was sure was going to be a short visit to Isabella when she would look at me in horror and give me back the dog. Whose idea was this anyway, and why had I fallen for it?
I had gotten everything she could possibly need for the dog, gates, a playpen, blankets, Wee-Wee Pads, food, toys, bowls, collar, leash, just about everything but a driver’s license and its own car. The dog came fully loaded, and I drove to my friend’s house on Christmas Eve, with the dog looking mournfully at me. She looked like she was wondering how I’d gotten her into this, and I was asking myself the same thing. I was braced to have my loving, gracious friend throw the dog at me, or maybe slam the door in my face. Just as I had fantasized a happy reunion initially, I was imagining utter rejection on the drive to her house.
We arrived at her very respectable building, where thedoorman watched me unload the car, looking like a refugee, or at least like I was moving in, with my mountain of accessories for the dog. “Cute dog,” he said, and I was ready to give her to him. I was almost too chicken to go upstairs with all the stuff, and the dog. He helped me get it all up to her apartment, and I took the dog in my arms and rang the doorbell with literally trembling knees. I felt like a complete jerk. “Hi Isabella, my kids told me to get you a dog, and now they think it’s a terrible idea, so here it is.…” As I rang the bell, I could perfectly envision her refusing the dog and ushering me out. She had been a loving surrogate mother to me since I’d come to California thirty years before, as a young girl, long before I had my own family. Isabella had no children of her own and was a superior court judge until she retired. And with no children to visit her, it made the dog seem almost like a good idea. Almost, but not totally. I had no inkling how she’d react.
She came to the door to put me out of my misery at last. I knew she was having chemotherapy that day, which she was taking in stride, and had insisted she would be up to a visit at the appointed time. It was Christmas Eve. I looked at her sheepishly when she opened the door and smiled at me. “What’s that?” she asked, as she saw the dog. I handed the little ball of white fluff to her and said, “She’s yours. MerryChristmas, Isabella, I got you a dog.” It seemed pointless to remind her that she’d said she wanted one, since my kids didn’t remember it either. Her eyes opened wide, and she took the dog from me immediately. She walked straight to a chair, put the dog on her lap, and began stroking her lovingly with a look of total bliss. The dog looked at me haughtily with an expression of “You can go now. I’m home.”
My jaw nearly dropped. The dog never moved an inch off her lap, as Isabella beamed at me, and said, “I’m going to name her Trixie. That was the name of my first dog.” By then I was crying, I was so happy, and Isabella truly looked like a kid at Christmas. Everything about the scene was exactly what Christmas should be—it was all about a kid and getting a puppy from Santa. I took out a disposable camera I had thought to put in my pocket, and took a roll of pictures of Isabella and Trixie, and then showed her all the equipment I’d brought. She looked amazed and pleased as she held Trixie in her arms. By then Trixie was ignoring me completely. I had served my purpose, and as far as Trixie was concerned, I’d been dismissed. And although she usually liked long visits, Isabella then walked me to the door, wished me a Merry Christmas, kissed me, and said “Thank you for my dog.” And the next thing I knew, I was in the elevator laughing and smiling and crying. I had never seen anything so sweet in my life.I don’t think I’d ever seen Isabella so happy in thirty years. I drove home still smiling and was walking on air when I got home. She had just made Christmas for me. The crazy gift had been a smashing success. I told the kids about it, and they
I had gotten everything she could possibly need for the dog, gates, a playpen, blankets, Wee-Wee Pads, food, toys, bowls, collar, leash, just about everything but a driver’s license and its own car. The dog came fully loaded, and I drove to my friend’s house on Christmas Eve, with the dog looking mournfully at me. She looked like she was wondering how I’d gotten her into this, and I was asking myself the same thing. I was braced to have my loving, gracious friend throw the dog at me, or maybe slam the door in my face. Just as I had fantasized a happy reunion initially, I was imagining utter rejection on the drive to her house.
We arrived at her very respectable building, where thedoorman watched me unload the car, looking like a refugee, or at least like I was moving in, with my mountain of accessories for the dog. “Cute dog,” he said, and I was ready to give her to him. I was almost too chicken to go upstairs with all the stuff, and the dog. He helped me get it all up to her apartment, and I took the dog in my arms and rang the doorbell with literally trembling knees. I felt like a complete jerk. “Hi Isabella, my kids told me to get you a dog, and now they think it’s a terrible idea, so here it is.…” As I rang the bell, I could perfectly envision her refusing the dog and ushering me out. She had been a loving surrogate mother to me since I’d come to California thirty years before, as a young girl, long before I had my own family. Isabella had no children of her own and was a superior court judge until she retired. And with no children to visit her, it made the dog seem almost like a good idea. Almost, but not totally. I had no inkling how she’d react.
She came to the door to put me out of my misery at last. I knew she was having chemotherapy that day, which she was taking in stride, and had insisted she would be up to a visit at the appointed time. It was Christmas Eve. I looked at her sheepishly when she opened the door and smiled at me. “What’s that?” she asked, as she saw the dog. I handed the little ball of white fluff to her and said, “She’s yours. MerryChristmas, Isabella, I got you a dog.” It seemed pointless to remind her that she’d said she wanted one, since my kids didn’t remember it either. Her eyes opened wide, and she took the dog from me immediately. She walked straight to a chair, put the dog on her lap, and began stroking her lovingly with a look of total bliss. The dog looked at me haughtily with an expression of “You can go now. I’m home.”
My jaw nearly dropped. The dog never moved an inch off her lap, as Isabella beamed at me, and said, “I’m going to name her Trixie. That was the name of my first dog.” By then I was crying, I was so happy, and Isabella truly looked like a kid at Christmas. Everything about the scene was exactly what Christmas should be—it was all about a kid and getting a puppy from Santa. I took out a disposable camera I had thought to put in my pocket, and took a roll of pictures of Isabella and Trixie, and then showed her all the equipment I’d brought. She looked amazed and pleased as she held Trixie in her arms. By then Trixie was ignoring me completely. I had served my purpose, and as far as Trixie was concerned, I’d been dismissed. And although she usually liked long visits, Isabella then walked me to the door, wished me a Merry Christmas, kissed me, and said “Thank you for my dog.” And the next thing I knew, I was in the elevator laughing and smiling and crying. I had never seen anything so sweet in my life.I don’t think I’d ever seen Isabella so happy in thirty years. I drove home still smiling and was walking on air when I got home. She had just made Christmas for me. The crazy gift had been a smashing success. I told the kids about it, and they
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