When I was about eleven, a dog inadvertently came into my life. It was one of those things where a kid got a dog from God Knows Where and brought it home and their mom was all NO WAY! And then that kid had to find a home for the dog and asked another kid, who asked another kid (that would be me) who, in turn, begged her mom to keep the dog and quite possibly threw in some emotional blackmail to seal the deal.
And that? Is how I got the dog—a small, snaggle-toothed, white fluffball of unknown origins who was aptly named (wait for it)…Fluffy!
Fluffy was the only dog we ever had that liked me better than my mom but she was a wily, spunky little thing and one day when I let her out into the backyard, she squeezed her way through the small gap where fence meets gate and she was gone.
When I realized Fluffy had outsmarted our high tech security (read: chain link fencing) and breached the backyard, I was, of course, distraught. My friend and I combed our suburban neighborhood calling for her, “FLUFFEEEEEEEE! FLUFFEEEEEEEE!” but she was nowhere to be found.
I called my mom at work, something I did much too often, and reported to her, with great distress in my voice, that I couldn’t find the dog.
And she told me? To call the police department and ask if anyone had reported finding a dog.
I gasped! I sputtered!
I was all “Moooo-oooom, that’s SO dumb! Nobody calls the police to report finding a dog! GAWWWWWD!!!” Because when you’re eleven, you know EVERYTHING.
I’m not sure what I expected her to do from 25 minutes away, at her job, but I remember feeling irritated that my #1 problem solver’s only suggestion was calling the fuzz.
Annoyed, I got off the phone and after brewing on it, decided I would call the police department (probably just to prove that my mom clearly didn’t love me because if she did, she wouldn’t have given me stupidest, most unhelpful idea EVER and would have dropped whatever she was doing to come home and make everything okay).
Annnnnd, as luck would have it…
Someone DID file a police report about finding a small white dog the day before, about a half mile from my house.
I called the people and a nice lady told me they had found Fluffy soaking wet and shivering under a tree, in the rain, and took her home.
Long story short, I got my 20 yr old sister to drive me over there to pick up Fluffy, who had clearly been well-cared for by her kindly benefactor.
She yelped and cried with excitement when she saw me…and then very promptly peed and pooped on the woman’s kitchen floor.
I cleaned up the mess, thanked the lady profusely for taking care of Fluffy and we headed home.
Later, I told my mother, mumbling no doubt, that we’d found the dog after calling the police department. She must have bitten her tongue pretty hard to keep from saying “I told you so…”
I don’t think I ever apologized to my mom for insinuating that she was a total idiot and I’m also pretty sure I never thanked her for helping me find Fluffy.
I’m sorry, Mom. And thank you.