Posted on Wednesday, December 21st, 2011
My boyfriend and I had been looking for a dog for about 6 months, dragging ourselves from shelter to shelter, falling in love with dogs outside of our apartment’s weight limit. A dog lover from birth, each canine encounter had a devastating effect on me.
Finally, one Sunday after visiting Seattle’s largest shelter and falling in love with a German Shepherd puppy, I dissolved into a mess of tears. We had plans to go to a restaurant to visit a friend of ours who worked there, which I did not deem myself in a stable enough position to go. Forced by my boyfriend, I went, proving my point by crying in public. The bartender asked why I cried, to which my boyfriend explained our fruitless dog search. “You’re kidding, you’re looking for a dog?! You have GOT to go talk to that guy!” he replied. “That guy” turned out to be a coworker at the restaurant, whose wife was a vet’s assistant who had recently rescued a litter of puppies scheduled to be euthanized. He and his wife needed to secure homes for the tiny pups immediately.
Feeling overwhelmed by the serendipity, my boyfriend and I agreed to take one of the 6 week old puppies. That night we decided to name our yet unseen puppy “Mongo,” chuckling at the fact that we hadn’t the faintest idea regarding the breed, size or temperament of our new little housemate, and that this new name would suit even the mangiest of beasts.
We met him the next day, and it was love at first sight. A little brown wiggly thing with bright green eyes, he was the sweetest creature I’d ever seen. When I held him, I vowed I would give him the best possible life a dog could ever have.
We took him home, and the first thing he did was poop on the floor. If his name hadn’t prophesized our future with our new puppy, his first act certainly did. Since his initial tiny crime, he has since:
(After one such escape from the barn at my parent’s property, he ate one of my father’s prize chickens (as in, a live one – talons and all). When he was discovered sitting on my parent’s porch after his escape (murder yet unbeknownst), he was let inside the house, where he promptly puked up the entire chicken on the carpet).
Mongo is the most affectionate, most adorable, most reliable thing in my life. He is my best friend and my companion, my Calvin in dog form (for you Bill Watterson fans). I am so grateful to have him, and as angry as I get at my mischievous pet, I will forever give him the best life possible.