A Special Delivery

By Ava Pennington

A person who has never owned a dog has missed a wonderful part of life.

~Bob Barker

It wasn't fair. We had spent a year planning our wedding and honeymoon — a beautiful ceremony and reception followed by eight exquisite days on a Bermuda beach. An unwelcome telephone call from Russ's office changed our plans. Our eight-day escape was shortened to seven days and we caught an early flight back. To make matters worse, we returned home to learn that the reason for our change in plans had changed yet again. We could have stayed the extra day after all. Like I said, it wasn't fair.

One more thing about our new life together wasn't fair. The man I had fallen in love with had a prior love. I had to share my husband with Lord Cardigan, a sixty-pound, full-grown, five-year-old English Bulldog. Cardigan slobbered. He drooled. He snored. Calling him ugly was an understatement. As the saying goes, he had a face only a mother could love. I might have thought better of Lord Cardigan if I had spent time around dogs when I was younger, but I grew up in a dog-free home. Mom and Dad didn't like dogs. Or cats. Or any other four-legged animals. I learned to fear dogs, rather than love them. The closest thing to a pet in our house was a couple of goldfish that lasted a few weeks before being disposed of with a flush.

I loved my future husband. I did not love Cardigan. However, I could not have one without the other. And I knew better than to ask Russ to choose between us. The early return from our honeymoon only hastened the beginning of a precarious co-existence with the one who came before me. Somehow, I would have to learn to love — or at least tolerate — Cardigan, too. The day after we returned was overcast, but matched my mood. The gray, New York sky mocked the clear Bermuda-blue heavens I had left a day earlier. We ate an early dinner while listening to the sounds of a violent storm as it quickly moved in. Booming thunder accompanied flashes of lightning and pelting rain. I was thankful we were indoors — and not in a plane. That's when we received a special delivery.

I glanced out the window to check on the storm's status when something caught my eye. It appeared as if a white plastic grocery bag had blown up against our fence. When I checked again a few minutes later, it was still there, but it wasn't a bag. We ran outside to find a cowering Lhasa Apso sitting in front of our gate. She cringed at each clap of thunder, but did not run away. It seemed like she was waiting for us. Russ scooped her up with one hand and brought her into the house. She sat calmly as we patted her dry with a towel. It was clear she had been on the streets a long time. Her hair was tangled, matted, and dirty. She had no identification and her collar was so tight a tumor had grown over it. No matter how much Russ tried to comfort her, she trembled all night and flinched at any sudden movement. My first thought was that the last thing we needed was another dog. I wasn't crazy about the first one, but with Cardigan I had no choice. This one was different. I was determined that we would not keep this stray.

The next day I put up signs in the neighborhood, but no one claimed her. No one recognized her, either. As the days passed, she and I began to bond. Soon I was privately hoping no one would come for her. By the end of the week I was glad no one stepped forward. I named her Pumpkin — a term of endearment Russ used for me, and now I used for her. Pumpkin was thirteen pounds and fit perfectly on my lap. She was an ideal first dog for me. She delicately kissed me with soft, tiny licks — a far cry from the slobbering deluge Cardigan presented whenever he was near me. When Pumpkin jumped on me, it felt more like a brush against my legs, nothing like the force of sixty pounds knocking me off my feet. And when Pumpkin ate, she did it with the manners of a lady, without leaving puddles of drool on the floor around her dish.

Pumpkin quickly became my dog, while Cardigan remained Russ's. She tortured Cardigan, stealing his food and his toys, much to my secret delight. She ran for the softest pillow and was always first in line when we opened the box of treats. I allowed her to sleep on the bed with us, even though I did not permit Cardigan the same privilege. To his credit — and my shame — Cardigan tolerated my double standard. He also let Pumpkin get away with her antics. His continued patience with her caused me to see him in a different light. Perhaps he wasn't so bad after all. I soon realized that Cardigan's unattractive exterior concealed a heart of gold.

Pumpkin's presence helped me in other ways. For the first time in my life, I had a dog of my own. She taught me what it meant to be responsible for another life. She also taught me to relinquish my fear of animals, something that came much easier with a lapdog than a Bulldog. God had sent me exactly what I needed. Life is not always fair, but if we had not returned from our honeymoon a day early, I would have missed the special delivery left at our home that stormy night. Following Pumpkin and Cardigan, six other dogs have blessed us by being part of our family during the past thirty years. Some were purebreds, some were mutts. But every one of them had Pumpkin to thank for softening my heart and teaching me the joy that comes from opening my life to the unconditional love of a dog.

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