For the last ten years or so, I’ve had a good life.  A wonderful life.  A life that most folks only dream about.  It includes Mark - my remarkable husband who cooks and cleans and loves me just the way I am, faults and all.  It includes travel to far away places, and lots of interesting people.  And with fifteen books and a tarot deck on the market, it also includes a successful writing career.  It truly is the stuff that dreams are made of and I couldn’t ask for anything more perfect.

Unfortunately, though, I forgot one very important thing.  Dreams eventually end.  We wake up and reality slaps us in the face.  And on January 9th, 2009, that’s exactly what happened to me.  Life as I knew it ceased to exist.

So what the hell happened?  A femme fatale, that’s what:  An exquisite creature with silky blue black hair, dark sultry eyes, and the longest legs you’ve ever seen.  A fearless sort, she knows what she wants and doesn’t think twice about taking it.  She makes no apologies.  She laughs at the possibility of punishment.   And even when she appears to be sitting quietly just staring off into space, even a fool can tell that’s not the case.  No… that devious mind of hers is working,  not only devising and plotting the next plan of attack, but already counting the spoils.  She’s a terror of the worst kind.  The sort of woman who makes you laugh and cry all at the same time.  The kind who, with a simple bat of her lashes, can cajole you into giving her your most prized possession even though you know full well she’ll just rip it to shreds and toss it aside to show you she can.  

Her name is Dixie.  And Gods help me…I invited her into our home.

Now before rumors start to fly, let me assure you that my marriage is secure.  But Mark and I are definitely in a world of trouble.   You see…Dixie - home-wrecker extraordinaire - is the newest member of our family:   A gorgeous, almost 10-month-old black lab puppy with no manners, no fear, and no shame.

It all started on January 2nd, the day we’d scheduled to begin our search for a new set of paws.  For the next 3 days we searched constantly, leaving the house at 8:00a.m. and often, not returning until six.  We went to 27 shelters and put over 350 miles on the car.  We even found a leopard catahoula that Mark liked and filled out the application, only to find that someone had beat us to her. 

Now most folks wouldn’t have let that deter them one bit.  They’d have just gone on to the next shelter and kept on looking.   I, on the other hand, am not most folks.  I took that time to have a delayed reaction to Sadie’s passing and chose to have a mini-meltdown.  I cried.  I sobbed until my body ached.  I threw a wall-eyed hissy fit.  I decided that the shelter search was over and that I’d never - not as long as I still drew breath in my body - set foot in one again.  And then…I pulled myself together and went online to look for a dog. 

My husband thought I’d lost my mind.  “You’re not really going to adopt a dog without even seeing it up close and personal, are you?” he demanded. 

“I might,” I retorted.  The “might” part was a bald-faced lie and we both knew it.  There was no doubt in either of our minds that it was exactly what I intended to do, and that nothing - not earthquakes nor tsunamis nor the Ancients, Themselves - could make me change my mind.  Besides…I had some very specific criteria for this new addition to our family.  I wanted some answers before I fell in love again.  And because I’m one of those people who wants to take in every animal in the world home with me, I also needed to find a sense of detachment to make a good decision -  the sort of impersonal detachment that only the internet can provide.

And so the search started anew.  I checked the local ads on Craig’s list.  I looked at pictures and sent emails loaded with questions.  I put in an application for a puppy at a rescue organization that was less than 30 miles away from us, but withdrew it when I discovered that a dozen other folks were also interested in her.  Then I expanded the search, checking labrador retriever rescues across the United States.  Several  thousand photographs, a jilion questions and more than a dozen phone calls later, I found a dog that looked right.  So I spent two hours filling out that application and hoped for the best.

But the search for a new dog all but consumed me.  [I was obsessed, all right, but that's much too mild a word for what was happening to me.]  I didn’t care about eating or sleeping or even balancing the bank statement.  [There's obviously something wrong with any Taurus female who tosses that in the "we'll worry about that tomorrow" pile.]  Suddenly, there was nothing more important to me than having a new set of paws to love and cherish.  So instead of waiting to hear back about my adoption application, I just kept searching.

And then…it happened.  I found the right dog.  The photograph looked exactly like Sadie did at that age, and was taken at the exact age as Sadie  when I adopted her.  What’s more, the photograph had been snapped the day she arrived at the rescue - the day after Sadie had raced across the rainbow bridge.  And if that wasn’t enough to convince me, the rescue folks had temporarily named her “Ruby” - as in ruby red slippers.    So I did what anyone else in my position would do:  I zipped off an email to ask whether she was still available and whether they did out of state adoptions.  And when I got an almost immediate and affirmative response, I spent several more hours filling out the very detailed adoption application and sent it back.

