Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Happy Birthday, Biscuit!

One year ago today a little Boxer/Terrier mix puppy was born in a vet’s office on Garland Road. And 6 weeks later a woman and her almost-tween, still grieving from the death of their 13-year-old Dachshund, walked into the vet’s office to purchase some cat food and saw the sign that advertised free puppies to a good home. They left without looking at them, but couldn’t get a new puppy out of their minds while they sat in the Sonic parking lot waiting for their mozzarella sticks and Cherry Limeades.

Should we call Dad? He’ll snap us out of this.

So they call the patriarch of the family.

“The vet is giving away puppies!” the tween stated enthusiastically.

“Let me talk to Mom,” he replied.

Uh-oh, thought Mom. “Yes?” she said sweetly in the phone.

“How big?”

“Their mother is about the height you always say is the perfect size, but muscular.”

She waited for the almost certain we can’t get a dog right now. Let’s wait a little while longer, but instead…

“Let’s do it.”

The mother sat stunned for a moment and then…

“Are you sure?”

“Go pick one out and bring it home,” he replied.

And that’s what they did with his blessing. The girls sat on the floor at the vet’s office and picked the one that seemed the sweetest. The puppy that didn’t jump all over them or play too rough. She just wanted to be held.

It took a couple days after they brought her home, but the family finally agreed on the name Biscuit. The tween girl came up with the name because the puppy was the perfect golden brown color of a biscuit.

Biscuit brought life back to the house. Not that a house can be lifeless and quiet with two kids in it, but something had been missing since their dog’s death.

So sweet.

And then she started growing....

And growing….

And going crazy!

Until the mother started calling her “the dog,” because the frustration had peaked so high that she couldn’t even mutter the dog’s name anymore. She could only spit out “the dog.”

As in, “Get the dog off me!”

Or “Take that out of the dog’s mouth!”

And “The dog is getting on my nerves.”

Or even changing it up sometimes with “that damn dog.”

No more walking with, or sitting with, or stroking a docile, sweet, small dog.

(RIP, Clyde)

It became cleaning up poop, and more poop, and even larger poop.

And picking up trash, then trying to hide the trash.

And having toilet paper unrolled the length of the hallway, or better yet discovering a bite mark out of the side of the roll when you… *ahem*… need it.

And having a bigger and bigger dog jump on your lap from out of nowhere and knock you down when you walk in the door.


But you know what? She’s part of the family now and she has issues just like all of us. She does have some sweet moments, too, no matter how fleeting.

So happy birthday, Biscuit. Mama will bring home a good bone for you today.


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