Yankee, Before Grooming

—Your mother wants that?

I am holding Abagail who looks fragile and frightened. Pink skinned, almost hairless after a serious grooming, the little poodle has a sad-sack aura about her. Red tear stains cover most of her face and her paws.

But the comment by a tactless neighbor stings and I feel defensive.

I explain to the woman that Abagail was rescued from a puppy mill. My mother adopted her and I would be bringing Abagail to Maryland to meet her new parents.

Of course my mother wants that. She kept us kids didn’t she? She never made us feel ugly or pathetic even around age 11 or 12 when I may not have been ugly, but certainly awkward and pathetic.

A Smidgen of Doubt

It’s the night before our four-hour drive from New York to Maryland. Gene and I are coping with Abby’s nervous energy. She pees on the rug twice before we put her in a crate. She alternates between cowering in the crate and running in circles through the apartment. She is low to the ground and runs with a rat-like furtiveness.

I have a pang of doubt.

Abagail exhibits the behaviors typical of a puppy-mill dog who has spent her life neglected and cooped up. She will need a lotta love to get over her nervousness. Gene has been playing Neil Young’s version of Lotta Love the last few days and the song is stuck in my head.

A Good Sign

In the morning, I walk Shadow, my newly adopted dog, along South End Avenue. We run into the girl who recognized Shadow from the Animal Haven website the moment Shadow and I stepped out of the car together two months ago. I took the girl’s recognition as the first sign that Shadow belonged to us.

I take running into that girl again for the first time since then as a good omen for Abagail’s future.

On the hottest two days of the century, we are working out the logistics of picking up and loading up rental car, who is going to sit where and how we will keep the dogs safe and hydrated. But finally, we are on the road.

Homecoming

Was there any reason to doubt?

—Where’s my dog? are my mother’s first words after we pull up to my parents’ house.

We make a few attempts to dissuade her from rechristening the dog Yankee Poodle. I suggest Fuji, because it is an apple and represents Japan where we grew up. My brother John suggest Cubbie, because he is a Chicago Cubs fan. Gene suggests Yanko The Dentist after an obscure early 20th Century comic strip called Sherlocko The Monk. This idea is immediately dismissed. Yankee she will be. Yankee’s crate is in the center of the living room and Shadow lies beside her.

The conversation is dog, dog, dog—a fun night for dog people. A trip to Petsmart in the morning and my parents are ready to get on with the business of helping Yankee adapt to her forever home.