Introducing the Little Sisters

My partner and I got our first dog, Kali, on purpose. From then on, I'd have to say the dogs found us. Molly chose me at the pound and Kim found Nicholai with his mother and littermates on an icy cold day in February of 2000 (see: Finding Nicholai) while walking Kali and Molly. After four more years of fostering puppies and young dogs for the Humane Society, and adopting a son, another stray mutt found her way into our home and our hearts.

It was winter again, November this time, and the weather had turned frigid when we got a call. "Dr. Mary," the voice on the line said, "my ex found a stray puppy, he won't take care of her, and I just can't keep her!" This friend was up to seven dogs – four rescues – and I doubt that anyone, least of all me, thought she should take on another. "Okay," I replied, wondering about my own sanity. "We'll take her off your hands, but just for a few days, till we can figure out other arrangements." We drove over and picked up the skinny little dog. She was mangy and covered with fleas. In the middle of that first night, I was awakened by a high-pitched whine, and on the floor by the side of the bed sat an angelic waif of a pitbull mix, begging with her eyes for warm sanctuary. I lifted the covers and she sailed effortlessly to my side, curling against me after her time on the cold November streets. In the days that followed, bolstered by warm covers and a full belly, she revealed a high drive, attention deficit-hyperactivity disordered manic personality. But she was a flawless companion for old dogs and young children alike. Today the little brindle dog with pointy ears we named Isabella (aka Izzy) – who was only supposed to stay for a few days – is still here.

That was it, we said firmly. No more dogs. We adopted a second boy (sounds simple, but is not), making the total: four dogs and two boys. Over the next four years, boys and dogs, work and home clamored for our attention all day, every day. Kali grew old, then Molly, and soon they left Nicholai the elder statesman of the dog pack at our house. Meeting the needs of two dogs felt simple compared with four. When Nicholai was diagnosed with lymphoma the boys were safely ensconced in school, and I was happy to have the time I needed to focus on Nicholai and his needs. I could see the day quickly coming when we would only have one dog – albeit a whirling dervish, ADHD dog – but one dog all the same.

Then came a sunny hot morning in the midst of a July heat wave. I drove Nicholai (who still wasn't dead yet) and Izzy to swim at Kelley Point Park in North Portland early in the morning before the temperature climbed too high to risk a trip in the car. On arriving, one lone vehicle – a shiny new black Chevy Avalanche – sat in the parking lot with its lights on. Must be just arriving, I thought to myself, I'll give them a moment to get going. I didn't know if they were fishing or dog-walking, either way, I'd give them space. So I slowed the car to a crawl. The passenger door of the Avalanche opened and feet hit the ground. In a moment, I could see it was a dog. Dog-walking, fine, I'll let them get on their way. Another moment passed, but no one exited the Chevy. Suddenly the truck backed out of the parking spot and turned toward the road, a small reddish dog left standing on the asphalt. After stopping for a moment, the Avalanche sped away. The dog followed for a few paces and then stood, alone in the parking lot, watching the truck disappear into the distance.

I spewed a few words after the departing truck, parked my car and hopped out, leaving Nicholai and Izzy barking inside. I crouched to the ground and called out, "Hey baby! Come, come, come!" The little red pitbull turned to me, hesitated for one second, and then bounded over with gangly legs flying and fearlessly covered my face with her wet tongue. After a moment of canine-human greeting, I let Nicholai and Izzy jump out of the car. Nicholai barked at the interloper and told her in no uncertain terms that I was his human and she should not forget it. I attempted to coax her to walk with us, but she preferred to wait in the lot, presumably for her sad excuse for human companions to return. I couldn't stop thinking about her, so after a shorter than anticipated walk and swim, our trio arrived back at the parking area. My vehicle was still the only vehicle there. With some coaxing and cajoling, I convinced the little girl to jump in the back of my Subaru; I think she may have realized we were the only show in town. I headed home without a plan.

That was July. Today we have three dogs, even though I was so sure that this year would be the year of one dog, the year of Isabella. But Nicholai decided not to die on schedule (for which I am forever grateful), and by a serendipitous confluence of amazing timing, Kelley (named for the park) was dropped – quite literally – at my feet.

Nicholai still tells Kelley with snarfs and growls and occasional whites-of-the-eyes, that he's the man, the king, the big kahuna – and he is. Mostly, she gives him his space, with just a little taunting. He is after all, the big brother.