Claire’s old friend, Nancy Meyers, had been after her for weeks to come see the puppies, but she had said no. They couldn’t possibly have a dog. Didn’t they already have enough to do, enough to take care of, she and Trudy? And then on the twenty-third day of crying, when she felt that her sick stomach was sloshing around full of saltwater, when she couldn’t take it another minute, she had started thinking wistfully about puppies. How one might sit on your lap so that you could stroke its head or scratch its back while you watched television. How a puppy might sleep at the foot of your bed, how it might lick your salty old face in the morning to wake you up. How it might get you out of the house and walking around the neighbourhood, talking to people. And what a nice companion a puppy might be for Mercy!
And so on.
So she said to her friend Nancy, OK, she would come over and look at them, but she wasn’t making any promises. She was not taking one home.
Nancy had answered the door in a stained house dress, her hair a mess, the powerful smell of dog coming off her, and a tired half smile on her face. She made Claire squeeze through the door, opening it only wide enough to get her body through so that the dogs would not bolt. Wet muzzles were pushing against Claire’s ankles, and she was laughing before she was even fully inside the house.
As Claire waded through the dogs and sat on the couch, they swarmed her. Or tried to swarm her. She counted six puppies comically trying to heave their heavy bodies onto the couch and flopping back down onto the carpet. They were so big! Twice as long as they were tall. Their fur smooth and silky like velvet. They were snuffling and snorting and whining. “What kind of dogs are they, anyway?” She raised her voice to be heard over the racket. “They’re such big puppies!” She couldn’t stop laughing. She felt so happy.
A little weak, a little lightheaded, but happy.
Some of the puppies wagged their tails so hard they lost their balance and rolled onto their sides. Claire reached down to rub a soft belly.
“Basset hounds!” yelled Nancy from the kitchen. “Or part basset hound, anyway. Maybe German shepherd, too.”
Then, with great effort, one of the huge puppies finally struggled up onto the couch beside Claire. It laid its head on her lap. The weight was unbelievable. Claire scratched the dog behind its big floppy ears and then rubbed its back. It sighed. A real human-sounding sigh. Its brothers and sisters whined at Claire’s feet. As she worked her way down the dog’s back, scratching, the dog grumbled, “Uhr-ruhr-ruhr-ruhr.”
“What’s that?” asked Claire, leaning down and looking into the dog’s eyes.
And she swears this is true.
As she scratched the dog’s soft baggy hide, it said in a low grumbly whine, “I love my ma-ma.” Claire barked with laughter, and the dog howled to join in. The pinching feeling in her stomach disappeared. The match was made.
Speckles was coming home with Mama.