So I Finally Had a Dog

A year ago, our lives changed forever. I was preparing to leave the Bristol Broadcasting radio station and head to the gym. I got a phone call from one of my wife's co-workers:

"Kristy has something she wants you to see" was the message.

Great, I thought. All I need is another delay.

When I got to the Lourdes Hospital ER, which is where my wife works, I was instructed to go to the break room in the back. I opened the door and saw an 8-week-old puppy scurrying around on the floor. He was trying to scoot underneath one of the break room chairs.

I sat down and played with the little fella. He appeared to be a Yellow Lab/Golden Retriever mix.

After a few minutes, Kristy came in. I asked her who the puppy belonged to. Kristy said one of the nurses was outside taking a break when she heard something crying. The nurse said the sounds got louder when she approached the trash dumpster. She opened the lid and saw the puppy inside a box. Someone put him in there to die.

The nurse brought him inside. Just as she was waking through the door, one of the volunteers from up front came running back saying, "We just got an anonymous phone call that someone put a puppy in the dumpster!" The other nurses took turns holding him and playing with him. They all had dogs at home and couldn't really take the puppy in.

Kristy asked me what we should do. Now, before we got married, Kristy told me "NO DOGS!" She's a cat person, and Garfield ruled the roost at our house. Dogs, she proclaimed, were too much trouble. Especially big dogs.

So I suggested that we could take the puppy to Project Hope No-Kill Animal Shelter in Metropolis, or take him to the Humane Society, or put a "Looking for a Good Home" ad on iList Paducah. I asked her what she wanted to do.

Kristy looked at me and said words I never would have dreamt she would say: "Take him home!"

So I finally had a dog.

Next question: what would we name him? I recalled the way I saw him scooting underneath the break room chair. Scooter. That seemed to fit.

365 days later, Scooter is now 74 pounds of pure muscle. And he's Kristy's baby. She loves him and spoils him as if he were a child. We both play with him inside and in the backyard. We take him with us whenever we're able to.

Now, there are days when Scooter will break free and run through the neighborhood. He still manages to chew up a pair of shoes. He lets you know when you're not paying attention to him by barking at you.

But he's still one of the best things that's ever happened to us. I just can't get over the fact that someone threw him away like he was garbage. I still shudder to think what would have happened if that nurse hadn't heard him crying in the dumpster. I'd like to think we've given him a better life.

Happy Anniversary, Scooter. Dad'll be home soon.

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