Gotcha Day-Part 1
Let me state for the record that my husband John is a saint and a rock-star. I am forever thankful that he supports my zeal in the pursuit of Dog Mom perfection and that he loves Lou Lou with the abandon and joy of a young child. I do the emotional heavy-lifting and the obsessive worrying for both of us. The worrying began even before we brought her home.
I shot out of bed that Sunday morning in a frantic rush to get ready. Never mind that the shelter didn’t open until noon; I wanted to be outside that door at 11:59. I chose my outfit and dressed as carefully as if I were interviewing at a Fortune 100 company. First impressions count; I looked the very picture of responsibility or preppy uptightness, depending on your taste.
Our neighbor told us to bring a copy of our mortgage, some utility bills and IDs to prove that we were homeowners and not squatting in the North Avenue Beach tunnel. As is my precise nature, I had enough paperwork to wallpaper the shelter’s waiting room. I had already printed out and filled in the adoption application in my best handwriting. I didn’t want our adoption to fall through on a technicality. Eyeing the stack of papers, John reminded me that we were going just to look.
When we walked out on the adoption floor at the Anti-Cruelty Society, it didn’t take long to find her and decide to bring her home. She looked a little bit like a Rottie and a little bit like a German Shepherd. We were smitten.
The next half hour jangled my nerves. The floor volunteer took her and pointed us to the adoption waiting room. We were called in for the interview, which unhinged me so much I acted like I had been pulled over driving with a trunk full of meth. We learned about her background and answered a bunch of seemingly unrelated questions. Waiting to see if the Adoption Counselor approved us or not, I whispered to John, “What if they don’t let us take her home?” Sensing my anxiety, he said, “Look around. I like our chances. If we aren’t taking a dog home today, no one is.” Not placated, I returned to peppering him with what-ifs to the point where all I got in response was an eye-roll as we waited for the final ruling of the Adoption Counselor.