IT HAS BEEN a month since I picked up my new dog at the shelter. It has been a long month, a month with a long trip planned for a working vacation.
You know how it is with vacations: You plan to do this and that, get things done, relax.
In my case, there were to be long hikes in the mountains; the first good rides on my new mountain bike; a chance to get to know the new neighbors at my Arizona home; late nights with quiet time to read without interruption other than a little stargazing; and strolls downtown to browse the stores and restaurants.
Nearly 6,000 miles later, and I am home. And nothing went according to those sweet dreams of plans. Nothing.
As I look out my back window on this lovely spring day, Annie, who made the trip with me, is happy and well. But Annie has been through some tough times. We made the trip together.
I had been out West a few days, taken a few walks with Annie, but it has been a wet spring there and our outings together were limited.
At the close of the first week, as the weather turned to spring and everything burst into bloom at once, I thought a change had come over Annie. She seemed listless, slept too much, had no interest in walks. And her appetite was ravenous. Even for a young dog, she seemed to be a bottomless pit of hunger.
And then I noticeda certain girth, a kind of swing, here and there in what had been a trim and fit physique.
"You get that dog to a vet!" commanded one of my most animal-savvy friends.
The vet confirmed the unthinkable: "Mr. Sullivan, Annie is pregnant. She's fairly advanced. When did you say you were driving back to Virginia?"
And to think, all I did was adopt a stray dog from the shelter. That's a good thing to do. The world is too full of homeless dogs and cats and I believe--now more than ever--that we should try to find homes for them while looking for pet companions for ourselves. Like most shelters, this one requires spaying of females for adoption.
But Annie had caught kennel cough at the shelter. It's like bronchitis in people, easily cured with antibiotics. Spaying had been scheduled, but had to be delayed due to the medication she was taking. That was March 7; it would be re-scheduled for April 4.
Annie had been picked up stray by animal control on Feb. 25. No one had claimed her. When she became available for adoption, I filed the paperwork and wrote the check.
At first, things went perfectly. This was the perfect dog, the ideal canine companion and road warrior.
But news that she was pregnant put me on the spot. Twenty-three-hundred miles from my primary home, I had to make key decisions about my new dog. The vet told me Annie might deliver in the front seat of my truck. "It's your decision," he told me, "but can you handle a litter of puppies under those circumstances? And if there is a problem in the delivery, can you get the help you'll need, where you need it?"
I pondered the options, called those I rely on, thought long and hard about it and called the shot: I hated it, but I could see no realistic way I could deal with a litter of puppies under the circumstances, raise them and find homes for them. Everybody loves a puppy. But when it comes to taking one, they usually can't.
The vet, who had a busy day, worked late and called me when he had finished Annie's surgery. She had been carrying eight puppies.
She walked out to greet me at the vet's the next day, tail wagging frantically: Take me home!
I followed the post-surgical directions to a T. She spent the first few days lying on a blue carpet remnant I had given her--on the sofa. She was exhausted, but healthy.
I was happy to have her back, but still felt lousy at having to make the choice that I made. And I guess, too, that I was angry at being put into a position of having to make that decision due to someone else's lack of responsibility. Annie, after all, had belonged to someone else, someone who had let her run loose and taken no responsibility for her.
She was a good dog. She did not deserve this.
Annie returned to the hospital for a post-surgical check, earning a clean bill of health for the long ride home.
Two days later, we set out northward along Arizona 89, headed for Interstate 40 at Ash Fork. The sun had just broken above the low hills that wall the east side of Chino Valley.
Annie was anxious. She whined for a few minutes, asking me, I think, if we were really going to drive so far again.
We made it to the far side of Amarillo that day, almost to Memphis the next, and so on. We took a blue highway detour through the Ozarks in Arkansas on the second day and Annie approved, taking a long walk with me at one spot.
Annie doesn't speak, of course. Not English, anyway, but the language she speaks is universal and leaves no doubt. Humans should be so articulate!
A side trip to Mammoth Cave in Kentucky would have to wait till she and I do the trip again next spring.
Annie, I decided, is a real trouper, and the best canine traveler on the planet.
PAUL SULLIVAN, a former reporter with The Free Lance-Star, is a freelance writer living in Spotsylvania County. Contact him by mail at The Free Lance-Star, 616 Amelia St., Fredericksburg, Va. 22401; by fax at 373-8455; or by e-mail at PBSullivan2@cs.com.