LIKE CALVIN, THE LITTLE Jamaican puppy was special in her own way, if for no other reason than she existed. She might be only one of a thousand puppies in a similar plight right at this very moment in Jamaica, yet her life was just as worthy of my consideration as those of the chimps and the monkeys back at the lab. It was going to be another long night of vigil, I was sure, because I couldn’t help worrying that something could still go wrong following the transfusion. She might suffer a delayed hypersensitivity reaction if her mother’s blood was the wrong type, and I couldn’t rule out the possibility of an undetectable hemorrhage starting up inside her during the night. I also couldn’t help thinking that in spite of the transfusion, the puppy would still die if we gave her back to Miss June, because of the risk of reinfestation with fleas, or undernourishment, or infection. On and off, over the last couple of days, I had been toying with the idea of taking the puppy back with us to America, but I was wary, knowing well that doing so would be fraught with difficulties.
The stresses of the long journey alone, for such a young animal in poor health, were daunting enough. Besides, the puppy had already been spoken for by the farmer and his mentally retarded little boy. And how would Miss June respond to my request to take the puppy back with us to America? Miss June’s frequent inclusion of God in her conversation made me think that she had such total faith in Him, she might well feel that He had His designs and I should do nothing to thwart them. But, before worrying about God and Miss June, I would have to get Marie-Paule’s opinion on the matter.
I knew that Marie-Paule would be loath to become emotionally attached to another dog, only to go through the same heartbreak when it died. Our dog, Angus, was about twelve years old when I had to put him to sleep because of incurable cancer of the intestine. A white, rough-coated, stocky little mutt, he had cockily wandered into our lives when we lived in Wisconsin and became a very important part of the family. Even after four years, we still missed him sorely. Equally important, however, was that life had changed for all of us since those days, and we couldn’t offer this puppy the same life of freedom that Angus had had. Marie-Paule was no longer a stay-at-home mother seeing to the children, house, and the million other things that mothers attend to. The teaching job she now had required her to leave home early in the morning, sometimes not returning until quite late in the evening. This would mean the puppy’s being left alone for long hours; our children, now grown, wouldn’t be around to act as playmates, as they had been for Angus.
Angus had a full life. Very much a free spirit, especially in his younger days, he had people to see, places to go, and things to do each day. His day began around 8:00 A.M., as he waited with the children for the school bus, which picked them and the neighbors’ children up at the end of our small road. This duty over, Angus would return to the house to wait atop the settee in the living room for four dogs who would call by each day to pick him up. There was Taffy, an Irish setter, who loved raiding people’s garbage on pickup day and would take every opportunity to slip into people’s houses and steal their shoes. There was also Tasha, a large malamute, and Pinup, her live-in companion, a skinny black dog who had a particular fondness for Angus. Lastly, there was an Old English sheepdog, nicknamed “Mrs. Snoop” by our children, who lived a mile away through the forest and came every day, for years, rain or shine, to be with Angus. Once assembled, the five of them would take off into the woods for an hour or so.
By mid-morning Angus returned home, only to start on his daily rounds to visit two housing developments, one to see an old man he had befriended, the other to visit a weepy-eyed female toy poodle. Then, in the early afternoon, there was the Silver Dollar, a seedy bar at the edge of a large lake about a mile and a half through the forest from our house, where Angus would go to cadge tidbits from the patrons. For a little dog with short legs, Angus had a most demanding daily routine. But he was always home in time to greet the children as they got off the school bus.
Angus had an incredibly close relationship with the children, and he obviously saw himself as one of them. He participated in all their activities; he sat in the secret world of Nathalie’s walk-in closet as she played with her dolls; he shared the bed with Pádraig while he struggled through his homework; and he oversaw Christopher’s construction projects. And everyone spoke to him constantly, involving him in every conversation. It was a perfect life for a dog.
The Jamaican puppy would have none of this. Not only had the two boys grown up and left home, but Nathalie would also be leaving soon to explore the world. The only dogs remaining in the area were Asa, a staid old Rhodesian ridgeback who lived on the other side of the pond, and Baxter, a cocker spaniel who lived next door. Both, I thought, were too mature to be bothered with a little puppy.
But, despite these concerns, I couldn’t help feeling that we had no alternative but to take the puppy back home with us.
I finally plucked up the courage to raise the issue with Marie-Paule. “You know, Marie-Paule,” I began, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should consider taking the puppy back with us to America. There’s no good saying—”
“Yes, I agree,” Marie-Paule said, cutting me off in mid-sentence. “I’ve been thinking exactly the same.”
I couldn’t believe it; I had imagined I would have to go through all sorts of complicated arguments as to why we should adopt the puppy, but there Marie-Paule was, agreeing with me. I should have realized, of course: She had fallen just as much in love with this little thing as I had. “The puppy will never make it if we leave her here in Jamaica,” Marie-Paule added. “Besides,” she said, “Nathalie will be home awhile, before she goes off to teach in Spain. You know she would love to look after the puppy. And I don’t have to return to school for another three weeks or so.
“The only problem is, you’re going to have to find a way of telling Miss June,” Marie-Paule concluded. She had obviously put a lot of thought into this and shared my concerns about Miss June’s attitude.
“I’ll speak to her in the morning,” I said.
As it turned out, Miss June was delighted. “I was going to broach the subject with you, myself,” she said, “but I thought you might think me presumptuous.”
“What about the little boy who was going to have the puppy?” I asked Miss June. “He’ll be so disappointed.”
“Don’t you worry yourself about that: I’ll make sure Seán is all right,” she replied. Later, I was happy to discover that Seán did get his puppy, though from another litter.
Having decided that we would take the puppy back with us, there was one important issue to settle: the puppy needed a name. We couldn’t continue referring to her as “the puppy” or “the little thing,” as I tended to call her. “I’ve already thought that one out,” I announced to Marie-Paule. “She’s the only one of the puppies that looks like her mother, and her mother’s name is Molly, so let’s call her Molly, too.” So Molly-Too became her official name, although, we almost immediately began referring to her simply as Molly. It had a nice ring to it; besides, it happened to be my mother’s name as well.
WITH MISS JUNE’S BLESSING procured, I realized I needed some help making arrangements for our return to the States. Marie-Paule and I were scheduled to return to New York on Saturday, in the early afternoon, and it was already Thursday morning. How could we arrange to get the little Molly out of the country in time? Not only was she very young, but she looked as though she was suffering from just about every disease known to man. I would need a veterinary certificate stating that she was free of infectious disease. What vet in his or her right mind would sign such a statement? Where would I even find a vet to perform the examination? The veterinarian would also have to verify that Molly was old enough to meet the minimum age requirement set by international airlines, and although I didn’t know what the age limit was, I was fairly sure it wouldn’t cover a puppy barely four weeks old.
I also doubted the airline would permit us to take Molly directly on board with us, insisting instead that she be put in the hold. Even though the holds for live animals are pressure controlled and temperature regulated, I couldn’t see Molly surviving the journey if she was left alone in a crate for several hours in the dark, with no one to hold and comfort her, no one to feed her or keep her warm.