The Beginning

I knew from the beginning that my new companion must be small. My personal living space in the facility where I live, a smallish bedroom and a "half bath", would be too cramped for a larger dog. Providing sufficient exercise would be extremely difficult, and the cost of food alone would be prohibitive. (A dear friend spends more on food for his Great Dane and Irish Wolfhound for a week than I do on Gizmo for months.) So--it would be a small dog. The largest store in a pet store chain (selling everything having to do with pets but the pets themselves) in my state holds a Super Adoption Weekend twice a year, inviting the Humane Society and all the Rescue Shelters in the state to bring their dogs and cats to the event. I am reigning in the urge to tell about this in excruciating detail... I had the unexpected opportunity to be taken to see every small dog there; I had my pick, as I was there before the public was admitted. I thought I couldn't possibly decide between about half a dozen little dogs, until I came to an enclosure [good-sized cage] with a Pomeranian and a black dog. That foxy-looking black dog looked up into my eyes and slowly walked over to me. The Rescue Shelter worker exclaimed with surprise, "He never does that! He always tries to hide in the corner." It was clear that he chose me! I had no doubt that we were meant to be together. _____________________________________ First came the formalities. The little dog didn't respond at all to his listed name, "Cowboy", which I didn't like anyway, so from the very beginning he was "Gizmo". (I like to fiddle with gizmos and gadgets--small interesting items--so that is the origin of his name.) There were forms to sign and fees to be paid, then we "officially" became a team. I had already purchased most necessary items (food, treats, dishes, books [naturally--I'm a scientist, after all] on owning and training dogs, among other things). I asked for help in outfitting him with collar and leash, then finally, a kennel in which to take him home. Gizmo struggled a bit when his new collar went on, but the first real sign of problems appeared when the time came to get ready for the Paratransit ("Handicapped") bus ride home. Gizmo was terrified of the kennel. Three men were required to put him inside. The bus driver kindly carried the kennel onto the bus so I wouldn't have to balance it on the lift. Somewhat dazed, I awkwardly held the kennel on my lap in my wheelchair and tried to calm the frightened, whimpering little fellow, talking softly and singing/humming to him as we traveled towards home.