That One

We went to the county shelter with a name already picked out. Bailey. We had it decided before we ever pulled into the parking lot, the way you decide things when you have not yet met the actual dog.

They turned the puppies loose in the yard to play. Five of them tumbling around, and we were told there were three more still inside. A young man came out with the last three balanced in his arms, and before he had taken two steps, Mark and I said it at the same time, pointing at the same puppy.

“That one.”

Not a discussion. Not a maybe.

That one.

Here is something we did not know: the officers who bring the puppies in get to name them. So while we had walked in carrying Bailey in our pockets, our puppy had already been given a name of his own.

Ripley.

And the thing is, it fit him better than the name we brought.

So we kept it.

What we could not agree on was which Ripley he was. I thought of Ripley from Aliens, all quiet competence. Mark went straight to Ripley's Believe It or Not. A few hours later, after watching him operate, I landed on the truth: this dog is the Talented Mr. Ripley. Calm, watchful, and entirely too good at getting exactly what he wants.

Because that is the other thing about Ripley.

He is quiet.

Almost unsettlingly so. He was clearly held a lot wherever he came from, and all he wants is to be cuddled. At twelve pounds, this is a workable arrangement. At the fifty pounds he is headed for, we may need to renegotiate the terms.

We set up a crate in our room for his first night. He had opinions about the crate, and none of them were good. The crying started, soft but steady. Mark went to bed earlier than I did, and at some point the crying quietly stopped. I assumed Ripley had settled and fallen asleep. Problem solved. First night, handled.

It was not until 2:30 in the morning that I felt a cold wet nose and a small muzzle settle itself directly onto my face. I came awake enough to register a tiny body already tucked into the bed between us, and asked Mark when the dog had gotten in. He said, without much concern, that the puppy had been there all night.

So that is how that went. The crate is now more of a suggestion.

A quick trip outside for a potty break, and the three of us went back to sleep, having apparently established the nightly ritual on night one. The Talented Mr. Ripley, indeed.

Belle is thrilled. She has a new little buddy to play with and, knowing Belle, to train into shape. She has been waiting for someone smaller and more bewildered than herself, and now she has him.

The farm is good at this part. One chapter closes and the place does not stay quiet for long. A new little body shows up, claims the bed, ignores the crate, and somehow already belongs.

A new cycle starts on the farm.