Life was good again in my world.  At least until I began to check out the Happy Labs Rescue site more thoroughly.  There it was in bold capital letters.  Letters so large that even Ray Charles could’ve seen it:  WE DO NOT ADOPT TO PEOPLE WITHOUT FENCED YARDS!  And then to add insult to injury, I got a note from the folks at the rescue informing me that they didn’t adopt to a specific list of states - one of which just happened to be Virginia - and that if I still qualified, to feel free to fill out the attached application.

At that point, anyone with two brain cells to rub together probably would’ve just thrown up her hands and called it quits.  But not I.  Oh, no!  Instead, I convinced myself that the new email and attached application was nothing more than a matter of too many chiefs at the rescue organization, and that one hand didn’t know what the other was doing.  And because I’d now seen the fence requirement, I took some time to plead our case.  I begged those folks not to deny our application simply on the grounds of location and apartment living.  Truth be told, I did more than beg…for the first time in my 53 years, I actually groveled.  And then I finished up by telling them to let me know immediately if they couldn’t see fit to bend their policies a bit to ensure that one of their animals got a great home, because after everything I’d been through of late, I couldn’t bear one more disappointment.  I proof-read the letter and sent it off, and again, I hoped for the best.

I waited.  I waited some more.  I re-read the letter, and satisfied that I’d given it my best shot, gave it another couple of hours.  Still, there was no response.  And that’s when I realized that - once again - I’d beens the butt of some cosmic joke played by the Ancients.  [Geeze...sometimes I wonder if I'm the only person on this planet that actually amuses Them!]  You see, the new letter with the location requirements had come from Lucky Labs Rescue - but that wasn’t where “Ruby” was at all.  No siree.  She was at a different place entirely:  Happy Labs Rescue!

Now my buddy, M.R. Sellars would probably have you believe that I screwed up because I’m old and decrepit - and to be perfectly honest, it’s an excuse I’m rather fond of as well.    [Who, after all, can argue with something like that?!  Or chastise you for an error after such an excuse rolls off your tongue?    Chuckle!]   But this time was different.  To my credit, it was a very easy mistake to make.  Both rescue organizations were in Indiana.  Both had a comcast email address.  And both adoption applications were exactly the same.

So now that this exercise in patience had morphed into some ridiculous comedy of errors - a comedy of errors in which I’d suddenly become the star - I decided to suck it up and go for broke.  I refused to worry about the fact that Lucky Labs Rescue in Indiana was frantically searching their roster of foster homes for a dog named Ruby and wondering what had happened to her.  I didn’t bother with writing them back and admitting to my mistake.  Instead, I did what anyone else in my position would do.  I simply edited the letter, cut out the stuff about our location, and addressed it to the proper organization.  And after a quick but fervent plea to the Ancients to stop screwing with me, I sent that well-traveled email flying off into cyberspace one more time.

Whether the Ancients finally realized They’d driven me way past the brink of insanity - by this time, I was  well on the road to straight jacket city - or They just decided to take pity on me is anybody’s guess.  But this time, everything went off like clockwork.  The letter arrived at its proper destination.  And not five minutes after hitting the send button,  I got a call from Mike at Happy Labs.  They’d decided to let us adopt  that lovely little girl despite the fact that we lacked a fenced-in yard.  Why?  Because they could tell that we not only wanted and needed her, but were the best possible family for her.  And aside from all that…she was “so laid back.”

Of course, it was those last three words that colored my expectations.  I probably should’ve asked more questions.  probably should’ve asked them to define that phrase.  [For the love of the Gods, Folks!  If they think she's laid back, I cringe to think what they consider "feisty" or "unruly!"]  Hell…I probably should’ve just continued to beg the Ancients not to screw with me again, instead of thanking Them profusely for arranging my good luck.  But I didn’t do any of those things.  No…not I.  Instead, I went on about my merry way, smiling and laughing and making arrangements to drive to Columbus, Ohio to pick up our little femme fatale - all the while casting a blind eye to the interesting set of clouds that was gathering overhead.

There’s more to this story, Folks - a lot more - but it’s way too long and involved to tell in just one blog.  So…stay tuned.  The next installment is due out in a couple of days, and you definitely won’t want to miss it. 

Hugs!

Dorothy…