We had to find a new home for Little Miss.
She's gorgeous. She's small and portable. She came whenever I called her. She followed me around the house, planting herself contentedly beneath my feet whenever I paused. She slept peacefully in my lap. She gamboled cheerfully with Miss Puppy.
But -- whenever Robespierre entered the picture, she became possessed by the devil.
I get it. Boys are noisy. They slam doors, scramble up and down stairs, lurch into and out of chairs, fidget and twitch and bounce.
Little Miss didn't get it.
She never managed to adjust to the fireworks that are Robey, and every day she became more unhinged whenever he was within earshot. If anyone closed a door anywhere in the house she'd immediately panic, fearing he was about to crash around the corner. She hid from him beneath furniture or in her cage. When he came near her, even if just to retrieve his sneaker from under the kitchen table (where it didn't belong anyway and she was probably chewing on it, but that's a different issue), she'd bolt at him, growling and yowling.
My loaf of bread with an apostrophe tail was becoming a wolverine.
Oh, we tried. We signed up for puppy classes. We consulted a therapist. We put Little Miss at Robey's mercy, hoping she'd come to accept him if he were her meal ticket.
But Robey made it clear that overhauling his agenda of at-home-boisterousness was not a viable option; short of employing tranquilizer darts, there was simply nothing I could do to force him to tiptoe from room to room as if he were trying to burgle us in the middle of the night.
I guess that's a good thing, isn't it? My son has no future as a burglar. Now a demolitions expert... maybe.
Finally it was enough already.
Fighting the lump in my throat, I called Tibetan Terrier Rescue and explained our predicament. I worried that my poor Little Miss was going to be bumped from place to place, never finding the forever home she deserved. I fretted that she might end up cowering in the corner of a cage in a clamorous animal shelter, with no one to cuddle her and whisper secrets in her floppy ears. I chafed at having to convince the Cupcake that ours was not the ideal home for Little Miss; that she'd be happier and safer in a home where she wasn't afraid of anyone; that our situation wasn't quite the same as when Harley came to live with Daisy since Harley evidently gets along with the entire family.
Camille at TTR took pity on me. The gods of pet rescue took pity on me. Phones were worked. Cherubs sang. Angels wept. Within a week Camille found a home for Little Miss, with a childless professional couple looking for a companion for their six-year-old TT, and evidently prepared to take on a skittish rescue dog.
The kids said goodbye. Robey sighed. Cupcake sobbed. I choked back tears and stole a few last cuddles and whispers. The rescue people loaded Little Miss into a crate and transported her to her new home, where, we heard later, she played with her new friends and cuddled like a pro.
So that's it. I learned a couple lessons. First, the pet has to fit the family, not the other way around (so, sorry Cupcake: no bunny). Second, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that I can force a situation into the mold I'd visualized, sometimes I simply cannot. Third, never stand on the top step of a ladder.
Oops. Wrong lesson.
Third, doing the right thing sometimes hurts A LOT, but in the end I have the comfort of knowing I did the right thing.
Bye, Poppy. Best of luck. I'll miss you.
