That afternoon there was the usual mid-week mayhem. My two daughters were making a ruckus in the living room. I was in the kitchen, taking a break from job hunting, rustling up dinner. The front door slammed. That meant Reuben, my seventeen-year-old, was home. “Mom!” he called.
Reuben loped into the kitchen. He was cradling something against his football jersey. Oh, no, what is it this time? I wondered. He was always bringing home some poor stray, as if we were the town animal shelter. Last time it had been a turtle. I had enough on my mind without adopting another pet. Mainly, how much longer could we keep the house we rented if I—a single parent—couldn’t find work?
“Look, Mom,” Reuben said. He uncurled his hands. In his palms was a tiny ball of fur. A puppy that wasn’t more than three weeks old.
“Honey, we can’t,” I told him, shaking my head. “The landlord has already warned us about pets.”
Reuben held out the puppy to me. “There’s something wrong with its left leg in the front,” he said. There certainly was. It was badly deformed, as if a child had taken a piece from a jigsaw puzzle and jimmied it into place backward and upside down. The dog’s troubles didn’t end there. It had no right foreleg at all, just a nub of a paw that protruded from its chest.”
“I rescued it,” Reuben said. “Its mother was sitting on it, trying to smother it to death. I jumped over a fence and grabbed it away.”
I patted the dog’s tiny head and looked at Reuben. “That’s what mother animals do when they know their babies can’t survive,” I explained.
Reuben wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He had that look in his eyes. “Okay,” I said. But I thought, This is crazy. We have no money. The last thing we need is to take in a dog that most likely will die.
Laura, thirteen, and Caity, twelve, who’d been watching from the sidelines, rushed into the kitchen to get a good look at the pup and to help. I carried the tiny thing to the sink and gently cleaned her. She was a mutt, but seemed to be at least part chow. When I turned her over, she looked up at me, silent. On top of everything else, something seemed to be wrong with her vocal chords. This is hopeless, I thought.
Then the puppy looked at me with her big, brown eyes. I tried to resist. We had too many problems already. Lord, don’t do this to me! A wave of pity washed over me. “Mom, you look all choked up,” Laura said.
“If you want to save this dog, we’ve got to get to work,” I said. “Now.”
The kids took turns cradling the pup. I opened a can of Milnot, dissolved it in water, then rummaged around the kitchen, looking for an eyedropper. I figured it was the only way to feed her. It didn’t work. She wouldn’t—or couldn’t—swallow.
