Two Weeks Notice

“There will NEVER be a dog at 700 Miller Court.”  With this ultimatum, my English born husband inspired one of the chilliest afternoons ever experienced, during a family summer vacation. A lovely ride through the mountains in stony silence, then a fierce paddle down a rapid filled river with nary a word didn’t thaw his feelings on the subject.

NEVER say never.

The icy excursion was incited by a chance encounter the previous morning with a raggedly little Yorkie nicknamed “Rocky.” Rocky was returned to his family who had inadvertently left the station wagon window open during a party store stopover. He had the swagger of a Great Dane, but weighed six pounds soaking wet. Judging by the state of his spiky coat, water wasn’t a frequent concern. His earthy odor took some getting used to, though, especially by my proper husband.

Still, his brief visit left most of us craving our own spunky little mongrel. Bill fought the good and valiant fight, but he stood nary a chance once our hearts were stolen that little stray.

Negotiations began in earnest.

Before that summer, we’d never even considered inviting a pet into the family. The closest we came was a set of goldfish. The girls were active teenagers and if we weren’t driving to a practice, there were groceries to purchase, dinner to cook, or a game to attend. Bill and I had busy careers and a busier family. How could we ever wedge a little dog into that equation?

I’d had two dogs in my life. Buttons had lived to the age of 18, although his teeth only made it to 15 or 16. The coal black mutt loved to ride in the car, panting furiously from his favorite spot directly facing me in the back seat. Gave a new meaning to the term “dog breath.” Uggh.

After Buttons, my mother decreed that there would be no more pups in the house. The ban lasted until Dad and I passed a “Free Puppies” sign in northern Michigan. Stopping just “to look,” the spunky runt of the litter somehow managed to stowaway in our red Mercury. Two hundred miles was too far to make a return so Mom gamely welcomed her into the family. Incredibly bright, the “eye” would politely nudge an elbow and gently wave her paw towards whatever she desired on the dining room table.

After Mitzi, I never dreamed I could want another dog. She was just too tough an act to follow. That lasted until finding little Rocky happily sniffing alongside Interstate 90. 

Back in Dearborn, the spirited debate continued. After much discussion at the dinner table, Bill finally relented–provided a “Dog Contract” was agreed upon and signed by all interested parties.  A couple of lawyers, we couldn’t help ourselves. Given our already overflowing “to do” lists, this had to be a group effort. 

Bailey, our youngest, volunteered to make the first pass. She was surprisingly thorough in that draft right down to a “two week” notice and cooling off period should Bill or I ever deem that the dog had to leave.

Four years later, Ralph, our bichon poodle has only jokingly been given notice a few times, usually upon discovery of a shredded slipper or other surprise. Now the furry little dude has nosed his way solidly into our lives, and our hearts.

The Dog Contract also provided that the dog would leave with the girls when they went off college. Ralph’s made a few visits to East Lansing and Ann Arbor, but every night he sleeps curled up at Bill’s feet–in Dearborn. Some contracts are meant to be broken. Ask my friend curled up at my shoulder. Ask Bill. NEVER is apparently not forever. 

Join Ralph and his family at the Dearborn Mutt Strut on May 14 and 15.