As I stood looking down on this adorable clumsy mess of a dog from my safe perch on the arm of the couch screaming from what my parents interpreted at delight but in all actuality was horror the naming process began.
"How about something less gay," My Dad suggested democratically.
"MARSHMALLOW!" I yelled, thinking of it as a sure improvement. In third grade I'm not sure I fully grasped my Dad's meaning of gay, to me it was still in the sense of "Geoffry the Giraffe is happy and Gay."
"Well then," said my Mom, "What could you live with?"
"Wesley." He said. "Wesley the westy."
As a family we took Wesley on his first walk. My parents did not plan incredibly well for this so we were without a leash, bowl, or collar. But because it had recently snowed he wasn't able to get very far. He just hopped into piles of the white stuff and rolled around until we had to capture him and put his small shaking form by the heating vent to warm up.
Even though we lacked most amenities that make owning a dog possible what we did have was the crate he came in, which became his room. Unlike alot of dogs who hate their cage, Wesley loved his. My Mom put a pillow wrapped in a flese green plaid blanket in it that was better than the one on my bed at the time. When we didn't know where he was we looked here, he was usually asleep or lying on his back with his ears at odd angles.
The next year almost exactly the house was sold and we were spending a week with my grandparents. Wesley came along with us, his crate surrounded by bags upon bags of our stuff, Christmas presents hidden among the luggage.
My Grana was pretty much done with dogs ever since the last English Setter died about ten years earlier. My Mom met Bob, the dog, right before he passed. He placed his head on his lap to be pet and as he walked away a string of pink slime connected his drooping mouth to my Mom's knees from across the room.
My Grana was in no way ready to have a one year old puppy at the house at this point but I give her credit for not killing him in the week we stayed. My PopPop though was ecstatic to have a dog in the house again. He thought we did a terrible job naming him though and re-named him Spencer. To this day my PopPop still calls Wesley Spencer.
Even though we lacked most amenities that make owning a dog possible what we did have was the crate he came in, which became his room. Unlike alot of dogs who hate their cage, Wesley loved his. My Mom put a pillow wrapped in a flese green plaid blanket in it that was better than the one on my bed at the time. When we didn't know where he was we looked here, he was usually asleep or lying on his back with his ears at odd angles.
The next year almost exactly the house was sold and we were spending a week with my grandparents. Wesley came along with us, his crate surrounded by bags upon bags of our stuff, Christmas presents hidden among the luggage.
My Grana was pretty much done with dogs ever since the last English Setter died about ten years earlier. My Mom met Bob, the dog, right before he passed. He placed his head on his lap to be pet and as he walked away a string of pink slime connected his drooping mouth to my Mom's knees from across the room.
My Grana was in no way ready to have a one year old puppy at the house at this point but I give her credit for not killing him in the week we stayed. My PopPop though was ecstatic to have a dog in the house again. He thought we did a terrible job naming him though and re-named him Spencer. To this day my PopPop still calls Wesley Spencer.
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