Evolution

Annie Oakley was an American sharpshooter and a hero of mine in

elementary school. Oakley was also the name of my first dog. I wasn’t

the one to name her, but still appreciated the craft of the choice. I was

the one to pick her out, though.

It was the week school got out in 2019, and there was a fair in the

park across from my house. Even though the sun was setting, I was

still sweating, the summer heat and humidity wrapped around me like

a thick blanket. Fireflies flew all around, lighting up randomly, then

completely disappearing. I was surrounded by my elementary school

best friends, and the thought of entering middle school hadn’t entered

our minds yet. I was leaving for camp the next day and wouldn’t be

back for another 7 weeks. Looking back, I consider this one of the last

nights of pure childhood I experienced.

Part of this fair was an animal shelter that came with prospective

adoptive dogs. My friend and I were checking them out, just petting

and playing with them. Then suddenly I was on the ground, pinned by

at least 75 pounds of muscle and getting suffocated with licks from this

black-and- brown-marbled, short-haired, beautiful pitbullish mutt,

with the most round, consuming baby seal looking eyes. This was my

first time experiencing love at first sight. 

***

For as long as I could remember, my brother and I had relentlessly

begged my mom for a dog. Sometimes a cat, maybe a hamster, or any

animal we could imagine having. We always found it unfair that we

didn’t have a pet, because she grew up with dogs. From the moment

she was born to the moment she moved out, she had a cute, dumb

little companion. Finally, earlier that year, she had given in and got

my brother and me a single beta fish each. He named his Frank, and

I named mine Fireball, as it was a beautiful scarlet red that quickly

turned into a striking blue where the ombre approached his (her?) tail.

Unfortunately, Fireball only lasted about two months. The morning I

woke up to him turned over, lifeless, I sobbed so hard I could barely

breathe. I remember thinking that I had failed as a “mother,” that it

was all my fault. What if it was that one time I had accidentally touched

him that caused this? What if I forgot to feed him for a day and couldn’t

remember? What if I had poisoned him, and my brain was hiding it

from me? I was convinced that I personally had killed Fireball, but I

was quickly reassured that store-bought fish kept in a small fishbowl

don’t make the most reliable long-term pets.

Then along came Jacob. Almost identical to Fireball, he was pretty

mediocre. I made sure to take extra good care of him. But as much as I

cared for and loved him as much as one can love a fish, he still wasn’t a

dog. The begging started again.

PLEASEEEEEEE!!! We whined, basically crawling at her ankles.

All we wanted was a dog! Why couldn’t she understand? It wasn’t like

dogs were that much of a responsibility. We promised to walk it, feed

it, play with it, and pick up after it. We said everything we could think

of to convince her. Maybe our begging wasn’t working because her new

boyfriend, John, had just moved in with his kids. There were six people,

three fish, and one snake. But how could one more addition be so hard?

When his kids would stay over, they got the extra room in the

basement. By the second week after John had moved in, the room was

completely transformed. They infiltrated our house with their clothes,

toys, and spoiled habits. They left trails of their presence, taking up

space wherever they went, their screechy voices yelling from every

direction. At the same time, John had turned our garage into a man

cave filled with as many “manly” things as he could find. My personal

favorite was a stuffed alligator head. At the time, I didn’t mind the

fullness of our house, but, in retrospect, I know I would hate it now, and I can understand how uncomfortable it could have felt. Even too full for

a dog. But that’s not how I saw it then.

***

Then came that wonderful last night before camp. As soon as I was

attacked by that beautiful mutt, the wheels started turning. I needed a

plan. I quickly gathered my friend and my brother and told them the

situation. Hidden in the trees of the park, we secretly devised a plan,

while our mother, the target, innocently thought her children were just

playing. Then, we got to work.

On the home front, my brother was assigned to take care of my

mom’s likely stern resistance. Constantly running inside to refill her

wine glass, we were able to get her just the perfect amount of tipsy, so

by the time we proposed the idea of a dog (once again), she might be

open to it. On the outdoor fair front, my friend and I were in charge

of the dog. We were able to convince the adoption volunteers to let

us take one of the dogs over to where my mother was sitting. She was

sitting there pleasantly, taking little sips of her wine, casually talking to

other parents as we slowly brought the dog over. Everything was going

according to plan.

As soon as that beautiful mutt saw my mom, she attacked her with

the same force and love I had gotten minutes ago. The combined four of

us (including me, my brother, my friend, and the dog) were putting on

our best puppy eyes. I immediately saw her face light up and her gaze

soften, and at that moment, I was finally able to release a sigh of relief.

IT WORKED! We were overjoyed, jumping up and down when she

asked to speak with the adoption volunteers. In our little elementary

school minds, we had just pulled off the greatest task in history. I was

hugging our soon-to-be dog while my mom only somewhat reluctantly

filled out the adoption form, leaning back into her chair and slowly

sipping her wine. She was annoyed, but we could see her trying to hide

a smile. We gave our pup back to her caretakers because even though

we were joyous, she wasn’t ours. Yet!

