweet spot for a puppy (5, 9 and 11). Once they start high school, they don’t have the time, and once they’re out of the house, you’ll want to travel.”
 
Back in Albuquerque, I mention this to Jory. Jake’s words stay with me. We have needed time to grieve Homie, but lately, it seems all we’ve done is grieve.
 
When I return from my cousin Gary’s funeral in Boston, I contact “Cousin Brooke”. She is actually my college friend Fred’s cousin, but her last name happens to be…Rosen, (and, frankly, I am looking to rebuild family). Brooke Rosen is a highly regarded vet in Albuquerque. We met for coffee this summer, and had rescheduled subsequent visits due to deaths (mine) and work crises (hers).
 
I mention that we are thinking of possibly getting a dog, but we’re not in a hurry, because we need to find “the right dog” for our family. Like most vets aware of the crises in shelters, when Cousin Brooke hears of an open family, she’s in a hurry. She loves animals and cannot wait to get them placed. 
 
After understanding our kind of dog, Cousin Brooke starts texting photos of sweet dogs in shelters everywhere from Santa Fe to El Paso. 
 
After the third day, I have caught Brooke’s fever.
 
But there’s a glitch: Fear. 
 
Homie was our first baby, and we want a dog who fits in to our pack like she did. One of my best friends adopted a puppy at the start of the pandemic in 2020, after her beloved older dog had died. She confided 18 months later that while this dog is lovely, he doesn’t quite measure up. Then our neighbors just adopted a dog who was on tranquilizers in the shelter, they later discovered. They have been struggling, to put it mildly. I don’t want a dog just to have a dog. Too much work. I could end up resenting him/her.
 
It’s always a gamble. I won the adoption lottery with both Homestead and Tyler. Can lightning strike a third time? Am I merely tempting fate? WILL I REGRET THIS????
 
“If you don’t take risks, you’ll have a wasted soul,” actress Drew Barrymore once said. 
 
I have not risked in a while, I realize, only endured loss and stress. My soul is languishing.
 
I start researching Petfinder.com for what I want, not what they have nearby. There are no Tibetan Terriers (Homie’s breed). Since I thought Homes was a Shih Tzu mix for the two-thirds of her life, I search shih tzu. A little brown puppy pops up, male, four-months old, a Shih Tzu /Pug mix. The “Pug Tzu” is known as a “couch potato”. As a writer, this sounds my speed. They are comfort dogs (again, I’m looking for a living stuffed animal to hug these days). Even better, he’s in El Paso, at that shelter from which Cousin Brooke has thrice adopted, and he’s extremely affordable.
 
With "family approval" (aka: kid begging), I text Cousin Brooke. Friends with the shelter’s owner, Cousin Brooke gets the honest inside scoop on the pup and its health. “Go,” she urges. “He’s perfect and won’t be around for long. His two sisters have already been adopted out.”
 
Jory is on the fence about this, feeling it might be too soon after Homie. He acquiesces in light of how much the kids and I want this, but wants to make the four-hour trip alone.
 
Ali.
He must bring Ali.
Ali has really been struggling. 
She regrets that she never bonded with Homie the way her siblings did. 
On top of that, when I was in Tucson for Mom’s death, Ali took her gifted testing. When timed on a standardized test, her anxiety paralyzes her and she scores low. Possibly the most gifted person in the family, she doesn’t qualify. She’s been beating herself up ever since.
 
She’s been needing a win for months. This would be a second chance for her to bond with our dog. I tell her that if she doesn’t think this is our dog, we won’t get him; there are others.
 
Jory understands that the family is trying to heal so he agrees to bring Ali to Texas to check out the dog.
 
They arrive home at dinnertime: a tired Jory, an exultant Ali and a darling puppy. Ali is confident: this is our dog. 
 
Everyone has opinions on what to name this little bundle of joy, except me. Jory wants “Parker” (Spider Man), Lillie “Evans” (Lily Evans Potter, Harry’s Mom).
 
“Lover” Tyler announces. “His name is Lover.” I can just see Jory walking the dog up and down the streets: “NO LOVER! HERE LOVER! COME HERE LOVER”
 
“Otis,” Ali declares. 
 
The minute she says that, she has my vote. My grandparents had lived on Homestead Lane on Cape Cod for 42 years, and that is how I named my first dog. My parents lived on Otis Street for 41. Perfect. Some say old street names are your porn first name, mine are my pets. 
 
I ask Ali how she thought of the name Otis. She shrugs and simply says, “You know, Otis the Grouch. Sesame Street.” (?)
 
Sir Otis becomes the partner in crime that Tyler has always been seeking.
 
After my booster shot, when I am in bed with a fever of 101.8 and aching for Mom to care for me, Sir Otis lies by my side for hours.
 
The following week, when Ali has a sore throat, runny nose, aches, chills, fever, head ache (January has not been dull), Sir Otis is her loyal sidekick. When Ali’s home test returns negative, we figure it’s wrong, so track down a lab test (like winning the lottery out here) only to discover two days later she’s negative. (I am still trying to wrap my head around the fact that other strains of the flu still exist.) 
 
Jory expresses surprise at how the sweet gentle soul of Otis is so similar to Homie’s: “Think she was reincarnated?”
 
Otis is also an ideal great companion when all public schools in Albuquerque experience their first “Cyber Snow Days” last week. Lillie Grace discovers hiking trails for us to explore with him. 
 
(“Cyber Snow Days” may unfortunately become a national thing: public school districts cannot afford cyber security akin to private corporations, and hackers find them easier targets. All schools in the Albuquerque district were closed for two days after a surprise hack attack.)
 
While all our shoes may sport bite marks and matching socks never be reunited, Ali was right. Sir Otis is a much-needed addition to our pack. The comfort he brings as I work through my grief is immeasurable. 
 
I am no longer naïve: I know that this little guy will someday break my heart when his time is up. This is something I never considered when I adopted Homie. Yet it makes Otis’ every day all the sweeter, all the more appreciated. 
 
And prayerfully all five of us will be around to mourn him. I seem to be continually reminded that no day can be taken for granted. Life’s traumas abound: last month, on Christmas Eve, my good friend’s step-nephew was killed in a freak shark attack off Morro Bay. Last week, another dear friend flew back to LA to bury a close classmate of his who, at the age of 24, was stabbed to death in the La Brea furniture store where she worked. So much pain. So much devastation.
 
How fortunate to be dealing with illnesses and cyber attacks instead – and with a new little lovebug. A new beginning. 
 
A chance to deeply connect with another soul, one more time.