and bingo was his name-oh!
Hi. My name is Bingo, but my mommy thinks that I should start going by "Butch" or "Killer" instead.
I'm four years old, so I'm not a puppy anymore - I've been around the block a few times. Most people think I am a girl because I am so cuddly and adorable, but I am definitely 100% alpha male dog. That's why I wear a *blue* sweatshirt, ya know. My dad got it because he wants to make sure that nobody mistakes me for a bitch.
Speaking of girls, though, I am an absolute chick magnet. Fellas, you should definitely give my mom a call and let her know if you ever want to take me for a walk. I can guarantee that you'll get phone numbers left and right from cute girls, with me at your side. And I work for peanuts! (Er, bones)...
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I always thought that getting a dog was one of those things that just happened effortlessly. Like painting your room a different color or getting a different hair cut, it would make a small but indelible dent in your life pattern. So you would have to think about it for a while in the back up for your mind, and then wake up one day and decide to just go for it... and then simply get it done. Preferably before dinnertime of the same day, so that you could feel a great sense of accomplishment by the time you sat back with a cup of ice cream or a glass of wine, and fully digested the ramifications of what you had just done ("Oh my god, my bedroom is three shades of lime green!",... "Why did I tell her to hack an extra three inches off?", etc).
By Friday of last week, I was convinced that Fate was telling us that we shouldn't get a dog.
After our disappointment on Saturday with Maggie, Paul and I decided that if we really wanted a dog, we should get one that needed a home instead of fawning over puppies we had no business bringing home. Again, what the heck were we thinking, contemplating raising a German Shepherd/Collie in our tiny Manhattan apartments?!
So Paul got in touch with a woman who worked with animal shelters in the city to foster dogs that were homeless. She gave us some good advice and the name of a dog that might be perfect for us - Princess, a 2 year-old Chow mix. She was a good dog but happened to be on the euthanization list, so basically, she would be killed if we didn't take her. How's that for weighing on your conscience, eh?
We talked about it, freaked out about it a little (well, at least I did), but overall decided that we could do it. She was getting spayed on Thursday and we could pick her up that night. So by Wednesday, we had cleaned up Paul's entire apartment and bought everything from a leash to treats for the new member of our family.
But then Thursday, Paul called the woman, only to find out that due to some sort of miscommunication, Princess had been adopted by some other family.
Heh... heh..... heh.
Not funny. We'd already played this story out on Saturday, remember?
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The next day, Paul suggested that we visit the animal shelter one more time, just to look.
Animal shelters, I have found, are one of the saddest places you could ever go to. We endured two dozen sets of sad eyes belonging to dogs that had either been abandoned or brought in by families who no longer wanted them. Most were larger dogs - pit bulls - that sat in their cages looking defeated and sad as we passed by.
We found Bingo in the section with smaller dogs (I think he was the only one in that room). He was a Schnauzer mix with cute, perky ears and adorable brown eyes. He had just been brought in by his owners that day and was visibly shaking, terrified by the loud barking of the other dogs.
We brought him home with us, tucked him into Paul's gym bag with just his head sticking out, and rode the subway. We took a pit stop at PetCo to buy food and a little sweater for Bingo, Paul and I both remarking how we'd never thought of ourselves as the type of people to buy clothing for our pets. But it was SO cold outside and he was SO skinny....
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The only problem is that Bingo is sick. We took him to the vet on Saturday because he has blood in his urine and had to leave him there for observation for the weekend.
Yesterday, Paul and I snuck out of work to go see him in the afternoon. He looked much better and was apparently eating well and barking up a storm. Doting parents that we apparently are (who woulda thought?), we showered him with hugs and kisses. He seemed really glad to see us too. Who knew that you could get so attached in just a few days?...
We got to bring him home last night. He entertained us by sitting and giving us his little paw whenever we had a treat for him. But now he is back at the vet and I am biting on my fingernails, wondering if he is okay. He's gotten X-rays and is scheduled for an ultrasound, but we don't know yet what is wrong with him.
Keep your fingers crossed...