Sonny Days

Lately, I have noticed the ubiquity of rain boots, the shiny somewhat hideous ones that come in a range of colors and patterns, from plaid to polka dots, from black and white to all different hues of the rainbow. At first I saw them in just about every store, most often, the discount stores where they were lined up at the window, the newest fashion statement; the answer to looking “smart” during a rainy miserable day. Initially, I did not purchase those rain boots because, although I am prone to tag along with any new fashion trend, I believed that once I bought a pair, there would be no rain to wear them in. Ha! Then I started seeing those boots on many, many ladies, young, old, middle-aged, on any given rainy day, which have become many rainy days. It was as if the boots in the windows had willed this interminable rain, snow, sleet, etcetera. While my feet were either dodging puddles or getting soaked by the inability to avoid them, I began to feel envious of those smarter women and I gave in. I became the proud owner of a very stylish pair of rain boots, my Chanukah gift, from my two daughters and future son-in-law. Not only am I now prepared for all this relentless rain, I march through it, my feet, socks and the bottom of my pants dry and unaffected. I have found a way to make the most of this deluge that keeps returning.

And so, on a rainy Monday, almost a week ago, I was overcome by another moment of surrendering to circumstances “beyond my control”. Lindsay, Kim and I were returning from an appointment with my neurologist, Dr. Handsome and charming with a sense of humor. It’s always a good thing when your doctor can brighten your day and give you a clean bill of health. It was still early, though, and still quite miserable outside, the clouds and precipitation had won their crusade against the sun yet again. Lindsay said, “Let’s go to the pet store, pleeeaaseee…” with her most endearing brown pleading eyes, reminding me of the five year old she once was. It was a month and two days since Coco’s death. I had reached the “acceptance” stage of grief; however, I still had bouts of anguish from time to time. It would well up right from my heart and then release itself in a sorrowful sigh. I would be jealous of people I would see walking their dogs. I felt cheated, empty. There was a void I needed to fill.

I had started to look into rescuing a dog from a shelter. We even visited a couple of shelters, in person and online. I played with some dogs, cute adorable puppies. No connection was made, though. And it’s not as easy rescuing a dog as one would think. There was a scrutinizing process I was not aware of; e.g., how big is your yard? Is it completely fenced? What kind of fence is it? How tall? How many hours per day will the dog be left alone? How do you plan to take care of the dog when someone is not there for 11 hours? We had a dog. We took very good care of it. She had a loving, wonderful home. Yet, we had to prove we were worthy of rescuing a dog. We also needed to make that connection, too- that connection that I felt 9 years ago, when Coco melted my heart as I held her in my arms. I knew that once I found the dog and I passed the qualification process, I would fill that emptiness that pervaded my soul. We had every intention of rescuing a dog, too. But all dogs need homes, don’t they?

So, it’s a rainy Monday afternoon and in my fragile, saddened, frustrated state, when my daughter looks at me with her imploring brown eyes, luring me to the pet store, I say, “Okay.” Blame it on the rain. It’s like those rain boots staring at you from the storefronts on almost every other block in Manhattan. “Don’t you want boots?” I hear in my head as I see them in their colorful row against the windows. Puppies are much more convincing than boots, though. We entered the pet store. I had no intention of buying a puppy, I promise you. I would never get a puppy without Mark, either. My guard was up, or so I thought. But as we came into the room filled with screeching, yapping and squeaking and an assortment of colors and patterns of puppies, one little golden buff colored pup came immediately up the glass to greet us. It resembled a baby Golden Retriever; it was too cute to be real, looking like a stuffed animal come to life. This dog could have been the picture in an add for “Don’t Ya Wanna Buy a Puppy” “What is that?” I inquired. “A Cockapoo,” the young worker replied. “Ohhhh, that’s what Scott and I want!” Lindsay said, immediately. A Cockapoo is a mixed breed- a Poodle and Cocker Spaniel- really a mutt, but nowadays, the new term is “designer dog”. “What is it- boy or girl?” I asked. One of the workers there, a young man, did a quick check, as he put his hand beneath to lift it, “Boy”. “Your father wants a girl.” I said to Lindsay. We went through to see the other dogs- very cute. No connection. We went back to see our buff colored greeter. “Can we take him out to play with him?” Lindsay asked. Big mistake. So the young man, Jordan was his name, put us in one of the interaction rooms. We sat on the floor. Jordan gave us the pup. He came right to me and climbed up on my lap and fell asleep. Uh oh. There it was- the connection. My heart, the aching one, suddenly felt a small tug. Uh oh. Then it was the battle of the wills. I was not in the position to buy a puppy; Mark wasn’t there, either. The situation was, though, that the position of the puppy was making this process very difficult. He would not leave my lap.

