word prompt: sick puppy

I owe a sincere debt of gratitude to a sick puppy, one without whom my life would be significantly different, and I wouldn't have experienced one of the most dramatic events of my life.

Back in early September 2001, I worked at an independent pet store, one in a chain of two. The owner arranged to have a litter of eight-week pug puppies delivered half to one store and half to the other. When they finally arrived, the last one in the back of the carrier had been ill and looked really miserable. He was quickly swept away for a clean-up, then set up in his own cage to recuperate a little bit. By the end of the day, he had slept almost non-stop, and refused any canned food, which is usually a hit with the most stressed-out new arrivals. Given the non-refundable investment the puppy represented, my boss asked me to take him home for the evening to watch over him and hopefully, get him to eat a little something.

It should be mentioned that I had been pestering my boyfriend for a Boston terrier for a while, to no avail. I called ahead to let him know we would be having company for the evening, and the grumbling commenced. Since I have a cat, and my house wasn't particularly puppy-proof, I decided to set up a crate in the bathroom, which in my house is usually warm and cozy.

When I got home, I st down the crate by the door and went to the bathroom to set up a newspaper floor mat, scoop out a little moist food and pour a bowl of tepid water. I returned to the living room to find my boyfriend on the sofa, cradling the puppy on his arm as he would a baby, and cooing at it gently. OK, so the boys hit it off well. We relocated as a unit to the bathroom, where pup promptly sniffed at the moist food, shifted to the water bowl, took one lick and walked back to us. He certainly seemed more lively than he had just a few hours before, so what could it be? Out of sheer scientific curiosity, and because it was the only thing we hadn't tried, I pulled out a little bit of kibble. He watched me intently as I offered a dry morsel, and pounced the second I set it down before him. Turns out the little bugger just didn't care for moist food! After a good meal and the subsequent puppy mess, he lazily retreated to his crate, circled once or twice, and promptly fell into a deep, snory puppy sleep.

At this point, most people assume that the puppy never returned to the store, and that this is how the story of my first dog ends. Except it isn't. And in hindsight, I can't explain why on earth things unfolded as they did, considering that my boyfriend announced as pup and I headed out the door the next morning that we could have a dog, as long as it was a pug. Nonetheless, the two of us returned to the store, where pup rejoined his sibling in the front window. I remember selling him a day or so later, to a young couple who, upon learning that his birthday was June 24, named him Baptiste. His sibling having been sold a little earlier, we were out of puppies in the window. We called the other store, who had plenty to share, including two more puppies from the pug litter.

Shortly thereafter, the puppies arrived. I picked up the crate with Baptiste's sibling, and pulled out a chubby male, probably the largest of the litter. The folds of his skin shifted under my fingers, his velvety ears flopping, and he looked at me for the longest time with his chocolate eyes - feisty little dominant fellow, this one. Then he snarfed, that thing that pugs do, halfway between a sigh and a sneeze. Stick a fork in me, I was done. My manager negotiated a better price with the boss, and he came home with me. It took a little while to decide on his name; we were at Jardino's in Laval when we settled on Droz. But that's a whole 'nother story.

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