How Barnabus Came to Live With Us

(We have had Barnabus for many years, but I wrote about this and never posted it.)

I swore off pets after our cat died a few years ago. One of the reasons is that I have friends and family with allergies. I want to be able to have them over—that, and the fact that we travel.

O well.

My husband, my daughter and my youngest son frequently asked for a pet—something not as wet as a goldfish and larger than a hamster—preferably a dog. We bought new furniture—untainted by pet dander, replaced old carpet, and bought a couple nice rugs. I refused to relent. Still, occasionally I’d hear whimpering, “Why can’t we have a pet?”

Over the past few years I’ve been spending time with people who have pets. I thought the visits would be a continual reminder that I didn’t want a dog—you know—slobber, stink, chewed furniture. I’ve enjoyed playing with them and participating in the joy and laughter. But dog ownership wasn’t for me. It was too much—well—dog.

I went to my friend’s farm and stayed the night. She and her husband had just adopted a blue-eyed puppy named Barnabus. He would be the third in a trio of rambunctious, hairy dogs. Hair. Yes hair. One common theme among most pet owners: dust bunnies made entirely of hair. Like I really need and want that.

O well.

So, Barnabus, (a name that means son of encouragement) and I became friends over night. His blue eyes, edged with black liner, and his soft cream-colored fur won me over. He was on a test-run at Paula’s house and was so feisty with her other larger dogs, that she feared someone was going to get hurt—probably the big dogs. That night, as this petite-fireball wreaked havoc on the deck, the dogs, and my feet, Paula decided he needed to go back to his former owner. He was simply too much work for her already over-filled schedule.

You know where this is going.

I had been feeling selfish for not letting the rest of the family own a pet. As Paula’s determination to remove the puppy from the premises solidified, I waivered. I started chasing puppies in my head. Dog. No dog. O my goodness, he was so cute.

So, by morning I thought I’d let my husband meet him, then, if he agreed, our daughter would get a new pet (my son had moved out). Duh. Love at first sight. I can never count on my husband to bring me to my senses in situations like this.

Paula had to leave to take her big dogs to be groomed, and while she was gone my daughter came to the farm.  Paula had told her she had a little gift for her. We sat down and played with Barnabus and waited.

Paula surged through the door carrying a bag full of doggie toys.

“Hey, how are you, Leigh Ann?”

“I’m great. I’ve really had fun playing with Barnabus. He’s so adorable.”

“He’s something, isn’t he?”

“Yep.”

“Why don’t you show her your little surprise?” I said as I winked and head-pointed to the bag of pet toys.

Quickly catching on, she handed her the bag.

Leigh Ann opened it up and saw squeaky stuffed toys and chew-things.

She smiled a huge grin and was genuinely grateful but confused. “They’re so cute,” she said as she pulled out a rubber ball, “but what are they for?”

Grinning impishly, Paula replied, “They go with the puppy.”

“What?” Her face beamed as she looked at me hopefully. “Really, Mom? I can have a dog?”

“Yes, your dad and I agreed to it,” I chuckled.

She laughed her jolly, down-from-the-heart laugh. I don’t think she could have been happier—even if we had bought her a pony. (Well, maybe if we bought her a pony.)

So, now we have a nipping, yelping, smart, furry, chewing, blue-eyed creature (part Australian Shepherd, part Border Collie) who has promised me that he will never be more than forty-one and a half pounds.  He’s already gained 7 pounds in three weeks—I think he may have lied.

He also promised he wouldn’t shed, but he lied about that, too. He has tinkled and pooped on the rug and carpet (more than once), wakes Leigh Ann to take her for a walk at 3:00 am, but he’s learning. Or maybe we are learning. Somebody’s doing something. We are exhausted, have new laugh wrinkles, nip wounds, and the living room coffee table is littered with shoes and puppy books.

O well.