Word Wrangling Woman, Stories, Novels, Blog, Writer

Hooligan’s Roost

Posted on | January 7, 2016 | 4 Comments

Despite entreaties from family members, I did the worst. I bumped into a pretty face and brought him home with me. Finding a dog on the internet is kinda like online dating. It’s time consuming, and you don’t really know what the heck you’re gonna get. Nevertheless, I made an appointment to meet the guy, drove two hours to get to there on a cold, wet, pre-Christmas Day. Hope, caution, and guilt warred in my head, the whole time.

“Sit here,” his handler instructed after welcoming me. “I’ll get ‘Hagrid.'” I sank into a scruffy red camp chair, instantly hating the sound and look of that name, and waited, warily, to meet him. I saw his bulk as his handler led him up a small hill and straight toward me. The smell of him crested and swelled on the breeze when he was still several feet away. My eyes teared with the stench. Warning bells went off in my head.

No, no,” I told myself, as he stepped up and fixed his sad, golden eyes on mine. He was filthy–covered in some sort of  yellow sticky stuff, huge, he’d lost most of his lovely black coat, he stank. I panicked. This creature was such a mess. Then he gently rested his lovely, enormous head on my knee, for a long, long moment. In that silence I heard his cry. I knew he desperately needed a rescuer.

“He’s being shipped to Southern California tomorrow,” the handler said, and I saw the writing on the wall. It was spelled euthanasia. I thought of instructions received from my daughters. “Get a small dog. You are too old for a dog that weighs more than you do. Be sensible!” And truthfully I tried. But big dogs are an addiction of sorts, especially Newfies and Newfie mixes. They are so mellow. He was everything I loved: a giant, sort of hairy, black furred, obviously gentle and sweet-minded; and everything I didn’t: dirty, smelly, several years older than stated, overweight, and I was soon to find out, suffering from ear, and horrific skin infections, worms, arthritis in his back hips, and a barking fear of  large trucks.

“He does love car rides,” a woman holding his paper work said. That was definitely a plus for me. “He’s good with other dogs, adults, and children,” she continued, “but no cats, bunnies, chickens or small dogs. He thinks they’re finger lickin’ good, according to the notes.”

My heart skipped a beat at that information, but I agreed to walk him around a bit to test his leash behavior. And in no time at all, I’d thrown caution to the winds and was writing out an adoption fee check to the rescue.

I loaded him into the back seat of my pick-up, cracked the windows, and as we slowly wended our way home, I rehearsed how I’d break the news to my kids. By the time we drove into my driveway I’d decided to change his name. Although he is gentle sort, he has an odd, front end swagger, white spats on all paws, and a white bow tie at his neck, hence his new moniker: Hooligan. And home has become Hooligan’s Roost. Pictures to come.



4 Responses to “Hooligan’s Roost”

  1. Josh
    May 8th, 2017 @ 11:43 am

    I also love car rides. What a great post!

  2. Manager
    May 8th, 2017 @ 11:53 am

    Thanks Josh.

  3. Deborah Taylor-French
    May 19th, 2017 @ 12:31 pm

    What fun. I hope to meet your new dog soon. 😀

  4. Manager
    May 19th, 2017 @ 5:47 pm

    Deborah, I’m glad you enjoyed Hooligan’s Roost. It was fun to write, too.

Leave a Reply

  • About

    My name is Patrice Garrett. I'm a writer harboring the soul of a cowgirl. I have a penchant for the Old West. I believe, as do many others, that I lived another life and experienced the California Gold Rush first hand. My first two novels reflect my connection with the era.
  • Follow us on Facebook

  • Subscribe to the Word Wrangling Woman Newsletter!

    * indicates required
    Email Format
  • Subscribe to our feed