Evolution

Annie Oakley was an American sharpshooter and a hero of mine in elementary school. She 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.