Furry, Odd-looking Genetic Wonders And The Joy They Bring

It's been a year since I informed Jeff that yes, thanks, I really DID need a puppy.

And after wondering aloud if maybe we could just go out to dinner instead, he relented, asking only that we name him (or her) "Perry" after a beloved dog from our early years as a couple. I agreed. I would have named the thing "Carburetor" if that's what it took.

So I went to where I knew there was a litter of Chihuahua-Poodles and Poodle-Chihuahuas, an important distinction, I learned, in the grossly inflated "designer dog" community, wherein three-quarters Chihuahua merits a "Chi-Poo," but the more pedestrian half-and-half mix is a "Poo-Chi." This is a point the woman made several times as I demonstrated both my inability to do fractions and (politely, I hope) my Chihuahua-sized interest in the distinction. I was captivated by the only Poo-Chi (get it?) left, a 10-week-old white, bowlegged, shy little guy whose coat could only generously be called scraggly. I'm not much for Poodles, and I still think of "Chihuahua" as the Mexican State my friend is from, but while the other wheaten-coated puppies were adorable, I kept coming back to the one I knew was "Perry" to his very core.

He weighed two pounds, but God blessed him with a bladder the size of a softball, and he slept pretty much through the night after only a few days. He was appropriately feisty AND submissive to our 2-year-old Lab/Pointer Mix, Georgia, whose gentleness is of Mother Theresa-like proportions, and bonded easily with Jeff, my son, me, and an orange-and-purple stuffed giraffe. Best of all, he cuddled. I like that in a dog.

Little did I know then that 2009 would bring the sudden heartbreak of my dad's death. A sadness I could not have imagined -- and still haven't really begun to feel fully -- marked the first six months of the year and persists in barging in at times, lingering too long, unbidden and unwilling to slip away when I try to. Grief is a persistent visitor indeed.

But the desire of my heart this time last year didn't, I see now, have its origin in my lifelong love of dogs and in the novelty of having a tiny one. A loving God planted it in me, knowing, as the Divine would, that I would suffer a loss unexpected, the kind of loss that's never "cured," that never expires, but that responds remarkably well to the Heaven-sent ministrations of a wonder of canine genetics, eight pounds of pure love, mischief, and the breath of a thousand rawhide chewies.

I am grateful.