I didn’t want a puppy. 

I told them I didn’t want a puppy, but when you volunteer to foster dogs being rescued from shelters where they would otherwise be killed, it’s hard to say “no.”  It’s painful to imagine that alternate ending, when that puppy has no foster home to take it.

The puppy comes to us with the name Tracey. 

She’s cute! 

But she’s a puppy. 

She nips at my running shoe, she punctures a hole in my tank top.  She pees on the floor.  She nibbles at our wrists with her pointy puppy teeth.  She follows me around the house, biting my ankles.

I remind myself that I’ve signed on for this. 

Miss F. spent that first day in the back yard with Tracey. They ran around, playing ball and tug of war.  Toward dinner time, the yard quieted down, and moments later, I heard Miss F. humming a lullaby.  When I peered outside, Miss F. had Tracey in her arms, as if she were holding a baby, rocking her to sleep.  Brock, our last foster, was “my dog.”  This dog clearly belonged to Miss F.

That night, as I tucked in the kids, the crying from the kitchen grew louder, as Tracey protested being  confined to her crate. 

“Do you want to hang out with her downstairs?”  I ask Miss F, who was reading Harry Potter in her bedroom.   “You can bring the book with you.” 

“Really Mommy? “ Miss F. asks.  “I was just thinking how Tracey might like some company, since it’s her first night here.” 

“Yes, baby,” I say, giving her a kiss.  “You were so good to her today, I think she’d love your company.” 

I had fallen asleep with my younger kids, as I often do, while putting them to bed, and had never reawakened. 

When morning came, I head downstairs.  I notice the blanked first, sprawled on the kitchen floor next to the crate, and then the cylindrical shape inside of it. 

Miss F. had spent the night on the floor, next to the puppy.    

In that moment, I was reminded that underneath all of Miss F.’s defiance lies a capacity for love that many of us never know.   I want to remind myself to hang onto these moments during her more rebellious ones, which have been coming faster, and stronger and closer together.  I want to remind myself of her kind heart when she talks back to me.  I want to remind myself of her loving nature when she pretends not to hear a word I say.  I want to remind myself of her compassionate side when she instigates fights with her siblings.  Because underneath all of that, she’s a girl who would sleep on the floor to comfort a dog who doesn’t even belong to us.

Later that morning, I recall the ingenious idea passed onto me by Kim Hall. It is the idea of the pillow journal, a journal that you pass back and forth to your children that gives you both a chance to “create and save memories” and “share what is truly important.”  Today is the day to start my pillow journal with Miss F.  It is a moment when I have caught her in the act of doing something wonderful.  It’s a moment that I want to capture and a moment that I want her to know I’ve noticed. 

I find a blank marble composition book in my office and write a small note for Miss F. and leave it on her bed, which includes an explanation of what the journal is and some words on how proud I am of her for how she cared for Tracey.

This journal will be used for only the good.  Because when I can look beyond the momentary frustrations of raising kids, the good is all there is.

Namate, Divas!

©2012 Ilene Evans   

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