She’s got an underbite, sausage legs and a tiny piece missing from her left ear. Sometimes her lip gets caught up in her tooth, and we laugh because she looks just like Elvis.
She sits at the sliding glass door like an sentinel, watching the squirrels in the backyard while I write. We both know the squirrels are up to no good.
I said I’d never get a dog. I said it no fewer than 23,000 times.
It’s only been six days, but I love her already. Her name is Josie, but I call her Snaggle Tooth, which I mean in the nicest of ways. I talk to her all day, and she’s much more receptive than Frill the pet lizard.
She waits at the top of the basement stairs while I switch out the laundry, wagging her tail when I round the corner. She acts like I’ve been gone eight weeks instead of eight minutes.
Puffs of white hair blow across the sun room like tumbleweed. There are muddy paw prints on the white tile, and a purple leash hanging on the hook by the back door. She chewed the head off a $6.99 skunk 20 minutes after I brought it home from PetSmart. She thinks 5:50 a.m. is a reasonable time to begin the day.
I said I’d never get a dog. I said it no fewer than 23,000 times. Now I wonder what took me so long. I’ve been surprised by love in the most unexpected, beautiful way.
