I rest my head on the pillow I have architected from my plush blanket and launch my ears into 180-degree-turns. Cooing and “hello cutie” sounds come from down the hall, signaling the start of today’s adoption hours, and our prospects will soon stroll by with resumes on the soles of their shoes. Nobody stays in the animal adoption center for more than two weeks, and like me, some return and go back out again. We always get new homes, and I intend to find the best.
Across the aisle, the wire fox terrier spins, twirls, and circles his concrete enclosure. Jumping on the bed and bouncing off, he lands at the gate, where he sticks his head between the bars and dances on all four feet. He is an energized version of Asti, the canine movie star, with no cool.
Many soles march through – some scent-void of dog odors; a woman reeking of Urine-off; an old “vegan-vile” without a trace of meat; a lady who tries to touch me with anti-bacterial hands – and I realize it is a slow day. Not seeing any opportunities I daydream, and my mind drifts back to my former placement.
It is late afternoon the day he brings me home, and he admires the foggy San Francisco Bay sky, while I see only a restrained coastal overcast. In repose we watch each other, as he corrects papers on Moby Dick for his English class, and I lick the loveseat linen fabric for cracker crumbs and cheese. When he comes over to join me he quotes Ahab’s words to the great white whale, saying, “Your whiteness might represent good or evil, glory or damnation, all colors of the visible absence of color.” And I curl my tail under my rump.
That evening we relax outside on a porch swing, and I practice nuzzling one of his arms to shake his wine glass, while his other hand strokes my back. I show him my long jump off into the garden and then tour the mulchy yard of oak trees behind our Berkeley bungalow. Suddenly eager for his company, I charge out of the dusk to playfully bite his leg, and he laughs and tells me I am reputed to appear at different places at the same time, and he will name me The Great White Chihuahua, or Great White, “perhaps the embodiment of all evil,” he adds with a chuckle.
A couple of weeks pass, and although he never displays anger, more and more of my time is spent outside. One night as I leap up on him aiming for his arm, red wine sloshes onto a stack of his students’ composition papers on “The Archetypal Whale’s Link to Mammalian Personality Disorder.” He holds his red pen like a harpoon and says, “From hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee. Ye damned whale.” But instead of striking me, he walks with a strange new limp back into the house, and the next day I’m returned to the pound. Not a problem, because I have a new name and destiny.
The cooing humans are now clustered in our adoption play yard, and several of us are brought outside. The fox terrier circles the group at full speed, but I watch them and sniff fragrant dog ammonia near large tree roots. Suddenly a flash of orange floral print catches my eye, I look up and see her, and in a moment of transcendental clarity I take in her pouch lap; soft, slow hands; scrutinizing, veiled eyes; and the perfect smells of salami and cat food on her soles. Following my instincts I walk straight up to her — lift my leg, point my long, elegant toes — and claim her for my own.
She laughs a raspy rumble and picks me up to look her in the eye. “Why you little shit,” she says, you remind me of Hydrant, even if you are that pathetic white color.” Sections of her huge mass sway downward as we float to a soft seat on the grass, and I kick to find a spot on her lap where I can reach up to rub my cheek on her bosoms. As I cock my head and blink winningly into her eyes, she tickles under my snout and yells, “I’ll take him.” Listening while she responds to the counselor’s interview, I learn she lives on a sailboat in the Oakland Estuary and plans to take me on an extended cruise around the Atlantic. This is good, because I have found a new home and the path to my destiny.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Judy Field has a master’s degree in radio/television. Her published work includes syndicated features and a science column for a Marin weekly newspaper; and syndicated travel articles for the USA Today wire services. She writes to the peaceful sound of her 17-year-old dog snoring in his bed near her desk.