That night was the last time I saw her. I left for camp the next day,

and for the first three weeks, she was all I could think about. On July

11th, I had a phone call with my mom. The first words out of her mouth

were, I have good news and I have bad news. Deep in my bones, it

felt like I already knew what it was. I was squirming out of my seat

with excitement and anticipation. Okay, bad news first, I hurriedly

squeaked. I was told that my fish, Jacob, had died, but I didn’t even give

it a second thought because, swiftly after, there was the news I’d been waiting for my whole life. WE HAD A DOG! She was named Oakley,

and I had never been happier. I might’ve blown my mother’s eardrum

out from how loud I screamed. I said my goodbyes, hung up the phone,

and ran as fast as I could straight back to my bunk. For the rest of the

week, my bunk mates and counselors had to hear every second of the

day that I now had a dog.

***

On the last day of camp, I was devastated to leave, but in the back of

my mind, all I could picture was my beautiful Oakley. So, when I saw

my mom for the first time in 2 months, instead of running to go hug her

like all the other kids, I immediately bombarded her with questions.

What is she like? Where does she sleep? What’s her favorite toy? She

answered with a sort of wishful, longing look on her face that I hadn’t

really noticed until reflecting now.

When we were about a block away from home, she turned to me.

“John moved out,” she almost whispered. I didn’t know what to say or

how to console her. Then came the blow, “And took Oakley with him.”

I was in shock. What? When? How? But all that I could muster was a

weak “Sorry.”

Apparently, they had gotten into a huge fight and, without a word, he

had scooped Oakley up and left. He never even came back for his stuff;

instead, showing his true colors, he hired moving guys to do that. But

Oakley was mine! I had been the one to pick her out. My mom’s name

was the one on all the forms. How could he do this to us? But I didn’t

mention any of it. I felt selfish for missing a dog I had only met once.

My mom had just lost her boyfriend and a future she thought she was

going to have. It was silly and rude of me to say anything to her except a

bunch of sorrys and what can I do’s.

About a month later, we began a new search. I think my mom felt

bad that there was such a loss of life in our house. We needed a friend.

Going from 11 people and animals in the house (6 people, 3 fish, 1

snake, and 1 dog), back to just 3 was a huge shift, and something was

very obviously missing.

***

We were able to find a new dog. An old, raggedy, smelly, mean yorkie

named Tinkerbelle (we called her Stinkerbelle). From past trauma,

we could only assume, she HATED men. It was unfortunate for my

brother, even if my mom and I somewhat liked her. But in only the four

days we had her, she bit five people, so back to the shelter she went.

I remember being so sad that, during lunch, my friends commented about it. I sadly admitted that my dog was leaving that day, which

prompted them to exclaim, “I didn’t even know you had a dog!”

By November of that same year, we were desperate. So, I don’t like

to admit it, but we bought a dog. We all felt guilty that we weren’t

adopting a rescue, but we had really, truly, sincerely tried. Now, though,

we were the ones who needed rescuing. Once it was confirmed which

dog we would get, as a family, we would Facetime the owner from the

day she was born until she was ready to come home. Each time we hung

up, we would fantasize over where she would sleep, which toys and

treats we would give her. We were ready for and needed this addition

to our small family of three. She was going to be our “redo” dog, our

new opportunity.

***

By mid December, she was ready for pick up. I couldn’t believe it was

actually happening. I guess the third time really is the charm. On our

drive to pick her up, we were discussing names from Snuffulufugus (the

stuffed animal from Sesame Street, though this was a little too childish)

to Whiskey (though my mom thought it would be inappropriate if we

were to “go get Whiskey for a walk”) to Hazelnut (my suggestion),

which was perfect. She was a dark, deep brown, almost caramelized like

the outside of a hazelnut. Her coat curled into spirals, losing you in the

richness of her color. She was a mini petite goldendoodle, so we knew

she would get lighter as she grew. These days her color is light brown,

tan, almost golden in the sunlight, the color of the sweet nutty inside of

a hazelnut.

Hazelnut is my literal child, my soul dog, and I can’t imagine my life

without her. I know it’s stupid, but I know there is a deeper connection

between us. My lucky number for as long as I could remember has been

26. Hazelnut was born on 10/26 and weighs 26 pounds. There are too

many ways in which she is perfect, so much so that I sometimes find

myself missing her even if I’ve only been away a couple of minutes.

Sometimes, though, late at night, when she’s snoring under my

blankets tucked in bed, I think of Oakley. Of how much I miss her, and

how much I wish she were still my beautiful mutt, but mostly, how this

perfect little brown, golden, curly, energetic, sweet sweet dog wouldn’t

be snuggling here with me without my namesake coming first. As much

as I miss Oakley, she paved the path for us to have and be able to love

Hazelnut. And while I don’t necessarily believe in a higher being, I do

believe in fate, and I think that not being able to keep Oakley led us to

have the best thing that happened to our family. Hazelnut.