In Elementary School Steve was a member of the debate club. After High School, he was selling knives. By the time I met him, he was selling Jesus. Since 2000 he’s been selling a prettier internet. I never had a chance, you see.
Back in August, when Steve first proposed we bring a dog back into our family, my heart was two parts still aching from the loss of Ferris (our boxer who is not dead, but with a new owner), and one part relieved our lives weren’t restricted by canine needs, expenses and messes. Understandably, I said, “Forget it, buddy.”
In September, when Steve asked again, this time with less flippancy, I said no again and hoped, with time, his puppy ache would fade. In October, he brought it up and didn’t drop it. When I left for my retreat in November, even though I clung to my no, I nine-tenths expected to come home to a dog.
In early December, we reached our breaking point with the back and forth. We went for brunch while Emma was at a sleepover and agreed this would be our final Dog Conversation, regardless of the outcome. I was munching on my eggs benny and holding my ground until Steve said this:
“Any mess, expense or sacrifices are worth what an animal brings to our lives. Emma has one childhood, and I’d like to fill it with love.”
She’s an 8-week old, rust-coloured Vizsla. In the movie, “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” Ferris’ girlfriend’s name was Sloane. We think it’s a fitting connection to the dog who first stole our hearts. Sloane is Christmas come early, and after five months of sales pitches, I’m all in. Welcome to my heart, Sloane. Stop shitting in my house, please. (Within five minutes of arrival, she pooped and Emma puked. It’s all class around here.)
Merry ho-ho, everyone.