Nadya & Me

When our yellow lab Greta died from bone cancer in April of 2007, Fred and I agreed that we’d wait before getting another dog. The months leading up to her death were definitely very trying on us both. The day she was put down was especially hard as I cried like never before and through the whole weekend. The home care vet was a wonderfully compassionate man and he even made the sign of the cross as he stood over her before administering the lethal barbiturate and phenobarbitol doses. He stood patiently and empathetically as I lay on the rug with her, holding her as I looked into her lifeless eyes. Just think of M’Lynn draped over Shelby’s casket in Steel Magnolias if you need a visual reference.

In comparison, I loved my father tremendously, but when he passed away a decade earlier I can’t say that I ever broke down as I did with Greta that afternoon. Later that same evening we made the mistake of thinking a trip to a nice restaurant would help ease our sorrows, but after a while I got the feeling our server thought that Fred was breaking up with me over dinner as I used my napkin to blot dry the sporadic wells of tears in my eyes.

I had always thought that when the time came for us to say our goodbyes to her, that it would be Fred and not I that would become an emotional wreck. Our previous history with a deceased pet would have indicated as such, for when our cat died in Texas, Fred was a basket case at the vet’s office. As she lay still on the examination table, the veterinarian put his arm around Fred to console him and he actually offered to write him a prescription for Valium, which I didn’t realize an animal doctor could do. I was surprised by how emotional he became over a cat that didn’t do anything other than eat, shit and sleep during the three years she was ours. She had been living under the back porch of the house we had bought in Dallas and she was a declawed, beautiful long-haired and elderly Calico, so she had at one time been someone's indoor pet and I did love her, but apparently not as much as Fred.

It’s been nearly two years now since Greta died and I’ve decided that we’ve waited long enough. (Notice my use of subjective personal pronouns in the second half of the preceeding sentence.) As well, it’s not like I sat up in bed one morning and proclaimed, “I’m ready for another dog.” I began thinking about it when we moved here to Orange County and the owner of the townhouse we ended up renting at first said “okay” to a dog. Then, after the deal had been reached, she changed her mind. I always thought of her as a sneaky be-yotch for doing that, but as luck would have it, when I gave our moving notice to the agent who manages her real estate investments and who lives around the corner, I mentioned that we still were hoping to adopt a lab. She told me that she had a lab, too, and to go ahead and to pretend like we’d never had the conversation. I think she knew after our having lived here for several months that what I had insinuated in conversations during the lease negotiations was true: gay guys over forty make great tenants. We’re really mindful of property and are likely to leave a rental unit in better condition than when we took possession, dog or no dog.

That was almost a month ago and in spite of being registered with four different Labrador Retriever rescue organizations, we’ve not found our girl. My better self says we should just adopt a mixed-breed from a local shelter but I can’t let go of the idea of replacing our yellow lab with a chocolate lab and that someday, dog number two will definitely be a mutt saved from a high-kill shelter. That said, kill-shelters are often where breed-specific rescues find many of the dogs that they work to re-home.

Buying a puppy is out of the question, too, as it should be for anyone considering a new dog. Breeding is a nasty business and for every reputable breeder there are far too many unregulated backyard breeders. Worse yet are the despicable puppy mills found throughout the nation and especially in the states commonly referred to as the "Puppy Mill States": Missouri, Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa, Arkansas, Oklahoma and Pennsylvania. It's been reported that for every semi-healthy dog that comes from a puppy mill, as many as two to three do not survive the substandard and illegal conditions too often encountered by government agencies and animal rights organizations.

In 1996, when we telephoned the Dallas-Fort Worth Lab Rescue to inquire about adopting a “small for the breed” yellow female, the woman on the other end proclaimed, “Oh, I’ve got the perfect girl for you.” So the next day, off to Irving we went and when we laid eyes upon her, it was love at first sight in spite of the fact that she was the biggest female lab I’d ever seen. So, I promised Fred that the new dog would be more typical in size.

Nowadays, adopting through a rescue requires more than a phone call or an email. Applicants are screened fairly well and no dog is released to a home without a prior visit from a representative from the rescue organization. Once vetted, you’re waitlisted for the gender and color of preference and then it’s a waiting game. It should be said that there is no shortage of young and adult labs in need of second chances. The current foreclosure crisis has resulted in an alarming swell of dogs (and cats) at local shelters and the recent, successful movie Marley & Me is sure to add to the problem when in several months, all those families that rushed out to get their own Marley turn them over after discovering how much time and dedication are required to raise and care for any dog, let alone a Labrador Retriever puppy.

I should also add that the most common breeds I’ve seen on shelter websites by far are American Pit Bull Terriers and Chihuahuas. I’m not well versed enough to enter the fray over whether the aggression of Pit Bulls is entirely the result of nature or nurture. As for the Chihuahua’s, I believe their overabundance at shelters is a direct result of the popularity of films like Legally Blonde and it’s Chihuahua co-star and the trend in recent years of fashionistas parading toy-size dogs as accessories.

For just about every night over the last two weeks, upon Fred’s arrival home, I’d open my laptop to show him the photos of the labs I’d seen online that day. Black ones, yellow ones and even a chocolate or two that was either too big or too young for our consideration. But just the other night after presenting him with another potential dog, Fred looked at me earnestly and told me that I was, “as bad as Nadya Suleman”, the bizarre Angelina Jolie-wannabe who's now more commonly known as "octo-mom". Fred’s comparison wasn’t that far off as his fear rested not in my being implanted with a half-dozen chocolate lab embryos, but that by having completed the pre-adoption process with four different rescue groups that he’d come home one night to find several brown-nosed dogs clamoring about as a result of a successful, multiple adoption.

I closed my laptop and chewed on his remark for a while and is often the case with Fred, he was right, though he is still routinely incorrect about driving directions, song lyrics and celebrity sightings (all fortes of mine, the latter two being essentially useless).

I’ve decided to take some of the advice I repeatedly gave a dear friend years ago during his then relentless search for true-love that resulted in two consecutive relationships with clinically diagnosed mentally-ill men followed by cohabitation with a character who was later discovered to be hiding a long rap sheet: the right one will come along when you least expect it and allow it to happen and especially after you’ve stopped your demonic quest for it.

I see now that the same holds true for anyone seeking to adopt a female chocolate Labrador Retriever.