One Word Contract

Were I a person who put stake in such things, the day yesterday was telling us that it was not the day to do it. To call the sky at 7 AM gloomy would have been putting a bit too much cheer on it, and our mood and energy seemed to match its cheerlessness. Sara slugged her way out of bed to go to swim, while I, the indolent of the morning, remained abed until after 9. I did manage to rise and beat out a couple of miles jogging.

Once breakfast and showers were complete, and with enough coffee on board to jolt our various systems into a sort of consciousness, we got into Sara's Subaru and headed north towards our destination. We had called ahead to make sure that, yes indeed, the SF SPCA was still open, and even on this dreary Saturday, they were processing adoptions until 5 PM.

Setting out I wasn't too concerned with meeting that deadline, but the weather did its best to deny us our mission. The rain beat on our car hard enough to drown out the best bits of This American Life. We pushed through past the worst of it, and emerged into the misty and windy parking lot behind the SF SPCA.

I said to Sara as we pulled up, "Now, you know, we have to be prepared to walk away."

"I know, I know," she insisted, but the mission look was in her eyes, and dissuading her would be a feat only a canine was capable of.

Once inside and shaken off of our wetness a little bit, we looked around at the capaciousness that is the SF SPCA's adoption center. The foyer is large, with benches and people and animals everywhere, but in that orderly, bustle-y sort of way that signals that work is going on and getting done. Puppies were trotted out in the hands of blue-gloved volunteers, who were very particular that you put the hand sanitizer on every time before you petted them, lest your fingers harbor some terrible puppy disease.

The dogs (cutie puppies included) are sectioned off into apartments with large viewing windows, so that you can wander the hallways looking for that special someone. At the end of the first hallway, we saw Riggs.

Riggs came to our attention first largely because of his roommate, a rambunctious 3 month old American Terrier who was determined to get Riggs to play with him. Riggs, a wiser and calmer 2 year old, tolerated this with a patience that would make some parents of four year olds impressed. When it got too much for poor Riggs, he snarled at the puppy, but never bit or attacked. He wanted his space. The puppy, of course, was oblivious.

There were other dogs as well. A big black lab named Willow, a cute roommate of hers named Spreckles for the dots upon his floppy ears. In the end, after walking, meeting, greeting, playing, hemming and hawing, we settled. There was a moment, after our first walk with Riggs was done, where Sara had her arms around him and she looked up at me and asked, "OK?"

I replied, "OK." And that was it, minus paperwork, a written contract between myself and the SPCA promising that among other things I would feed him, and the small matter of fees and class signups. But that OK, that little word passed between myself and Sara, that was the only contract that really mattered. We had our dog.

In the car on the way home, Sara sat with Riggs in the backseat as I drove through much calmer weather. She tormented me with blow-by-blow updates of all the cute ways that Riggs was snuggling up to her. We stopped at Petsmart to buy all the things that a doggie needs, including a wide variety of sleeping and chewing options. On the way home from the store, I rode in the back.

Up until that point, I have to confess, I wasn't totally sure. I mean, could this be it? I'd been dreaming of owning a dog like a storyteller weaves a fable, never quite knowing if those lands would ever be seen. But now, sitting in the car, was a four legged furry life. Was he my dog? I mean, really? This is really happening?

Then he put his head in my lap and sighed.

Oh. Damn. OK boy, you got me.