perilsofeileen

As I was writing “In Memory of Honey” in April, I felt throbbing in a back molar.  On Good Friday.  On top of my heartache.   The pain was worse next day, so I called my dentist.  Office closed Holy Saturday.  I didn’t know how I’d get through Easter weekend, so called the emergency number, and wonderful Dr. Miranda opened his office just for me, examined the tooth, gave me an antibiotic prescription and referred me to an endodontist for possible root canal.  Been there.  Done that.  Not pleasant.  And very expensive.

Busy endodontist couldn’t see me till two weeks later, and recommended extraction instead. Almost two weeks after that, a dental surgeon mercifully removed the offending tooth. I was more nervous before the extraction than I’d been before more serious surgery.  An aunt’s jaw was broken during the procedure.  And my brother’s face swelled like a balloon after his wisdom teeth were removed.  But my experience was  painless and trouble free.  Dr. Vafakos was very pleasant and reassuring.  He also happened to look a lot like Richard Gere.  Didn’t need stitches.  And I’m healing nicely.

After all the above, I decided it was time to look for another dog to fill the empty place in my life.  A friend mentioned the Fallston Animal Rescue Movement, and I drove there that day and found my Angel.  Meant to be.  FARM’s pets are usually kept in foster homes until ready for adoption,  but Angel had just been delivered from the Maryland SPCA and was in one of several cages at the Feed Plus store whose owners founded the organization.  Attracted by her sweet face and bright eyes,  I put my hand in the cage to pet her and she gently licked my fingers. (I’m easy.) Then I saw the sign above advising against that interaction. They let me take her for a walk and I was smitten.

After they checked my references — Honey’s vet gave me a glowing one, and the groomer said he told them:  “If I were a dog, I’d like to be Mrs. Gallagher’s dog!” (Maybe the nicest compliment I’d ever had.) Went back the next Saturday and brought Angel home.  She’d been called Rory, but her new name fits her better. She’s another mini-poodle mix, seven years old,  charcoal colored, in excellent health, with a sweet disposition. A few pounds overweight, but less hearty meals and more walks  will get her in shape again.  Me, too.  I lost five excess pounds giving up cocktails, wine and beer  for Lent — except on St. Patrick’s Day, of course.  Before we know it,  Angel and I will be as svelte as a middle-aged dog and 82-year-old grandma can be expected to be.

Angel and I are having dinner soon, so this is more concise than most of my missives. She eats a small meal morning and evening, with nothing in between but an occasional healthy snack for praising purposes. We get along beautifully so far.  I wasn’t up to training a frisky puppy again, but Angel is  peppy for her size, trotting along briskly on our outings.  And she relaxes near me or on my lap during our quiet times.  As I said, there was only one Honey and I’ll never forget her or stop loving her.  I like to think she chose Angel for me.