The search continues

Some time ago a good friend brought me this plant holder with a poinsettia in it.
I named her Serenity because I hope that was what she would bring me.
Nor she's abloom with spring flowers, and I think she's serene, a model for me.

I spent too much of today on my ongoing search for the perfect dog to fill the hole left in my heart and my life by Sophie. Don’t get me wrong—the perfect dog is the offbeat rescue, the slightly different one, the one that maybe no one else will want. I leafed through pages of Petfinder (they have 226 pages of adoptable dogs), and tonight Jordan and I looked at many. We laughed over a dog named Juju, since that is my grandmotherly name. “It would get confusing,” Jordan said, “which Juju would we be calling?” Another dog was named Panic, and Jordan said she could hear what happened if at three o’clock in the morning I opened my door to call, “Panic! Panic!” She thinks the emergency squad would be here immediately.

I had found one dog that really interested me. His name is Oreo, an Aussie mix, four or five years old, house- and crate-trained, and billed as a perfect gentleman. But another dog, with the unlikely name of Merle Haggard, stuck in my mind. He’s about two years old, a black dog, the same weight as Sophie (which is perfect for us), house- and crate-trained. So many of the dogs that interest me need canine companions or lots of exercise because they are high energy breeds. Merle Haggard’s description says he will adapt to my energy level, and he likes to chase squirrels, which was Sophie’s main occupation. Jordan and Christian are enthusiastic about Merle Haggard, so I put him first on my list and Oreo second. We would love either one.

This whole business is frustrating because you apply and … nothing. I did get a response from Saving Hope that I was conditionally approved, but once I specified a dog, I heard nothing. Poor Merle Haggard has been in their care for almost two years, and I think that’s partly because it’s hard to place black dogs. After Sophie I have a soft spot in my heart for black dogs (okay she was sort of mottled with silver—he is almost totally black). Anyway, you’d think the agency would act quickly on an expression of interest in a dog that had been there a long time, but not so. I’m told by those who know that the problem is volunteer help. I find that’s cold comfort.

Otherwise it was a lazy Saturday—Zenaida came to clean the cottage, and we had several teary moments remembering how much Sophie loved Zenaida and how she used to follow her around. I got some desk work done, read a lot of political updates, made the dough for a snack for Monday morning company, and had a long nap.

We would have had dinner at a decent hour tonight, except Jordan joined me in looking at dog profiles. Then Christian came along. He had spent the day enjoying the Fort Worth Food and Wine Festival (you can interpret that as you will) and he wanted to talk more about Merle Haggard. So it was after seven when I finally started cooking and near eight when we had dinner: chicken thighs in a garlic/anchovy/caper sauce. Delicious, but so greasy. One of those recipes that has you start it on the stove, then whisk the skillet into the oven. I can’t do that, so I winged it in a bit, but it turned out to be delicious.

While Jordan and Christian waited for supper, they sat on the patio.
and she took this of my honeysuckle in bloom. 
A pesty plant but so pretty when it blooms.

I finished out the evening with a long conversation with an old friend who lost her husband this week. I know that it’s the age I am—I lose friends, my friends lose loved ones, and it’s what life is. The best I can do is listen, and I’ve been trying hard to do that. But every time I am called on for comfort, it reminds me of my own mortality. But more than that, it reminds me how lucky I am to be as active and healthy and engaged as I am.

So it’s certainly been a mixed bag of a day. But as always, I am grateful. Sweet dreams, everyone.