I always assumed that “love at first sight” was a concept manufactured by Lifetime television and sold exclusively to heavy, middle-aged women, the kind who live alone with many cats. And then I met Ellie and realized that I am a craven fool.
It was on a beautiful autumn Saturday that we got a call from a friend who is a veterinarian. Some clients had brought in a healthy, 9-year old Lab to be euthanized because she was shedding excessively on their new wood floor. Our friend refused to euthanize a healthy dog so he charged the clients a hefty fee for “disposal”, waited until the clients left his office and called us.
This was a cagey move on his part, since my partner cannot refuse any animal in need. I fancied myself a tougher nut to crack. “We don’t need a dog,” I said as we parked at the veterinary clinic. “Dogs are a pain in the butt,” I said, “especially a dog who sheds.”
We walked in and a moment later our friend was pulled into the room by a huge yellow Lab. The dog broke away, jumped up , put both paws on my shoulders and bent down to lick my face. “We’ll take her,” I said as my partner and the vet high-fived each other.
The vet told us that our new dog tipped the scale at 106 pounds. She had bad teeth. She was not leash-trained and if she saw a squirrel neither heaven nor earth could contain her. It was impossible to keep her out of the swimming pool or off the furniture. Given the opportunity, she would steal food off the dining room table. I heard none of this but then our friend told us her name.
My head spun around as if I had whiplash. “Her name is ‘Precious’?” I said as my partner and I looked at each other appalled. We both hate cute pet names which is why all of our animals have good, no-nonsense people names, like Tom, our cat, or Marvin, the goldfish. “You can change her name,” our friend said hastily. “She’ll adapt.” The dog, who by this time had knocked me to the floor and was sitting in my lap, licked my face in agreement.
Our new dog remained nameless for several nights until we were watching a documentary on Eleanor Roosevelt who we learned was a big woman, headstrong and impossible to control. We saw Mrs. Roosevelt smiling broadly, showing a mouthful of irregular teeth and right then our new dog became Ellie.
If Ellie was confused by her new name she never showed it, mainly because she resolutely refused to come no matter what we called her. Over time her coat improved, she lost some weight, we had her teeth cleaned. She learned to walk on a leash.
We were back at the clinic for a follow-up visit when a stringy woman with a face like a hanging judge came in with a dog that would fit in a cereal bowl. She sat down as far away from us as possible and gave us a look of contempt that turned into one of confusion and then recognition. “Precious?” she said.
My heart was beating wildly, but Ellie refused to look at her. “Precious?” she said again. Ellie yawned. “Yes,” I said, “she is precious, isn’t she?” I stood up to go into the examining room. “Ellie,” I said, praying like a madman, “come on, girl.” As if on cue Ellie stood up and we walked away with dignity, leaving the hanging judge looking bewildered.