Stealing Puppies

This post has been rated SL for sort of lengthy, but if you have a few minutes to spare, you might like it. If rushed, skip to the photo of Mandy and/or the continued (short) final saga Spilling Song, Spilling Blood

This is a personal narrative about Mandy, a dog that my sister, Lisa, and her family (her husband, Roy; and son, Zach) had for many years.

Mandy nursed over 100 babies in her lifetime and today's post is in honor of Mandy.

FYI: Eddy is the son of Becky,a friend we lost in 2001 to ovarian cancer. Eddy lived with us a while, but has since moved on. Kaika is my step-son who lived with us last year. He too, has moved on.

This is a lead-in to Stealing Puppies. You might like it.

When I told my sister over the phone that I’d invited Eddy to live with us, she kind of laughed. I’d already taken in Kaika, I’d offered to adopt a child that was to be aborted, and now, I was inviting Eddy to stay in Aaron’s room.

She asked, “Why, honey? You don’t really even know him.”

“Well, I know. But I really enjoyed him on the Six Flags trip.” Eddy had been on the youth trip I’d attended with Kaika. “And he needs a place to stay.”

“And he’s Becky’s son.”

“Yes!” I seized her comprehension of the connection.

“And I think Aaron would like that Eddy’s in his room.”

“And. . . .”

“And what, De’on?”

“And I’m kind of beginning to feel like Mandy.”

“What?”

“I feel like I’m trying to steal puppies.”


Stealing Puppies

Only once did my sister’s dog actually steal puppies.

Nearly thirty years ago, Lisa took in a dog she named Mandy, a sprightly mix of cocker, her coat the color of an Irish setter. She liked to carry rocks in her mouth or if Lisa’s husband had any old work gloves thrown about, she’d tote those in her mouth instead. She performed these strange feats when someone she loved drove up in the graveled driveway of their mobile home. Prancing to their car, picking up the rock or the glove, then setting down beside her visitor, wagging her tail, cocking her head back and forth, her eyes shining, initiating dialogue with her guest. What do you think of this rock I brought you? There were only a determinate number of people she trusted. Possessing a strong sense that our dad was not a dog person, she always made it a point to try and bite him after he’d managed the six hour drive to our homes. . It was preferable if Lisa knew in advance the time that Dad was to be expected; this way, she could run interference between the two. Small dogs have powerful bites.

Mandy must have been “in-between” puppies and lovers the day she ran the litter’s real mother off from a neighbor’s yard. She brought the five or six puppies to her own yard and tried to nurse them.

Oddly enough, the stolen puppies thrived.

She also produced great litters from her petite body. It wouldn’t be accurate to say she reproduced. Her babies varied as much as her lovers. When she was in season, the strumpet vaulted on top of Lisa’s chain link fence and strutted and pirouetted for any male dog she lusted after. She reminded Lisa of an acrobat or perhaps a gold medal gymnast. She defied the laws of physics as she pranced upon a fence about the same width as the tail she fanned in the air, arrayed for the entire male-dog world to see and to sniff.

Lisa whispered to her during these episodes, “You little bitch.”

More than one hundred times in her life, she nurtured, she nursed, she wagged that sassy tail and eagerly solicited warm compliments concerning her stash. Her brown eyes twinkled; she danced a four-footed jig. It was as if she bragged, Come see what I’ve done!”

She was a mother.

Lisa mastered the art of giving away puppies. Same now as then, Chaparral Park on Sundays in this small town is family day for birthdays and barbecues and volleyball games. Family reunions in which a small population sport shirts of introduction: Ramirez Family Reunion. Children of all ages pour into the park on Sundays. It’s a good day to visit the park with batches of puppies, yelping and looking up all eager or sad-eyed, depending on their disposition. What kid could resist? How many parents say no to a crying kid?

Too, Fridays at the Lovington Auction Barn fared positive results. Friday auctions drew people of all ages; old men flocked to buy boots for two dollars, and others, in sweat-stained cowboy hats and dusty, worn boots rode horses and herded up beef for the show ring. Their silver spurs flashed, found their mark, then dug their steed into motion. Old women, lined deep and well-rouged, drank hot coffee, as black as it was steamed. They dragged on Camel cigarettes, talked between stained teeth, spoke in low tones to others as their penciled eyebrows rose in question or in disbelief. The middle-aged women, decked-out for the mix, their golden or red hair, dark from a bottle, stood high and stiff. Their great bosoms napped and breathed, choked within bright polyester. The women’s printed blouses held up squash blossoms of silver and turquoise, as heavy and proud as their cleavage. The women guarded silver-haired and slicked men; these men smelled loud and spiced, wore watches of gold, diamond rings cut deep into their fingers. Their own, as well as their women’s.

It’s truly amazing how many parents, lovers and courtiers will give a puppy to someone they love.

Lisa was able to give away all one hundred and five or six puppies.

And when all else failed, Lisa talked me into taking one, “If I take one, too?” her voice pleaded. The negotiation was always the same. And I could never say no.

We split Mandy’s first litter because she only produced two at the time. A neighbor’s black poodle was the obvious father, for the brothers looked just like him—only with their mother’s fanned tail.

The first night they were separated, the puppies cried all night. Not even the trick of putting a ticking clock in their bed would appease them. After two nights of puppy cries, I drove to Lisa’s and picked up the brother. I named the twins Ruckus and Rebel. They chewed my rocking chair, strung out a roll of toilet paper that may have been my last, and shredded a letter, one that took me months to develop the courage to write, to spill my heart.

I purchased chains for the black brothers and put them outside. They tried to hang themselves around the tires of my station wagon. The next day the chains were exchanged for little shirts. Ruckus and Rebel looked so cute in white T-shirts that stated something charming. They fit well.
The brothers inspected the town at their leisure. Chased the squirrels at the courthouse and sunned on the bank secretary’s car. If you love something, let it run free all over the place, all day long or whenever they want to. My motto back then, I guess. It worked for a long while, but finally the dogcatcher spoiled the act.

The dogcatcher strived in vain to capture my dogs. He promised me he’d try to give them away, keep them together, if I’d help him secure the two.
“Here, Ruckus! Here, Rebel!” I called. Trustingly, they emerged from under my sister’s mobile home.

Then later, their chocolate eyes conveyed the hurt, the shock of their betrayal, as I slipped the brothers into separate cages of the large white truck. I can picture those eyes today, four large and dark question marks.

This wasn’t their first capture, but this time, the fine was too high. And this was the only time I’d deceived them.

I’d expected leniency due to compliance. Mercy rather that judgment.

I never saw or heard of them again.

I began to take in strays. Orphans.

**hopefully the link to the continuation/end works. we'll know shortly.