After three and a half hours, yes, three and a half hours of being in the interaction room, I had to make a decision. I started to think of names…George, no, Charlie, maybe, then it came to me- Sunny! What could cure the gloom of a rainy day?- Sun-ny! What could ease the melancholy of my heartache over the loss of Coco- Sunny! And he had a little bit of a golden tint to him, as well. And then something really strange happened. Lindsay saw the guy she dated from J-Date (right before Scott), whose name was Scott also, come into the pet store. She gasped, then, made sure to flash her diamond engagement ring as he noticed her. Jordan came over to see if we made a decision. “What was that guy looking for?” she asked Jordan. “He’s looking for a Cockapoo.” I gasped, then. It was at that moment that I knew that if I left the dog there, someone else would take it home, quite possibly, that other Scott. I felt the same as if I would feel if I were to leave my infant in a hospital after I gave birth to it and another family would take it home. We called Mark at work. Of course he was fuming. “No. We were going to rescue a dog.” No. I don’t want a small dog.” “No. I don’t want a male.” “No. I can’t believe you’re doing this without me. We were supposed to go together!” He was right, but what could I do? I was in love. “Do what you want.” Mark said, bitterly, and hung up.

I was in a pickle. I remembered the stories my mother used to tell about my grandfather, Morris, who used to bring home stray dogs from the neighborhood. “He followed me into the car,” he used to tell my grandma, Fannie. “I couldn’t get him out. So I brought him home.” Grandma Fannie would just shake her head, sigh, and let the dog stay. One time, my Uncle Jack, not a dog lover, had been away on a music gig and returned to his own home in the middle of the night only to get attacked by the latest mongrel my grandfather had brought home. I had never met my grandpa but I could certainly sympathize with his dilemma of debating over whether to keep a dog that he had bonded with, even though the circumstances were different. To me I had two choices: 1. Bring the dog home and deal with Mark, or 2. Stay in the pet store, forever. One way or another, Sunny and I were meant to be.

It took me a year and a half to buy a pair of trendy rain boots. It took me four hours to buy a designer dog. But boots don’t have brown puppy dog eyes, a cute little black nose and Cocker Spaniel ears. They are practical and serve a purpose by keeping your feet dry, but they don’t sneak into your heart and fill it with sunshine on a rainy day. A friend of mine, Liz, said, “He saved your soul, didn’t he? Isn’t it amazing how they know when we need them?”

We left the store with a furry bundle, who seemed to know all along he belonged to us. It was still raining. As I was pulling out of the spot in the parking lot, the girls started to yell, “Look ma, look at the license plate of the car next to us!” I looked; it said “SUNNY 00”. It was meant to be, I guess.

Of course Mark was quite upset when he got home. He marched into our bedroom and shut the door, leaving the dog very bewildered at this new person who didn’t want to hold him and shower him with kisses. Then about fifteen minutes later, Mark emerged, still angry, but went over to the crate and took the dog out. They both fell asleep on the couch for an hour, snuggled up together. “This is our son, Mark,” I told him, when he woke up. “It’s going to be ‘Sonny with an “o””, he said. “Whatever you want.” I replied.

Now, every day is a Sonny day with my new boy. Mark has about 27 photos and five videos of Sonny on his Blackberry that he proudly shows off to everyone. I hope this is the dog we take into our retirement years. My friend, Roselee, says his name already sounds like an old Jewish man’s- Sonny Feldman. Mark still wants to rescue a dog- a larger female, with black hair; he wants to name it Cher.