That Time I Asked for a Puppy

 Note: This piece first appeared on Coffee and Crumbs on April 6, 2020

That Time I Asked for a Puppy

My family met a Pomeranian the other day, a small dog with pointed ears and the softest fur. My children pet her while the owner looked on in pride. I must admit, it was fluffy and cute and everything a young girl would want in a dog. My nine-year old daughter looked up at me with wide blue eyes: “When can we get a puppy?” 

I already know my answer.   

Photo by Berkay Gumustekin on Unsplash

*****

I asked for a puppy when I was eight. “Maybe when you’re ten,” my mother said. I assume she hoped my puppy-wanting phase would end by then. Raising three young children, with a husband who frequently deployed, committed to school and church and extracurriculars, she wouldn’t give in to my pleas. “A puppy is a lot of work,” she said. “Ten is a nice, round, responsible number. You’ll be older then.” Disappointed, I waited. 

I counted down the years. Then the months. Then the days. On my tenth birthday, I was ready for that puppy. I wrote a persuasive essay to explain to my mother why I should have said puppy. I spent hours on that essay, scripting sentences about responsibility and unconditional love.

“I’m done!” I yelled. Tentatively handing over my paper, I stood by the kitchen sink and watched her read it, unable to identify the expressions flitting across her face while my younger siblings raced and whooped around the room.     

“This is nice,” my mother said, her brows creasing. “But a puppy is just too much work. I don’t want another thing to take care of.” 

“But I can take care of it!” I argued. “I can take it for walks and give it food and water. I can clean up after it.”

“And who’s going to let it out when you’re not home? Who’s going to take it to the vet and buy food and take care of the bills?” Her answer wasn’t about me wanting a puppy at all, but about what she could handle. She knew her limits and had made her decision long ago. “But you said I could have a puppy when I was ten!” I argued back. She shook her head sadly at me.  “Why don’t you try something smaller?” she suggested, seeing my disappointment. “Something you can take care of on your own.” 

Later, I climbed into our brown Aerostar minivan, tingling with excitement. I knew where we were headed, but I wasn’t sure what I would come out with. Bells chimed as we entered the strip mall pet store, identifiable only by a simple sign above the door. The smell of cedar chips and disinfectant washed over us as we entered a dark room. A gigantic green iguana eyed us from atop a perch in the far corner.

We walked past the neatly stacked rows of pet food to the small animals in the back of the room. “Let me know if you need any help,” the store owner, a portly older man with wrinkled skin, called after us. We stopped at the clear aquarium cages in the back. My mother trailed behind me, observing the creatures around us, calculating how much care each would need.      

I came home with a tiny, pink hamster. 

My best friend came over to meet my new pet. Beaming with pride, I showed her the hamster I named Misty, asleep in her fresh pile of scraps in the metal cage on my desk. 

“Can I hold her? Please?” she begged. 

I gently pulled Misty out of the cage and stood up to pass her off. “You put one hand under and one hand over,” I demonstrated. Unfortunately, Misty was too wiggly in my friend’s hands and dived onto the hardwood floor below. There she lay, twitching, while I ran to get my mom. My friend, scared of what just happened and her part in hurting my pet, quickly ran back home.  

Blood pounded in my ears and tears sprang to my eyes. I scooped Misty up and placed her in a small cardboard box. “Well, I guess we can take her back,” my mother’s face furrowed. She hugged and held me while I cried, then drove me back to the pet store. 

The store owner tsked as I handed him Misty in her box, exchanging knowing glances with my mom. “I’ll make sure she’s taken care of,” he told me. I walked out of the store with Misty II, an identical tiny, pink ball of hamster fluff. My mother didn’t mention the unfortunate Misty incident on the way home. She didn’t have to: I felt the weight of my own responsibility.    

A few weeks later, I came home from school and noticed the door to my room was open. In my haste to leave in the morning, I had forgotten to lock the cat out. Inside the hamster cage was a gruesome crime scene. 

“Mooommm!” I yelled. My mother walked to my bedroom and we both stared at a sticky mass of fur, wedged unnaturally against the side of the cage, the result of something relentlessly trying to pull it through the bars. Princess, our black and white tabby cat, innocently sat and licked her paws outside my bedroom door. I buried what was left of Misty II in our backyard and marked her grave with a wooden cross.   

My mother took me, yet again, to the pet store. Despite her objection to taking care of a pet, she was a comforting presence by my side while I found Misty III, another copy of the first. Misty III lasted a few years longer than her predecessors. Eventually, she grew lesions on her small body and passed away quietly. My mother provided another shoebox, and we buried Misty III in our backyard next to Misty II.  

*****

For Christmas, I purchase a blue Beta fish for my daughter. 

It lives in a small aquarium on her dresser. We make kissy-faces up close to him so that he swims toward us and flares his fins. My daughter is responsible for it, but I still check on it and remind her to feed him. Unfortunately, Flower Fishy is found floating at the top of his tank, not long after we get him. “Goodbye Flower Fishy,” my children wave while I flush him. I hug my daughter while we stare into the toilet.  

“Buttercup can stay in my room now,” my daughter says as she moves our cat’s litter box and food dishes into her room. “Sure,” I reply, watching her attempt to catch the cat hiding under my bed. I am secretly thrilled she wants to take on that responsibility, more than happy to pass off the task of scooping the litter box. 

*****

My mother’s life was busy, much like mine is now. I have three children, each with their own needs. I juggle appointments and calendars for different schools, commitments to church and writing groups and book clubs and a house and a marriage. I am learning my limits, being tested to see what I can handle, trying to do the best for my children while maintaining a delicate balance of responsibility and happiness. 

While she didn’t give me exactly what I wanted, she gave me what she could, trying her best and setting boundaries for herself. She didn’t want to care for a puppy because she was too busy caring for me, helping me navigate responsibility while growing up, trusting me to learn my own limits and figure out how to move on after a loss. She set an example that it was okay to say no, to find a middle ground without sacrificing oneself, and to let her children make mistakes and face disappointments without judgment. 

“When can we get a puppy?” my daughter asks. “Maybe when you’re ten,” I answer. But I understand now, running a household as a busy mom, why we might come home from the pet store with a hamster.