Miles Murphy

I recalled the previous twenty-seven years, a four-decade span of time when every birthday list or Christmas letter to either Santa or eventually mom and dad routinely included one request: a dog. As a child in elementary school, my parents told me that I was too young, too irresponsible to take care of an animal. They felt that they would be the ones to take care of my pet. Late night walks, veterinary visits, the demands of ‘pet-hood.’ The list went on and on as to why this was not the time. I always thought that my dad detested animals. For him, the thought of having a furry, four-legged slobbering, shedding, shaking, barking creature scuffing up the oak floors on the inside of his quiet, tidy home or urine-scalding the grass on his front yard would be unimaginable. Having said that, as a young kid, I always felt that I could work my ‘mommy’ over, to have her convince my ‘father’ that I would be responsible and trustworthy. I would butter her up, help with chores, make my bed, clean off my dinner plate, and put my toys away with the ultimate goal of showcasing my maturity at the grand old age of eight. But to no avail.

The same trend continued into middle school, but the odds did not grow in my favor, as both of my parents were then working. My dad, Frank, was commuting into New York City, waking up at 5:00 am to get the 6:23 am Man’s Transit train from Whitehouse Station, NJ to Penn Station. The field of information technology was continuing to blossom, and his career at a leading worldwide enterprise and subsequent paycheck were flourishing as a result. My mom was a substitute teacher at the local elementary school. With both of them out of the house by 7:30 AM, I realized that my chances had all but diminished. Then as I entered high school, made the Honor Roll, became the President of the French Honor Society, and built my academic resume for acceptance into college, the trend continued. Was I more responsible, mature, and trustworthy? Yes. But in their eyes, with me leaving the homeland for college, my dad did not want to get stuck pet-sitting when all the other birds had left the nest. Do you think anything changed when I was in college? Of course not. My dad would always say “I’ll let you have a dog when I know of a good vet.” Ten years later, I was on the verge of taking him up on that offer…

A sudden knock on the passenger window broke my train of thought. “Are you coming? It’s starting to pour,” Sarah asked.

The rain was filtering through the overlying trees onto the roof of my car…

…“Are you sure that this is the right time?” Sarah questioned with a frustrating glance.

I really wanted to say, “No, I’m not sure. I drove you forty-five minutes out here on your weekend off at the wrong time just to aggravate you.” In the meantime the puddles were forming on the gravel by the entrance way to each building, in part due to the fact there were no gutters on the roof so the water just continued to waterfall around the perimeter of the building.

After a couple of minutes of evading puddles and looking for another entrance, the door at the top of the steps in the second building swung open.

“Good morning, you must be Phil and Sarah.” A woman in her mid-forties wearing an 11th Hour Shelter sweatshirt and a nametag that read ‘Tina’ approached us with her right hand extended. She apologized for the moat surrounding the building and led us up to the main office…

…“Where is Miles going to be staying?” Tina asked, pen in hand, eager to etch our response into the formal documents of 11th Hour Shelter.

“206 Captain’s Woods Road, in Whitehouse Station,” I quickly responded. That was a bit of a fabrication, in part because that was the address for my parents. There was no chance that I would put my apartment address on the paper, because then she would be calling the apartment, verifying weight restrictions, pet acceptances, yada yada. Figuring the new luxury apartment complex where we were now living had only recently adopted a pet-friendly policy on dogs thirty-five pounds and under, I was all but certain that our new furry friend would surpass that limit. Getting evicted in the first week of having my first dog would be a problem. Simply put, I was not going to give the leasing office a heads-up by telling Tina that I was going to be bringing our unregistered-dog to 445 Horizon Circle in the coming hours.

I wanted to get this over with. Tina was not helping me in that regard as the plethora of questions continued. We wrapped up the twenty-minute question and answer session with some one-sided lecturing on the importance of veterinary visits and heartworm prevention.

“Have you decided on a veterinarian in your area?” Tina continued.

Yeah, me, I thought to myself. I wanted to tell her that she could stop the monologue. I do this for a living. With that in mind, this was the perfect example of when less is more. Do not say anything, keep it short and sweet. By the way, it is illegal for a veterinarian to treat his own dog, not that I was planning on it.

“No, not yet,” Sarah replied. “We have discussed some possibilities.”

After jotting down a few checkmarks and notes in our file, Tina placed the folder on the coffee table, and wheeled her office chair over to the computer to begin entering our information from the questionnaire sheet that we had previously filled out prior to coming. She called into the next room and asked Samantha the anticipated question, “Would you like to go get Miles?” Out from an enclosed room emerged Sam, a volunteer wearing a Mount Olive High School sweatshirt. I’d say she had to be no older than seventeen, mostly because of her school apparel, young complexion, five-foot stature and one-hundred-pound frame. Walking across the room, she acknowledged us with a simple smile and grabbed an umbrella in the basket next to the front door. Stepping outside, Sam put the umbrella to use, visually mapped out her pathway, making the vigilant decision to dodge the puddles as she hurried across the parking lot in the direction of the first building.

I could not believe that within a handful of minutes my twenty-seven-year long dream of having a dog would finally come true. I squirmed in my wooden chair waiting patiently, full of anticipation. I don’t get giddy, but I was as excited as I would ever let on to be. My demeanor was calm, but I remember that the stoic shell of my exterior was struggling to muffle the increasing intensity of my heart beat. Sarah and I were small talking, essentially conversing about nothing in an attempt to alleviate the nervousness that was due to uncertain expectations. Sarah was making me anxious, in part because of her unknowing overuse of nervous laughter. Seriously, is the question, ‘Where are we going to put his crate’ that funny? Maybe in this circumstance, yes.

“Here he comes!” Sarah expressed with her unperfected, yet characteristic nervous elation.

From the overlooking window, we could see the front door to the first building swing open. Like a stallion out of the gates at the Kentucky Derby, we saw Miles bolt out of the kennel, dragging Sam by the leash. She did not have her umbrella. So much for avoiding puddles and keeping those shoes dry. He looked like a sled dog from the Iditarod as he mushed across the lot and up the steps. The vision of him running up the steps faded behind the cover of the wall and was replaced by the sound of panting being altered by the pull of the collar around his neck.

As the door opened, there he stood. Literally. With his open mouth and droopy tongue, Miles was hopping on his rear legs, flailing his outstretched front paws, and making Sam struggle to hold back his inner rearing bronco…