“When are we going to be there?” “Look! A farm! Is that it? Is that the farm?”
“That’s it! That’s the farm!”
“Soon, guys, soon,” I said from the driver’s seat. We still had 20 minutes to go, if the GPS was telling us the truth. Ahead, the sky blazed with a spectacular Virginia sunset. Beside me, in the dwindling light, my husband tried on his smartphone to follow what was happening on a distant football field. In the back, vibrating with excitement, four children tried not to get ahead of themselves.
“We have to wait until she’s back before we choose a name,” someone said, of the big sister who was away for a college interview.
“Clarence. We should name him Clarence.”
“No, Oscar!”
“No, Katie!”
“Hey – we’re not choosing a puppy yet,” I reminded them. “We’re just going to see.”
“That’s OK! We’re just so happy!”
Soon the car was crunching along gravel and then dirt as, in the dusk, we pulled up to the front yard of a well-regarded breeder who, we knew, had puppies for sale. We were expected.
“Come on in!”
We filed into the farm family’s living room, and moments later there was a collective “Awwww,” as the puppies were carried in.
“Awww” doesn’t really capture it, though. “Awww” sounds mawkish and cliched. This was something bigger, one of those moments when it felt as though the universe had shifted. These were not mere animals but dollops of love, little darling bundles of softness. In fact, they were goldendoodles, a name both preposterous and descriptive, given that they’re a mixture of family-friendly golden retriever and Mensa-worthy poodle.
“Mine is Clarence!” murmured one child, looking up with shining eyes. From the dollop in her arms emerged a little pink tongue. “Clarence is licking my hand!” she cried. The smallest child crouched down and “Clarence” turned to lick her hand, too.
“Hey, Oscar!” said another child, as the dollop pawed his shoulder. “You are Oscar, and you will be mine.”
“Katie is falling asleep!” whispered a third, cuddling her bundle.
“Children, remember,” I said, feeling unsteady and a little giddy, “We’re not naming the puppies. We’re not even going to choose one. Not necessarily. Remember? Right? Right?”
I turned to my smiling husband, who shrugged. We were not going to name the puppies. We weren’t going to choose a puppy. That was right, wasn’t it?
Dimly I tried to remember if that was right. I was pretty sure that, as we drove through Virginia, I had the idea that we weren’t going to come away with an actual dog. We were really just going to visit some puppies. We’d ask all the right questions, and evaluate the answers, and then, at some point soon we’d be ready to commit to dog ownership as we’d promised. There were good reasons not simply to choose the first puppies that came along.
What were those reasons? It’s a funny thing, but I couldn’t recall. It was only as we drove away, a long time later and several hundred dollars lighter, that I remembered.
“Well anyway,” I said, “We’re not choosing a name yet. Not until the puppy comes home at Christmas.”
Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
