Six foot five inches of silver-topped ‘YES I CAN’ sauntered into the operating room. While I would have appreciated a wink or an acknowledgement of any sort through the transition, he did manage to direct his competent nurse with a nod, whisk out sutures, and make a joke to my physician husband in one fell swoop. ‘Thank GOD,’ I whispered. This man could single handedly suture the chasm between Putin and Obama.
Just hours before, our beloved greyhound had ‘accidently’ pawed a perfect little face to pieces, and somewhere between scooping her up, and waiting for help, I’d lost hope. The Children’s Emergency Room tends to lean that way. Toward hopeless. Especially when the computer system is down.
So after a very long wait, Rob scoured the hospital for a ‘Plastics Guy.’ When the Silver Fox came in, I prayed to myself, like this, ‘Thank you Jesus. Thank GOD for a man who looks like that. Walks like that. Acts like that.’
I relied 100% on his confidence.
‘Thank you JESUS for sending me someone who may very well BE…. Jesus. A very good looking, older and wiser…. JESUS.’
Then I waited until our 7 year old was dreaming of unicorns riding roller coasters and promptly went outside to sob.
A week later during our post-op visit, the aforementioned Silver Fox marveled his own handy work, and causally stated, ‘I did not expect this reattachment to have adhered. I was on the fence about trying.”
The Silver Fox had been on the fence? I almost threw up.
In the depths of emotional turmoil, I squeaked, ‘Thanks for keeping that part to yourself.’
We began to heal. Cheeks and eyes and smiles…all seemed good on the outside. But in time, we knew our household would need a different ending to this story. As first grade was coming to an end, we realized it could not be left as, ‘the year my doggie hit my eyebrow off, on accident…(we think).’
Monday a nightmare. Tuesday a doctor’s appointment to check scars. Wednesday a hysterical breakdown for having seen a dog. Thursday, I took matters into my own hands. A stealth campaign to seek and purchase a puppy so harmless and cute little girls and old ladies alike would stop dead in their tracks. Hallmark would be calling. Tiny sweaters, pink collars, little bows… we were going to pull out all the stops. On the fence, my ass. If silver fox could do it, so could I.
We found one in Baltimore. Seems I am the only person on the eastern seaboard that has no real interest in yippers, because unless we wanted to wait for 18 months and pay thousands of dollars, we had to drive eight hours and claim our puppy before someone else did. 2.5 pounds of furry, hypoallergenic, fury, waited in the arms of a creepy breeder with questionable intent. Friday we pulled the kids out of school, loaded the minivan and drove eight hours north. A Morkie the kids named, Fay. That’s right. A MORK-ie.
Speaking of minivans. Like you, I was never going to own a minivan. But somewhere at the corner of desperation and indignation, it just happens.
Fay is the minivan of dogs, but way cuter. A faithful member of the family, she is carried on the hip of a fearless and joyful 8 year old. Yes, I was on the fence, as long as the decision had anything to do with me. She was worth my pride, plus, she just gets the job done. Practical and efficient: small dog, small food, small toys, small bed, small poop, and small yips. No bows, no sweaters, nothing pink. She’s too cool for all that, especially when she’s driving through town in her minivan on our way to the church. If only she had a key fob.