Cookie

It was Mom’s birthday, and a fresh wave of grief ignited almost five years after she left us. As a distraction, I loaded up the kids and headed to the pet store on National Adoption Day. The center isle of the store was lined with crates containing a variety of homeless cats and dogs. The kids and I peered into each container. A senior Chihuahua shared a crate with another small dog. He was shivering but seemed to calm when we reached our fingers through the wires to scratch his head. A voice behind us said, “He’s 13 years old, blind, and deaf. Want to hold him?” The kids squealed, “Oh yes, please”.

We called home to tell my husband about the sweet pup who needed a home. He said the dog would fall in the pool and drown and there was no way we could adopt him. With two heartbroken kids, I headed toward home. Momentary insanity took over as I turned toward the local animal shelter. I said a quick prayer asking for it to be clear to us if we should adopt a new pet. We pulled into the parking lot and, before we even made it to the shelter, a man and his son were walking by with a skinny, flea covered pup. “We found her running down the road. Want her?” the man asked.

As we drove home with a weak and exhausted pup on my son’s lap, he asked, “What will we call her?” After tossing around a few ideas, the name came to me. “We can call her Cookie”, I said, “in honor of Grandma Cook”. That year, on her birthday, Mom sent us the sweetest gift.