Finding Divot

Our first home was a beautiful little one-and-a-half story house on 65th Avenue. A covered porch offered a shady view of the single-family homes along the avenue. Towering elm trees flanked both sides of the avenue for a picture-perfect glimpse of middle class heaven. Ericka and I had settled in for a life of bliss.

Before Joanna arrived, we fulfilled our desire for children by adopting dogs. We already had one dog, Dakota. A mix between a rottweiler and chow, Dakota served as a faithful protector. He assuaged Ericka's maternal instincts, but he did not satisfy my desire to hold and comfort a baby. Therefore, without Ericka's knowledge, I went in search of the perfect lap dog.

I started my hunt at the various rescues in the area. Town and Country Animal Rescue in Papillion offered a variety of small dogs. I looked at them all, but none spoke to me. They were either too boingy or sick. I moved on.

At the Nebraska Humane Society, I walked back and forth through the kennels hoping for a dog who needed me as much as I needed them. A copper poodle peered at me with weepy eyes as she cowered in a corner shaking. A beagle howled soulfully while pacing restlessly. A hideous little mix stood sweetly at the gate begging me to take him home, but a massive sign warned he had heartworm. None of these dogs were for me.

Finally, I drove across the river to the Midlands Humane Society where we had previously found Dakota. After trudging through their dog kennels full of large breeds, I stopped to ask a volunteer if they happened to have any small dogs in the back. She shrugged and stated, "There's one, but he's being put to sleep today because he's ugly and no one wants him."

I begged to see him thinking I would adopt him if only to save his life. I could always place him in a no-kill shelter if he wasn't the dog for us.

We wound our way to the back of the shelter, before the volunteer pointed at a cage. Scrunched at the way back of the small kennel was the ugliest dog I had ever seen. The picture hanging on the cage showed a gray lump of matted fur; I couldn't tell which end was the head. Inside loomed a small dog whose hair had been shaved by a blind beauty school dropout.

Finding it difficult to gage the personality of the cowering dog while he was in a cage, I convinced the volunteer to drag the quivering gray mass out of the kennel and plunk him in my arms. The dog's immense fear was heartbreaking. I wondered if he would be less fearful outside and was given permission to test out my theory.

The moment we passed through the doors and entered the sunshine, the dog sighed and laid his head on my shoulder. I never stood a chance. I popped back into the building and paid the measly adoption fee of twenty-five dollars.

On the drive home I struggled to come up with a way to explain this new dog to Ericka. She was perfectly happy with Dakota and our two cats. How could I justify bringing yet another animal into our home without discussing it with her first?

Once home, I bounded over to our friend Misty's house. We had spoken to Misty about our desire to have children, and our fear that the child would live a difficult life with two moms. She was delighted with the little beast.

Now that he was free, the gray gremlin bounced around the yard pouncing on any leaf that dared to move. He would then come back for snuggle after snuggle on our laps. Misty loved him as much as I, so we plotted ways to convince Ericka he should join our household.

Ericka arrived home and stuck her head out our back door searching for me. I yelled to her to come join us in Misty's yard for a Mike's Hard Lemonade. As soon as she arrived, she frowned suspiciously at little Mr. Boing Boing. Misty and I plied her with lemonade while listing all the great qualities of our new little friend.

Grudgingly, Ericka agreed to keep the dog for one week. If he proved his worth within that time, I could keep him. She had only one stipulation -- I could not name him until we both agreed he could join our family. She didn't want me to get too attached. Ha! Too late for that my friend! We agreed he would go by "It" for the next week.

"It" proved himself over and over as we worked with him. He needed no potty training and dutifully used the outdoors like a good boy. Walking on a leash and healing proved to be no problem. None of these skills convinced Ericka; however, so we moved on to other obedience training.

"It" could sit. "It" could down. "It" could roll over. The winning trick, and the one to convince Ericka to give "It" a chance, turned out to be dancing. The little gray furball came to us knowing how to dance for a treat. There was no longer any question about the worthiness of our new fur baby.

A name was in order. The humane society hair stylist had shaved the poor guy down to his naked skin in most areas, but there were little tufts of hair left long in a few places such as the end of his tail and the top of his head. The two finalist names consisted of Radar (from M*A*S*H) and Divot (as in chunks of grass while golfing). We chose Divot.

I have never owned another dog as awesome as Divot. He gave me every ounce of love he contained in his fifteen-pound body and lived to a mighty old age. Divot never met a person or animal he didn't like. Babies could manhandle him without any retaliation on his part. Our eventual children loved Divot, and he protected them from any threat.

I am forever grateful Divot rescued me that long ago day at the Midlands Humane Society.