Dog Tales, III

Miss Mischief

“Every dog deserves a place to live.

Every dog deserves a place in your heart.

Every dog deserves a place to walk.

Every dog deserves a place to run."

John Duncan

"I'm never getting another dog," I said to Mike. "I can't do this again."  Mike said nothing but knew my resolve wouldn't last long.

The next evening, he took me for a ride, and we somehow ended up looking at a litter of Miniature Schnauzers.  They were adorable, and I sat on the ground and played with them for a bit.  They climbed over me and nibbled my fingers.  "This isn't working. I'm not getting another dog," I told him.

"I just thought you'd want to hold a puppy," he told me.  "It's good therapy."  Right.  We left the puppies and headed to the mall which just happened to have a pet shop. 

I have to step out of the story for a second to tell you that I am not a fan of pet stores because they often sell puppy mill puppies.  The owners of said mills keep dogs in small pens that are often outdoors and not protected from the elements.  The poor mothers have litter-after-litter so that the owners can make money. Once the mothers are no longer able to birth a litter, the owners abandon or euthanize them.  The mill owners do not breed for temperament or health, and their puppies often have a number of health problems that may not show up until years later.


At any rate, we walked into the pet store, of course, and playing in a pen were about five or six puppies, two of which were a Scottie and a Welsh.  The Welsh had a cast on her front left paw, but it wasn't slowing her down, and she was batting the Scottie in the head with it.  I had not seen many Welsh Terriers in past 14 years, and I hadn't held any, so I was anxious to get my hands on the little girl with the cast.  One of the pet shop employees handed her to me, and I saw that Elvis and Marilyn Monroe signed her cast. 

"How did she break her leg?" I asked the woman.

The laundry helper

"She was playing on the floor and some little kid stepped on her," she replied. "She has two or three broken toes." I was appalled that something like that would happen.  Accidents do occur, of course, but a good breeder would be careful not to allow little kids that close to puppies.

"How much is she?" I asked. I was dead-set against pet store dogs, but I was worried about that little one.  Her future, because of the broken toes, was not too bright.  Most people would not be too interested in buying her, and who knows where she'd end up if she didn't sell. I had to do something.

"$1500," the woman told me as she put the feisty little girl in with a Basenji, and she immediately smacked the Basenji with her cast.

I didn't sleep that night because I was worried about that puppy, but there was no way I could afford to pay $1500 for her.  Still, I felt I had to rescue her.  Mike and I talked about it.  I felt I had to rescue her.  He felt she had to rescue me.

"Offer them $500 cash," he told me.  "All they can say is, 'No.'"

I went to the pet store the next morning after a work meeting and looked for the Welsh. She wasn't there, and I burst into tears.  The woman with whom I had spoken the previous evening came up to me.

"What's wrong, Honey?" she asked me.  I told her that I was there to see the little Welsh, and someone had bought her.  'Oh, no, no, no.  We still have her.  She's just at the vet getting her cast removed."  Still crying a bit, I told the woman that I wanted her but could only give her $500.  She told me to come back in 20 minutes because the puppy would be back by then, and we could talk about it.

I walked around the mall and took my time getting back. When I got to the store 35-40 minutes later, the lady was waiting for me.  "I don't know," she said.

"Cash," I insisted.  "$500 cash.  Right now.  That's all I have."  Ten minutes later, I was on my way home with a little ragamuffin in a box on the seat next to me.

Once everyone was home, we played with the little girl and discussed what to name her.  I had taken her to the vet earlier, and he had a name for her.  "She looks like a sweet Sara," he said. "Call her Sara."

"Sara?" Mike exclaimed when I told him. "That's not a dog's name. Call her Bunker."  I was *not* going to call her Bunker, so he continued.  "How about Cheyenne?  Dakota?  A name with a western ring."

"How about Abcdefg?" Jason suggested.   I have no idea what he said, but it was something that a 15-year old boy would like, and I wasn't buying that one, either.

We couldn't come to a conclusion that evening, so we called the little puppy everything from "Baby" to "Girlie" to "Monkey."

Seven month of age

The next night, Mike and I went to a Las Vegas Stars (AAA baseball team) game. During the pre-game warm-up, the stadium piped music over the loudspeaker.  One of the songs was a country song that I used to hear all the time.  The refrain lyrics contained the lines, "We like our beer cold as can be...Something, something, something K.C."  (I can't remember the words before K.C.)

"That's her name," I shouted.  "K.C"  Mike looked at me.

We ended up spelling her name K-A-S-E-Y, and while she didn't take Corky's place, she did fill the hole in our hearts his passing made.

Next: Mischief's Little Miss