Zelda was part of a litter of five abandoned puppies. A woman driving down a country road discovered some little boys abusing them, dragging them along with string tied around their necks. She scooped up all five, put them in the back seat, and drove to the nearest animal shelter. The folks at Animal Rescue sent the pups to stay with a “foster mom” until they could be placed. That woman, the owner of a rambling farm, had pale blue eyes and an endlessly patient demeanor. She sized us up to make sure we were good enough before she let us take the dog. We came prepared, with toys and a crate for the ride home. That was two weeks ago.

Initially I was terrified, not really being a dog person, and never having socialized a puppy (yes, grammar heads, “socialize” as a transitive verb). We got lucky, though: Zelda was already crate trained. She seldom barked. She seemed cheerful and undamaged by her early trauma. We bonded right away.

Getting a puppy is absolutely nothing like having a child, of course, though I imagine both have at least one thing in common: one day your life is about abstract complexities, contemplating Big Ideas; the next, it’s a cycle of feeding times and cleaning up poop. And you don’t even mind.

I never remember anything ever being clipped by these clothespins, but they were always there in the kitchen.

We hadn’t been inside the house for over 25 years, and were amazed that much of what we remember of our grandparents’ possessions were still inside.  Though much was destroyed through years of neglect, we were both transported.