The Dog Who Came to Dinner

The Dog Who Came to Dinner
Quizmo LaGrande

Dustie came to dinner shortly after the Fourth of July. An easy day to remember; of three children, it was my oldest daughter’s 10th birthday. The 10th of July.

We had recently bought our first house with a yard and we were ready for a dog. A good family dog; a Golden Retriever was the objective.

And then, voilà, there he was… a neighbor from the previous apartment building we lived at called and asked if we might take a beautiful, well-behaved Golden Retriever she had found a few days earlier but could not keep in her small upstairs unit.

Of course, we would!

Well this gorgeous, polite, very blonde, Golden Retriever obviously belonged to someone. Somewhere, someone out there was heartbroken and searching for this wonderful dog. I vigorously put out an all-points bulletin—ads in the local paper, notices on phone poles, even checked a few times with the pound.

Two weeks went by; then we got the dreaded call, “I think you have my dog.”

“Yes, that’s my dog,” the nice young man said when came to pick him up. He told us the dog’s name was Dustie, he was four-years-old, and that he frequently had him bred. As thanks for keeping his dog safe and secure, he would give us a puppy from the next litter Dustie sired, whenever that may be. I was happy Dustie found his home, ecstatic at the thought of a puppy, but brokenhearted the darling had to go. I did find it a bit odd though, that Dustie was not “elated” when his old friend came to get him. I could tell Dustie recognized him, and Dustie was happy, but he did not display that overjoyed greeting you get after finding a long-lost friend.

Several weeks went by.

Then one evening, there was a strange knock at the door. I peeked through the blinds, but no one was there. I went back about my business of preparing dinner. There was that strange knock again. This time I opened the door.

It was Dustie dancing on the porch deck, and what a wonderful reunion! The whole family petted and purred, cooed and yahooed! The “elation” was there this time as he danced, and darted back and forth though the house as if he’d found his way home. Dustie was in doggie heaven with all the love being shown him.

I called Dustie’s owner and left a message—we had Dustie, he was safe and to please come pick him up. The fellow was out of town, so Dustie stayed a day or so.

About a two weeks later, the same thing happened. Dustie, once again dancing at the door, came for dinner. I called; the fellow came.

We could not wait for one of Dustie’s puppies, so we started searching the newspaper classifieds for a puppy of our own. Dustie was not our dog. And I didn’t want the nice fellow to think we were trying to steal Dustie away.

Dustie’s visits became more and more frequent—once a week, then to within days, then to within hours. Dustie was not our dog, but he kept coming, and I kept calling. The nice young man kept picking him up.

I finally learned where Dustie lived and started taking him home myself. I just couldn’t have this beautiful creature running around on the streets to get stolen or hit by a car. The owner was single, and was not home a lot. Dustie was lonely. Dustie wanted a family.

In the meantime, we did find a dog of our own. That October, we purchased a darling, six-week-old, female Golden Retriever we named Rosie, the sweetest dog in the world.

Ultimately, after several months of doing the “ding-dong doggie ditch,” the final straw lit. I took Dustie to his home; put him in the yard and locked the gate. I scolded him and told him to “Stay!” I got in my car and drove off. About half a block later, I looked in the rear view mirror and there was Dustie chasing after the car! I stopped, opened the door; and he bounded in. This time I took him home—to our home! This time I did not call. This time the nice fellow did not come pick him up. Dustie came to dinner and to stay. We became a two dog family.

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In January, 2006, we had to put Dustie down. He was 15 years old. His hips finally gave way. Other than that, he had a healthy, happy dog life with the family of his choice.

My youngest daughter complains that he can’t be gone; she cannot recollect Dustie not ever being here. She was two when he first arrived. I explained to her, “Dustie is here; he will always be with us, both in our hearts and our memories. That is his gift.”

Dear Dustie, dog who came to dinner and danced your way into our hearts, thank you for your love and devotion.

Thank you for choosing us!

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