Page 108 of Marriage (Red, White &) Blues

“Miss you, Gloria Parker.”

“Miss you, too, Blake Parker.”

“Alright, I have a lunch meeting so I’ll let you go, but I’ll call later tonight.”

“Okay. Love you, babe.”

“Love you, too,” he said and hung up.

The rest of the day I puttered around the house, went grocery shopping, cooked a pot of chicken noodle soup for dinner and vegged out watching reruns ofBeat Bobby Flay. All in all, it was a decent night. Blake called before bed feeling a little frisky, and frisky Blake was a thing of beauty, indeed. He made a decent night escalate into freaking phenomenal territory. FaceTime madethebestwingman.

About ten to eleven, Ant turned his Jag into my driveway. I’d been keeping an eye out because puppies! What kind of person didn’t get excited over the prospect of petting puppies? And more importantly, did I even want to know them?

I slung my purse crossbody over my shoulder, locked the front door, and speed-walked over to slide into their back seat.

Pen immediately turned to me shouting, “Puppies!”

So, I, in turn, answered back with, “Kittens!”

Ant, used to our antics by now, just laughed at the both of us.

It took us about a half hour to reach the shelter that Pen and Ant wanted to adopt from. They zeroed in on the puppies as soon as we entered the cage room. Fur-babies! We played with them and loved on them—a little wet nose squishing against my cheek as he tried to give me puppy kisses. His tiny tail wagging a mile a minute. I heard a worker enter the cage room and turned to watch him unlock a different cage. He hooked a lead to a sweet, scruffy dog’s collar. That scruff captured my heart.

“Be back,” I said to Pen while handing the golden pup off to her, which made three squirming, playful babies in her lap, so I could go give some love to Scruff over there. The worker, a young guy in a shelter polo and khakis, let me approach the old boy and waited as I bent down to dole out some well-deserved ear scratches. “Who’s a good baby?” I asked in that playful voice that people tended to use with furry companions, and he pressed his head into my hand. Such a sweetheart.

“Getting a home?” I asked excitedly.

The worker shook his head. “’Fraid not. This is the end of the line for Georgie Boy.”

“End of the line?” I sort of shouted at the man. He had these deep-brown, imploring eyes—the dog, not the man. He looked like Sandy from the movieAnnie. You know, the one with Carol Burnett as Miss Hannigan.

“Owners abandoned him. We need the room. People don’t want old dogs. It’s a sad fact of life. He’s a good boy.” The man bent down to scratch the sweet doggy under the chin. “Aren’t you, Georgie? I can’t have pets or I’d take him home with me. Got a one-year-old at home and he’s great with kids.” Then he tugged on the leash to get them moving. “C’mon, boy. You’ll be free soon enough.”

My heart sank, filling me with the urge to vomit. Georgie Boy couldn’t be put down. He was good with kids. He needed a home. Before I thought better of it, I shouted, “Wait!”

The worker turned back to me.

“Let me spend some time with Georgie. I came here looking for a companion. I’d like to get to know him.”

The man smiled big and Georgie wagged his tail, like he knew how close he’d come to seeing the big dog house in the sky.

“Unhook him,” I said. I wanted to see if Georgie would come to me. The worker unhooked Georgie and the scruffy dog walked straight to me, rubbing his head against my leg. I squatted down to give him more ear scratches and he doggy-kissed my cheek in a surprise lick attack. I fell back on my bottom. “Do you want to come home with me, Georgie?”

I swore the sweet old boy knew exactly what I said as he wagged his tail again, this time with all the fervor of a stray who knew he’d found his forever home.

While Pen and Ant continued to contemplate which little one to bring into their family, I’d signed the papers, paid the money,and waited on the grass outside for them to finish their adoption process. Georgie Boy snuggled next to me on my lap.

“You’ll love the house, Georgie. It has a fenced-in yard and a covered swing for us to enjoy together.”

Before Georgie had the chance to give me his opinion on said housing arrangements, Ant and Pen emerged from the building walking a squirming little golden retriever puppy. He did this sort of prancy-waddle thing instead of walking.

“He’s a sweetheart,” I said.

“I know!” Pen gushed, like a proud doggy mom. “Poochie McCain.”

“We aren’t naming our firstborn Poochie,” Ant reprimanded.

“We are,” she countered. “Poochie Scuttle-Butt McCain.”

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