Skippy the Wonder Dog
I once knew a woman named Lois. To this day, I don’t know if Lois had a mental health diagnosis, but I do know she was possibly the most bitterly disappointed person I ever knew. I never knew why, and I still don’t.
Lois’ husband died a few months before I became what we called “choir director” at a local church. Both “choir” and “director” were euphemistic. Of the dozen choir members, not one was under 65 years old. One of them was Lois, and I strongly suspected her husband was happy to go.
One of her greatest joys was causing upset and havoc of any kind. Carl, who had sung in the choir for thirty years, was losing his battle with cancer and had not attended church for some months. Since our choir was as low in funding as it was in talent, we didn’t have enough hymnals. Lois proposed we should ask for Carl’s hymnal back. “He’s never going to use it again.”
Appalled, I said sternly, “Nobody is to ask for the hymnal back. Not under any circumstances.”
Of course, Lois trotted over to Carl’s house and did just that, and it resulted in anger, hurt, and outrage. And rightly so.
Lois was a lit fuse, and explosions were common. I was young, with more patience than I now possess, and since I could not control her, I befriended her. Nobody else was trying anymore. For starters, I invited her out to lunch. By the time the bill arrived, it was accompanied by the restaurant’s request that we not go back there again.
BUT, during lunch, when Lois wasn’t complaining or offending everybody in a three mile radius, we talked a little. She mentioned that she’d like to have a dog, the closest thing to positivity I’d seen in Lois. I said vaguely, “Maybe we can find you one.”
Her requirements were specific. She wanted a house-trained small white neutered male dog who didn’t cost any adoption fees, and wasn’t going to die anytime soon. She would name him Skippy.
Oh, well, it was just an idea.
That was Wednesday. Friday night my daughter and I drove to my mother’s house for the weekend. Mom mentioned a friend of hers was quite ill, and was looking for a home for her dog because she could no longer care for it. At first I wasn’t even listening as Mom described the situation, but I started to focus when Mom mentioned how cute and well-behaved this dog was.
I asked a lot of questions, including how I would go about meeting this dog. That night we went to visit. The dog that Lois had specced out greeted us with wagging tail. Toy poodle. White. Neutered male. Three years old.
I called Lois: “I found Skippy. Do you want him?”
She quibbled, as was her style, but finally agreed to at least see him. Pretty sure I was going to end up with another dog, I put almost-Skippy into the car along with my daughter and drove the 200 miles home.
Lois and now-actual-Skippy fell in love and I got to see it. Lois was never going to be nice, or even cordial, but she was better. And I have never seen a dog cared for any better than Skippy.
She had somebody to love, and somebody who loved her back.
Need I add that Lois never said “Thank you”? 😂😂😂
Lois’ husband died a few months before I became what we called “choir director” at a local church. Both “choir” and “director” were euphemistic. Of the dozen choir members, not one was under 65 years old. One of them was Lois, and I strongly suspected her husband was happy to go.
One of her greatest joys was causing upset and havoc of any kind. Carl, who had sung in the choir for thirty years, was losing his battle with cancer and had not attended church for some months. Since our choir was as low in funding as it was in talent, we didn’t have enough hymnals. Lois proposed we should ask for Carl’s hymnal back. “He’s never going to use it again.”
Appalled, I said sternly, “Nobody is to ask for the hymnal back. Not under any circumstances.”
Of course, Lois trotted over to Carl’s house and did just that, and it resulted in anger, hurt, and outrage. And rightly so.
Lois was a lit fuse, and explosions were common. I was young, with more patience than I now possess, and since I could not control her, I befriended her. Nobody else was trying anymore. For starters, I invited her out to lunch. By the time the bill arrived, it was accompanied by the restaurant’s request that we not go back there again.
BUT, during lunch, when Lois wasn’t complaining or offending everybody in a three mile radius, we talked a little. She mentioned that she’d like to have a dog, the closest thing to positivity I’d seen in Lois. I said vaguely, “Maybe we can find you one.”
Her requirements were specific. She wanted a house-trained small white neutered male dog who didn’t cost any adoption fees, and wasn’t going to die anytime soon. She would name him Skippy.
Oh, well, it was just an idea.
That was Wednesday. Friday night my daughter and I drove to my mother’s house for the weekend. Mom mentioned a friend of hers was quite ill, and was looking for a home for her dog because she could no longer care for it. At first I wasn’t even listening as Mom described the situation, but I started to focus when Mom mentioned how cute and well-behaved this dog was.
I asked a lot of questions, including how I would go about meeting this dog. That night we went to visit. The dog that Lois had specced out greeted us with wagging tail. Toy poodle. White. Neutered male. Three years old.
I called Lois: “I found Skippy. Do you want him?”
She quibbled, as was her style, but finally agreed to at least see him. Pretty sure I was going to end up with another dog, I put almost-Skippy into the car along with my daughter and drove the 200 miles home.
Lois and now-actual-Skippy fell in love and I got to see it. Lois was never going to be nice, or even cordial, but she was better. And I have never seen a dog cared for any better than Skippy.
She had somebody to love, and somebody who loved her back.
Need I add that Lois never said “Thank you”? 😂😂😂
