The following story is true. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent. Why bother with that? We all know whom I’m talking about.
I remember the date well: April 7, 1999. A beautiful spring morning lightened my mood as I drove to work. Then my cell phone rang. April never calls me just to hear my voice. We’re way beyond that. It’s always an emergency of some sort. My mind raced through the possibilities as I lifted the phone from the console. “Hello,” I said warily.
“I have a baby!”
Definitely a family emergency. Especially since, as far as I could tell, and I’m a pretty good judge of such things, April had not just endured nine months of anything remotely resembling a pregnancy. Heartburn once and a while, but not pregnancy. I will admit I had been preoccupied the past nine months, but not that preoccupied. A man notices things like pregnant wives.
Desiring clarity, I fired back an intelligent response. “Huh?”
“I have a baby!” she answered. “I was walking the dogs—“
She need not go further. I could take it from there. April, the ultimate lover of all of God’s creatures great and small, had run across some animal. The animal was probably relaxing in the morning sun, minding its own business when April appeared out of nowhere and said, “Oh, you lonely, lost _______ (fill in the blank since every animal qualifies). Don’t worry. I have found you, and I will rescue you. I will take you home with me, and you can live with me and Dan and all our other furry, scaly, feathery friends.”
At that very moment it was quite possible an orangutan was sitting at my kitchen table eating my Honey Nut Cheerios. Not possible, you say. You don’t know April. However, I had ruled out dolphins. But barely. Again, you don’t know April.
April continued. “She’s on the porch.”
That established a sex. It also meant my kitchen table and Honey Nut Cheerios might still be intact.
“And she’s so tiny.”
I held out hope. Perhaps April had run across a weary gnat in need of a home. Gnats were easy. They didn’t eat much. Wouldn’t be hanging around long.
“I think I’ll call her Pee Wee. She looks like a Shih Tzu.”
Ah ha! It was a dog. A small dog. Or a cat that looked like a Shih Tzu. Relieved, I ruled out an orangutan.
Then panic struck me. The last stray dog that showed up on our doorsteps soon gifted us with eight puppies. And April had used the word ‘she.’ Three times. This had ballooned into a colossal emergency. Pregnancy was once again in the picture. I took a deep breath.
“April, listen carefully.”
On the other end of the phone, I heard April say, “No, Pee Wee, not on the rug.”
I yelled into the phone. “April, go upstairs now! Hide in the closet. Stay there all day. Don’t watch this dog or play with it. Don’t think about it. When I get home–.”
The phone went dead. I knew if I made a tire-squealing U-turn on the highway right then and there and sped home at 120 mph, I would still be too late.
Thankfully, this episode had a happy ending. In less than four days, April found Pee Wee a good home. I know this because April did her usual thorough job of checking out the family. She verified their home addresses, made certain they were employed, and ran a back-ground check. She put them through a lie detector test and a political party affiliation check. Okay, I’m exaggerating about the political party affiliation check, but you get my point. We’re talking about April here.
And I think April learned something too. Before you name a dog, you should see if it fits. If you ask me, the little fellow should have been named “Who Cares Where I Piddle.”