SOL

It was 5:00, the evening before Thanksgiving and I had a million things on my to do list:  bake pies, clean the living room, finish cards, wash the linens.  And of course, my husband was still caught at work and not home to help me get started.  The phone rang and I was relieved he was calling.  Hopefully, he was telling me he was almost home.

"I have a surprise for you," my husband said mysteriously.

"Unless it's diamonds, chocolate, or a genie to do all of my chores, take it back," I responded.

It was none of the above.  It was nothing I had the least bit of interest in.  It was a dog.

I couldn't believe he would bring a hyper, running in circles, twenty-pound non-stop, fur-coated muscle machine terrier into our home.  I refused to name him.

"Let's call him Pal," I suggested.  "That way, when we take him to the pound on Monday, I won't feel so badly.

My heart went out to our seventeen year old American Eskimo as she shockingly endured this "other" puppy.  Jumping into bed with her, pulling on her tail, beating her to every dinner bowl and harassing her right in the middle of nap time.

That was six years ago.  Pal's still her and his name stuck around, too.  Perhaps it's not always necessary to look for new friends.  Sometimes they just come to us.