Whiskey: The Unexpected Puppy

Last summer, my son's dog died. It was devastating for everyone, but no one was more broken up then my oldest son, Tristan. She had been his baby, his best friend, and his life, and anyone who has ever lost a dog can relate to that. Finding another puppy who could even come close to Brownie would prove impossible in the months following her death. But we had to try.

Eventually, however, Tristan decided he had to have another Poodle, this one red, not black, and with white markings. So we found a breeder, were told it would be several months before there was a puppy available, and sat back to wait. That should have been it. It really should have.

But fate doesn't always play along, and we were about to learn that first hand. My sister had a dog, a Labradoodle named Willow. Cute dog, sweet, too bouncy for my tastes, but nice enough. She decided to breed Willow to a Golden Retriever a few months after Brownie had passed away. And in January, Willow had nine puppies.

My sister, of course, offered to let him buy a puppy, and Tristan dutifully took a look, but decided they weren't for him. They weren't Poodles, and they weren't dark red, so they weren't for him. Okay. My sister listed her pups for sale and they sold in just a few days. All except for the runt who was walking funny. He'd been born first with no one to witness, so we were never quite sure why. Maybe his mother stepped in him. Whatever the reason, my sister didn't feel comfortable selling a potentially injured pup. She'd wait until the vet cleared him before selling him.

So the weeks passed and we visited once a week so the kids could play with the puppies. Tristan never once mentioned having one of the Goldendoodle puppies for his own. He played with them, talked about the Poodle he'd get in just another three or four months. He was content and things were going as expected.

Then something happened we did not expect. The Saturday before the puppies were to go to their new homes, and just a few hours before my sister would sell the remaining puppy (who had been given a clean bill of health just the day before), we went to see the puppies for the last time.

By this time, we'd all visited once a week for two months. So we'd hold a puppy for a minute, put it down, then visit with my sister (actually my sweetheart of a niece). Tristan was the only one who was still title fascinated, so he hung out with the puppies while we all visited.

I honestly can't tell you what happened next. I do know that Tristan spent two hours laughing in the puppy room while I was mostly playing hide and seek with my niece. I do know that when I called him so we could go home, he came out of the room with a puppy in his arms.

"Mommy, I want Whiskey," he said, clutching at the puppy my nephew had called Whiskey. The runt with the weird hips.

I nodded. "I know, he's cute. Let's go."

My sister reached for the puppy, but Tristan wouldn't give him up. "No, Mommy. I want to buy him."

It was then that my sister, mother, and I probably looked a little ridiculous. We were shocked, to say the least. This kid had exhibited no interest in this puppy just the week before. Now, however, he wanted to buy him.

I recovered first. "Are you sure?" I felt compelled to ask.

He was. That was his puppy. Still, he'd been so set on a red Poodle I was hesitant to agree. We compromised. He'd sleep on it, and the next day, if he hadn't changed his mind, I'd take him to the bank and he could get money out of his account.

Morning didn't change anything. He was in love with that puppy, and it was obvious Whiskey worshipped him in return. So he paid his deposit, got a receipt, and a week later we had a new friend. Whiskey was here to stay.

Not what we expected, but we wouldn't trade him for anything.