Get off the couch

When someone wakes me up in the morning, they'd better have a good
reason. My dad thought he had a good reason when he called me outside this
morning. After seeing the little shape huddled in the rain beside my back
porch, I was inclined to agree.

I wasn't sure what kind of dog it was at first -- it looked more
like a drowned dishrag than anything else -- and it was so small I was sure
it was a puppy. Neither of us was sure how to approach it -- it might have
been injured, or sick, or anything else, but it only snuffled at my hand
when I reached out to it, and when I scooped it into my arms it only
shivered.

"What do you think you should do?" my dad asked. He always knows
what the right thing is to do, of course, but he also always lets me think
I'm making my own decision. It's something I appreciate.

"Can't let it freeze out here," I said.

"There are some pretty big cats that come around here," my dad said.

"Guess I'd better get a blanket," I said, and that was it. Within
a few minutes the puppy, which had turned out to be a bedraggled Yorkshire
terrier, was critiquing the decor of my basement, after giving everything
a thorough sniff.

"Ruhrf!" the puppy said.

"What?" I asked. "You hungry? Or thirsty? Or do you want to play?"

"RUHRF!" the puppy said, as though I was an idiot.

"Oh," I said, and held out the blanket I'd brought from
upstairs. The puppy trotted forward and began rolling around on its back,
rubbing itself all over the blanket. I made a few attempts to dry the
puppy, which were largely unappreciated; the puppy seemed happier just to
be rolled into the blanket and sung to. (Yes, that's right. I sang to the
dog. Don't ask what I sang; just be glad you weren't around).

I had things to do, but I couldn't just leave it in the basement.
I covered the kitchen floor with newspaper, crumbled up a few dog treats I
keep for when Tootsie comes to visit, arranged a blanket in the warmest
part of the room, and placed the puppy on the blanket. The puppy
immediately devoured all of the food, raced into the living room, dropped
a three-inch turd in the middle of the rug, and leaped on to the couch.

I had no idea how long the puppy was going to be staying with me,
but I knew it was time to put my foot down. Rules had to be established.
I had to assert my position as head of the pack. "Down," I said.

The puppy stared at me as though I were the stupidest thing that had
ever crossed its line of vision. "Down," I repeated.

After several "downs," I picked up the puppy and returned it
to the kitchen. It ran back to the couch. This happened two more times.
I was about to lose my patience when the puppy whimpered. I've
always been a sucker for whimpering.

"Oh, the hell with it," I muttered, and settled a blue bath towel
over the dog.

It didn't take me long to track down the puppy's owners, who lived
several streets over. Turns out the dog had run out last night when a
dinner party guest had opened the door to their home. It also turned out
the dog needed immediate medical attention -- little "Oakley" had a history
of seizures, a nasty rash, and several other problems that had plagued him
ever since they'd brought him home from the pet store.

"But he's like our child," Oakley's owner said, as I passed him
from my arms to hers. She was relieved to have him back, and I was pleased,
too -- the owners run the cafe down the street from my apartment, and they'd
brought me a box of fresh-baked muffins. Since I hadn't had breakfast yet,
it was the best present anyone could have given me.

I will admit to feeling a little sad, however, as Oakley and his
owners drove away. For one thing, a puppy as cute as he was would have
been one hell of a chick magnet. For another, it was nice having someone
else around the apartment, even if that someone occasionally crapped on
the carpet. There's something to be said for companionship -- it's a reason
to get out of bed in the morning.