I got a puppy. I did it completely wrong, according to all the “how-to’s” for getting a dog. I went and met him, fell completely in love and decided he was my dog. No background check on his breed, no signing on to the twelve points of responsible dog ownership, no completing a “what’s the best dog for you?” questionnaire. I just went and met him and could NOT go home without him.
Did I mention my partner was out of town? (I tried and tried to call…he got the whole story in voice mails: “I met a puppy. I’m in love. I shouldn’t get him. I can’t leave without him. I think you’ll love him. Um, his name is “Cedric” and he’s at home now. The kids love him…” I couldn’t help it, really! And yes, he forgave me and loves the pup.
They’d been looking for a home for him for ten weeks. He was the oldest puppy there. He’d spent most of those ten weeks in a kennel, with a very bouncy Papillion and a dachsund. When I touched the glass of his display he spent the next ten minutes trying to chew his way through it to get to me. I spent an hour and a half with him. I took him around to meet cats, other dogs, birds, and children. I called him, “C’mere, puppy!” and he came every time. He crawled onto my lap and went to sleep. He was my dog.
Then there’s the name. We’ve had two dogs before this one: Annie and Bailey. We had been teasingly saying that we’d have to continue naming them in alphabetical order. So I started saying “C” names to him. “Charley…Cuddles…Conan…Chadley…Corbin…Candy…Charles…Catchaser…Cecil…” He ignored me. Then I said, “Cedric” and his ears perked up and his tail started wagging. It seems he knew his name, and his name is “Cedric.” “Captain Cedric Montana” to be exact, since he’s a purebred Cairn terrier and needs an appropriately fancy name. His dad’s name was Montana, and he’s “Captain” because he is, of course, a pirate dog.
He’s not at all the dog we said we wanted. He’s a terrier, which means he’s likely to be stubborn and high energy. He’s small–we’re hoping he gets big enough to be a good camping and hiking companion. He’s not sufficiently “macho” for the sixteen year old boy in the family, but said teen is charmed anyway. He’s not housebroken. He steals socks. He’ll probably dig up the back yard. What can I say? He’s our dog. Welcome home, Cedric.