TheBanyanTree: The Wrong Choice

[pat.martin]

The Wrong Choice



I was ten years old before my begging paid off, and Mom said, "My friend,
Gloria, has two puppies to give away.  Would you like to look at them?"

Would I?  I couldn't get into the car fast enough.

The puppies were sleeping next to their mother, Goldie, a purebred cocker
spaniel, whose worried eyes tracked our every move.  She growled deep in her
throat as we neared.

Gloria said, "Quiet," and patted Goldie, then turned toward us.  "They won't
be very big.  Their father is a pug.  The brown and white one is a male, and
the black and tan is a female."

Mom pursed her lips.  "We'll take the male," she said.

Gloria gently lifted him and placed him in my cupped hands.  His sleepy
brown eyes opened, and he yawned.  He was the most adorable puppy I had ever
seen; I could hardly believe he was mine.

"Hello, little boy," I said, and kissed the top of his head, enjoying his
clean puppy scent.

At home, I set him down on the lawn and watched him explore.  When he couldn
't find his mother, he wrinkled his forehead and cried.  His sharp,
sorrowful yips knotted my stomach.

"You're okay, " I told him, scooping him into my arms and smoothing his
silky ears.  "I'll take care of you now."  He wagged his white-tipped tail.
That's when I named him Tippy.

            I was a shy girl with few friends, living in fear of Mom's
violent rages.  Dad, when he was around, ignored me, but Tippy was always
there, eager for my attention.  Animals were better than people were, I
decided.  They could be trusted.  If you loved them, they always loved you
back.  To Tippy, I was someone important, and that meant the world.

            When he was four months old, I nearly lost him.  Usually he
followed close to my heels and there was no need for a leash.  One day, when
I crossed the street, he stopped to explore.  Just as I heard a car behind
me, he decided to cross the road.  "Stay there!" I screamed.  But Tippy had
no concept of danger.  Oblivious, he ambled onto the pavement in front of
the approaching vehicle.  I could do nothing to save him.

            Horrified, I watched as the car roared over him without
stopping.  I saw him rolling over and over beneath it, untouched by its
wheels.  Tippy came out from under it, injured but in one piece, and bolted
homeward, yelping as if he were dying. He suffered a broken rib but he
learned a valuable lesson.  After that, he gave all vehicles a wide berth.

            Tippy never realized he was small.  Fifteen pounds of
confidence, he attacked dogs four times his size.  It took courage to jump
between him and a snarling full-grown German Shepherd, but I did it many
times over the years.  My desire to protect Tippy overpowered my fear.

            When I arrived home from my first high school dance, Tippy
waited on the back porch.  He wagged his tail and danced around me.  Seconds
later, he sensed my mood and whined, gazing intently at my tear-swollen
eyes.

"I waited all night and no one asked me to dance," I confided, as I wrapped
my arms around him and buried my face in his caramel and white fur.

Two years later, Tippy watched my first kiss, and during my teenaged years,
he accompanied me whenever I went horseback riding.

In 1975, I needed time to heal after ending a relationship and planned a
45-day excursion to Israel.  Two days before my flight, Tippy disappeared.
I searched the streets but found no trace of him.  At that time, neutering
male dogs was not common practice.  Perhaps, I mused, Tippy had run off
after a female. Or, maybe the dogcatcher had captured him.  Although we
lived in a rural area, the animal control officer occasionally patrolled our
quiet streets.

When Tippy hadn't returned the next day, I telephoned the pound and asked if
they had found a dog fitting Tippy's description.

"We have a dog like that here.  We picked him up with several other males
outside a home with a female in heat.  It will cost you $110 before we will
release him.  That includes a $100 fine for allowing an unneutered male to
roam."

My stomach lurched. In the 1970's, that was a huge sum of money.

"What's your name?"

Click.  I hung up, without another word.

I found Dad snoozing in front of the television.

"Tippy's at the pound and they want $110.00.  I can't afford it unless I
give up my trip."  I took a deep breath, willing myself to calm.  My eyes
began to sting.  "There's no refund on my flight, either."

"He's old," Dad said, "and you're going away.  I'm not paying that much
money for a dog."

            True, Tippy was twelve years old, but I loved him; I couldn't
understand my father's indifference.  In all those years, Dad had formed no
bond with my faithful friend; but then, Dad and I were strangers, too.

            "I'm going to the pound to make sure there's no mistake."

            Twenty minutes later, I parked my van near a chain-link
enclosure where a number of dogs milled around. Tippy dashed to the fence,
wagging his tail.  He stared toward my vehicle, waiting for me to free him
and take him home.

I sat there for several minutes as tears poured from my eyes; I felt sick to
my stomach.  I didn't get out.

Tippy's tail slowed and finally stopped. He stood motionless.

"I love you, Tippy," I whispered, as I jerked the stick shift into reverse.
I was sobbing so hard that I could barely see.

When the dogcatcher put him to sleep, Tippy was still waiting for me.

            Please forgive me, Tippy; I chose Israel, and I'll carry the
guilt for the rest of my life.  My decision?  Unforgivable.



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