I almost lost Brady.
A week before the pups were to be placed in their homes, Kathryn, the breeder sent me a text. She told me I had to decide on whether I wanted a female since there was only 1 left and a family was waiting to hear.
I wanted to be done with it, the back and forth of deciding whether or not to get a puppy. I texted that if I had to make a decision right then and there, I'd have to pass. There was my old Sophie to worry about. Her hips were weakening, she had so little tolerance these days.
Not to mention, she's a low maintenance dog who sleeps most of the day. Her schedule is so predictable. A puppy is anything but.
"Not the right time," I texted, "Maybe, down the road."
For the moment, it felt like a relief. I could go on with my life- plan weekend educational workshops and trips and work projects without worrying about being tied down.
I was determined not to look at the doodlecam, the videocam which was broadcasting the pups growth since the beginning(http://www.ustream.tv/channel/doodlecam).
Then at 10 pm, the Tuesday before the pups 8 week birthday, I went to Em's facebook page and noticed she posted the "graduation" pictures of each puppy (www.facebook.com/album.phpaid=2048341&id=1388367117). That's when I saw him as I've mentioned in a previous entry. There was something in his eyes and that bit of a smile that seemed of a kind nature. 
I looked over at Bruce, who held his laptop and was working quietly on the armchair across from the couch where I sat, sighing.
"What?!, " he asked.
"This puppy," I crooned, "He's just soooooo..."
Bruce had heard about this for 5 weeks now- and he didn't seem that thrilled with the idea of doing the puppy thing again.
But, he sensed my longing for something, ever since our youngest went off to college.
" Just call Kathryn already," he said without looking up from his screen.
"I wish you'd called 45 minutes ago," she told me, sounding dejected,
"I just promised him to be trained as a therapy dog. He'll be perfect for that."
(A therapy dog goes with it's owner to assisted living facilities and children's hospitals to cheer the residents and patients. I've heard about studies that found when people are in contact with a calm, furry pet, they can show signs of physical improvement.)
My heart plummeted with this news.
"I'll train him to be a therapy dog," I promised.
At first, it seemed she could not be swayed, but, luckily, she was empathetic and sensed that Brady (nee "Kelly") was my"destiny" dog.
We scheduled the pick-up for the following Sunday morning.
The thing I've come to realize is that Brady is already a therapy dog. Without him, I know I would've been sitting in a therapist's office, groaning about how I was searching, searching, searching to fill this vast vacuum that remains after 26 years of nurturing, caring, and mothering. You don't just shed all that like an iguana skin after molting.
Yes, I'm aware he's a dog and not a furry son. Still, I'm shaping his development as pack leader, teacher and guide for him. It is work I'm quite familiar with- it's what I know.
Then, there's the love. It's like it grows exponentially each day.
I guess there was this part of me that wondered if it could, right now.
I was so busy thinking about freedom, I forgot about love.
Here is a picture of Brady on his first official outing at the Wellesley Booksmith where they welcome dogs. What better place to take him than a store filled with fine literature and a treat jar with dog biscuits?
A little girl was crying as she toddled behind her father who told her it was time to go. Then, she saw Brady. The last tear rolled down her cheek as she ceased her wails, and looked at him in wide-eyed wonder.
Hmmm, I guess he is a therapy dog!
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