Never Trust Me Again

     Events have shown me to be a prevaricator, a speaker of untruth, and a person whose word cannot be trusted.  What I have said I would not do I have done.  I did not intend to lie, but I failed to adhere to my announced plan.  I capitulated.  I caved.  There is no excuse, no pardon should be granted.  No exoneration extended.  The scarlet letter is deserved, the mark of Cain cannot be washed away.  When a person abandons their word, they need to be shunned, ostracized, reviled.   Yes, I know . . .this litany of mea culpas is pathetic.  I must make a full breast of the matter, holding nothing back.  Specifics and detail.  OK.

     Some weeks ago, I became a foster guardian for a female St. Bernard.  This was to be for a limited time as I was working with Illinois St. Bernard Rescue to find a male Saint to adopt.  I knew the skepticism that would emerge from family and friends that I would be able to take this middle aged dog, mistreated by unscrupulous breeders, into my home, and turn her over to a family whisking her into their home permanently.  Predictive chants of “failed foster” were expressed, but I scoffed.  I wanted a younger, healthier dog.  A male.  I had not had a female dog since I was a boy.

     I was fortunate to rise to the top of the list for an unadvertised male Saint not even a year old.  I heard a lot about him and knew how and why his praises were sung.  I met him.  He was brought by my house.  I walked him and saw that all the accolades were called for.  Beautiful dog.  Vibrant positive energy to burn.  Excellent temperament. He could well outlive me.  And I would therefore escape the pain of putting him down in my own last years. He was mine for the asking. 

     Then I turned back to assess Holly.  She was not young, nor free of minor, annoying health issues, and some stubborn  behaviors.  But she had a quality that was essential.  She needed me.  The male dog did not.  He would be adopted in a New York minute by giant breed fans.  When a dog needs me, when I am perhaps one of few adopters open and welcoming of her, then that becomes the dog I need.  So I proved the failed foster voices correct. Earlier this month, I signed the contract, paid the fee, and she’s now my own.  I’m finally mastering referring to her by the correct pronoun, and I slip less often into saying “O’Malley” instead of “Holly.”  She’s the one who is, not the one(s) who have been.  It’s a proud pantheon.  And she is the queen.  Like most servant loyalists, I am at her majesty's beck and call.