Connections: Good Dog

The folks at the Animal Rescue Fund’s headquarters called her Victoria. She was, they said, a rescue from Puerto Rico, displaced during Hurricane Irma in September, and about 2 years old.

We had been frequenting ARF for more than a year, looking for just the right dog, and my husband connected with her first. I had arrived there later that day, to check out the dogs, and found him sitting with a funny little orange-red Chihuahua-terrier mix on his lap in ARF’s “living room.” A perfect dog for us?

With legs only about eight inches high, she broke a quickly forgotten rule by jumping up in delighted greeting. Although she didn’t smile, exactly, she danced on her hind legs like a circus dog, then stretched out her surprisingly long body so that we could pet her smooth, ginger-colored coat.

 When my daughter visited ARF to have a look at another dog or two that the very kind staff thought might be right for us, she and her kids fell in love with Victoria, instead. My daughter warned us that if we didn’t adopt her, she would. And so our new dog came home.

It all seemed predestined: Her color actually matched the big sleeping cushion I had set aside for her. She looked, from behind, extraordinarily like a red fox. She might not actually be 2 years old, but she is a perfect mix of energetic and lazy.

We discovered right away that she was a world-champion cuddler. She weighed about 20 pounds, and even I could lift her. My daughter took to draping her front paws over a shoulder and carrying her around. Being so well-mannered and of such tidy habits that she soon had the run of the house, the only rule was that she wouldn’t be allowed to sleep on our bed.

We were wishy-washy, however, about choosing a new name. Victoria seemed much too royal, and much too English, for our little red Puerto Rican fox-dog. 

Among the innumerable unconvincing suggestions for new names from various members of the family was Thunder, which my 8-year-old grandson Teddy thought would be good; Zorro, which for some reason my husband favored, and Winkie, from my daughter, who immediately changed her mind (even though the dog was tentatively called Winkie for a few days). 

Eventually we decided that she was the sweetest dog ever, and that her name was Sweet Pea. I hadn’t recalled immediately that Sweet Pea was the baby in the Popeye cartoons, but no matter: She was Sweet Pea. 

And Sweet Pea had some secrets. We had stocked up, of course, on dog treats, including those marketed as “chicken chews.” She was thrilled with them. She played adorably with the first two we gave her, tossing them in the air and rolling around, and when they disappeared from view, we assumed she had devoured them. A few days later, however, two or three large shreds of something or other on the living room window seat drew my attention. Aha! Chicken chews buried under an old paisley cushion! A second chew was found a few days later under an antique bedspread on an upstairs guest room bed.

Now, about two weeks after she came home, we have been amused at the gusto with which she barks at squirrels outside the sun porch windows. (Otherwise, she makes almost no noise. Another of her charms.) We’ve figured out exactly how much to feed her so that she cleans the bowl. And we have decided she is so sweet that she can sleep on our bed.