The Angle of an Angel

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

“And THAT’S why we should have a dog, Dad,” our ten-year-old daughter asserted with conviction and cool confidence, closing her power point presentation. 

In the months since my mother’s passing, our twin daughters had petitioned their father to consider a canine companion. Everyone has an angle, and bribing Dad with favorite foods was also in their not-so-stealthy bag of tricks. But ever the stalwart, my husband had no shortage of practical buzzkill as to why a pet would only add more chaos to our already busy life. 

Falling into bed that night, I reminded my husband of the lengths his children had gone toward the purchase of said furry creature, and his own childhood pet, “Duke, the smartest dog that ever lived” –therein finishing with firm revelation how he was denying his own children the very experience he still savored. Uttering an angry “HUMPH!” he rolled the opposite direction. Letting out my own audibly disgusted sigh, I turned the opposite direction toward fitful slumber.

The following day I pressed my husband as to whether he had pried open his rusty steel noggin to appease his clever children. He shot me an angry look, followed with the exasperated resignation to “just LOOK!” to see what was available. The not-so-innocent power point had succeeded in fraying his otherwise tightly woven resolve.   

I, of course, wasted no time contacting a former work colleague who was also, conveniently, a breeder for Labrador retrievers. He and his wife had been in the business for quite some time and happened to have kept one sweet girl named Angel who “wasn’t the best hunter…” She was also infertile, so all bets were off in the name of procreation. But she was a “started dog:” two years old, potty trained, obedient, sweet, and – most importantly – available at a discount. My breeder’s only wish for her was a good home offering her the same silver spoon of life she had become accustomed to. The one potential hiccup in the deal was that our breeder friends had relocated to a warmer clime, so our Angel was a few hundred miles away. 

Undaunted, my daughters, my recently widowed elderly father and I hit the pavement to retrieve our new family member. There were vacancies in our hearts where Grandma used to be, and they sorely needed filling. 

We arrived equipped with a collar, leash, food and water bowls, cash, and a glaring knowledge deficit in the dog department. Angel was the shy type and regarded us warily. Who could blame her? Dogs and kids are the best judges of character, and she sensed our limitations at first whiff. While the ink dried on the AKC papers, our two young ladies showered Angel with affection. One last reassuring pat on the head prior to departure from the only owner she had ever known sealed the deal. And with that, Angel begrudgingly settled in for the ride north. 

It didn’t take long for the “poor hunter” to find her dog bed, treats, and glut of freshly purchased toys. While Angel luxuriated with relief, her newly adoptive minions attended to her every whim … until the first scare (of what would be many) merely an hour after arriving home. Every good chewer ingests something they shouldn’t, and Angel succeeded in swallowing a portion of rope on a float toy sent along from her previous hunting life. Panicked and convinced I had added to the death toll in the house, I contacted the breeder who reassured me it would “pass on its own.” I clearly had not anticipated excrement scrutiny as part of being a fur mother.

Crisis averted, Angel quickly became Diva, enjoying her quiet life and new pack of attentive humans. It was clear that she enjoyed her newfound freedom from having to retrieve dead birds or animals, much less having to put up with the incessant cacophony of past kennel-mates. Much like Eva Gabor in Green Acres, Angel adored her “penthouse view” and new “Park Avenue” existence.

Still, even the best socialite has a dark side and Angel’s was an intense dislike of other dogs. Now dubbed “Platinum Spoon,” she quickly ascended rank to Queen of this castle with zero tolerance for the practice of hinder sniffing common among her type. With fur raised and teeth showing there was no denying her distaste for such lowly behavior. As such, visits to the dog park went poorly, and she was labeled a reactive dog. Any hope of doggy play dates or outdoor coffee with Mom at Starbucks vanished. Her aloof demeanor prompted the unsolicited, painfully recurrent sympathy of “Oh – she must be a rescue dog.” The only hackles raised at this point were on the back of my neck as I would briskly reply to the negative. Thankfully, our vet sided with Angel, warmly accepting her and educating us that, like people, dogs have differing personalities, and Angel was just fine the way she was.

Since Angel would not be a canine socialite, she angled us into solo walks among wooded trails near our home. But what seemed disappointing at first became a precious gift. Saunters with this cuddly lady have been and continue to be lessons in discovery. Our Queen Platinum Spoon has nudged us toward the finer points in mindfulness and gratitude. Her staunch introversion has helped us seek and appreciate calm, the dignity of reining over one’s own yard, and quality time lounging with our personal pack. 

A humorous reminder sums it up best. While preparing for Angel’s first kennel stay years ago, a little twin wrote her charmingly misspelled pet’s name on the underside of food and water bowls as “A-n-g-l-e.” Penned in permanent Sharpie marker, I have refrained from attempting to scrub it off as it brings a smile every time.  Angel certainly did have an angle just like two persistent daughters eleven years ago. Our fur lady has manipulated us into better people, eyeing us with smug contentment at the end of each day as she lounges in her bed, knowing she worked her angle from the start – one that landed her exactly where, and who she (and we) yearned to be.