Flirt...

 Yesterday afternoon I noticed that Flirt was a little "off." I can't describe to you exactly what it was, but she was not herself. I checked her over, and sure enough, the space on her belly where she has a hernia was pooching out.  She has had this hernia surgically repaired once. At the time the veterinarian warned me it would probably recur. It has but has not been a problem. With gentle pressure, I can move things back in place.  But this felt different, it was hard and unmoveable.  I decided a trip to the local emergency veterinarian was needed. I'll spare you all the details, but it was a long (and expensive) night. A loop of bowel had slipped into the hernia. Flirt stayed for pain medication and tests, but I was pretty sure I'd be returning this morning to have her euthanized. I spent a long, sleepless night revisiting the years I've shared with this little dog. Well before dawn I called the hospital, braced to hear the worst. To my unbelievable delight, the vet told me she had been able to get things back in place, and that Flirt could come home. 

Flirt is pretty much a perfect dog. Except for that pooping in the laundry room thing. And the barking. Her voice has all the subtlety of a smoke detector, and she barks at the slightest provocation, such as when she hears a bug fart. She especially barks when anyone enters the house. There is no malice in her vocalizations, though. It's more of an announcement. "You are HERE!  Here you are!  Hello, hello! Let me announce your arrival.  HUMANS! Be alert. Joy, joy, someone is HERE." Once someone is in the house Flirt does everything in her 9 pound, cream-colored power to go convince the person to PICK HER UP and hold her. No matter if it is a total stranger or a friend she has known since the day she arrived. Some people cannot read her insistent body language and need to be coaxed, "She'd love to be held." Once she is scooped up she presses herself against the person holding her, staring into their face with complete and total joy. They pat her and she is ecstatic. If they have the audacity to stop petting, she smacks them with a wee paw until they get the hint. 

 She never meets a stranger. There are people she has a definite preference for, it's true, but mostly she just likes all humans. People will say, as she snuggles in and stares at them with adoration, "This dog really LIKES me."  I agree, "She really does." But she likes everyone. Just some more than others. One of her favorite humans is my friend Jean. It does not matter how long it's been since she's seen her, it's always a happy reunion when they meet. 

Bred by my long-time friend Debi, who lives in Georgia, Flirt was one of a litter of three.  Debi and I were chatting online and she said, "I had a nice litter of toy poodles born today." I have a long list of breeds of dogs I'd like to own before I die, toy poodles were not on the list.  "What color?" I asked. "A phantom, a black and a cream." I had a sudden overwhelming sensation that I wanted that cream puppy. This puppy I hadn't laid eyes on, which was halfway across the country. "Mail me the cream?" I quipped. Debi replied, "I could bring her to Atlanta Pet Fair, she'll be 12 weeks old."  I was going to that event. I vacillated for weeks. I didn't need a puppy. Debi sent pictures. One day she said, "Her paw pad is smaller than my thumbnail." For some reason that did it. I had to have that puppy. The wheels were set in motion, and as a family, we named the new arrival "Demi." Or so we thought. 

At the Pet Fair, sweet Debi handed me the two-pound puppy. I might as well confess right now that it was not love at first sight. I know that all puppies are cute, but poodle puppies are not as cute as most. I carried her up to the hotel room I was sharing with my friend. Kim was lying on her bed, and I placed the tiny puppy on her feet. She scampered up to Kim's face, showering her with kisses, tiny tail going a mile a minute. Kim sputtered, "What a little flirt!" The chosen name went down the toilet. I gave my new puppy a quick bath in the hotel sink and fluffed her limp puppy coat dry. She was beginning to look cuter to me.

I was working at a clipper booth that weekend and took my new addition with me. She dozed in her carrier until some groomer type would notice her and beg to meet her. I was worried she'd be overstimulated by so much noise and light, so many strangers scooping her up. She took it all in stride. I smuggled her into restaurants in her tiny carrier, no one was the wiser as she never made a peep. 

At the airport, heading home, she dangled over my forearm, taking in the sights, perfectly content to be near me. On the plane, she slept happily under the seat, and when we reached our layover I carried her to the ladies' room. I put a puppy pad down in the stall and she delicately piddled, then pooped. She put her paws on my leg and stared up, "What's next?" she seemed to ask. She was beginning to grow on me. 

I didn't arrive home until very late that night. She'd been traveling all day. We were both exhausted. I took her to bed with me, and she draped herself across my neck. I put my hand over her. We woke up in the same position. She has slept next to me almost every night ever since, an excellent little bed buddy. In cold weather, she wiggles under the covers and presses against me. When I roll over, she subtlely adjusts her position, never in the way. 

At the time she arrived, I worked in a big, beautiful, busy grooming shop. Flirt rode to work tucked down my jacket on those chilly spring mornings, then spent her days meeting people and pets. We set her up a little cozy space in a cage next to my work table, with a bed, toys, food, and water. She didn't spend too much time there, the receptionist would claim her and keep her at the desk, introducing her to customers, who were charmed by her ridiculously small size and huge personality. She still enjoys being tucked down the front of my coat on a cold day and will paw at my zipper until I get the hint. When I unzip she wriggles in backward, settling with a contented sigh as I fasten the coat around us. 

As she has aged she looks a little bedraggled. Rachel says she looks like a child's discarded well-loved stuffed toy, one that has been dragged through the dirt and embraced by small, grubby hands. She often sleeps this way in her little bed, looking like someone just tossed her there. 

In December she will be 12. She has some heart woes, but other than taking medication twice a day you'd never notice. She's playful and cuddly, barks too much, and as previously mentioned sometimes forgets her manners and defiles my laundry room. The endless hours without her last night gave me too much time to think about what life without her will be like. 

As I write this she is snuggled up against me, groggy with pain medication, but warm and solid and very much present. As she has been for so many happy days, a gift of a dog.