THATCH

This past weekend was a rough one for my daughter Romy.  And like waves from a pebble thrown in a pond, the effect still lingers.  To understand her feelings you have to understand Romy.

While among the people I admire would be Lance Armstrong, Winston Churchill, Nelson Mandela and others, Romy’s would be the people leading the parade outside Neiman-Marcus protesting fur coats, those rescuing animals and fighting for the rights of dolphins.  They are far more admirable to her than those most of us would think of.  Particularly those that make it their mission in life to fend for God’s creatures. 

 

 

Romy has spent much of her leisure time the past few years searching for a pet, ideally a dog that would mesh with her lifestyle.  When I say mesh I mean fit into the rhythm of a single professional girl, living in a small, second floor apartment and the need to share Romy’s affection with Rico, her green, yellow and red parrot and BFF. 

Thinking her arrangement might not be the best for a dog, she tried to convince her mother and me that we needed a dog.  Since we live close by that would do for all of us.  She even searched for and found dogs trained for the deaf.  Like a dog for a blind person but, in their case, deaf people.  The reasoning being I would be protected from a night time intruder or even a fire.  My wife saw right through this and said no.

 

 

Romy had narrowed her search down to a Wheaten Terrier.  Her research showed they are an Irish breed, mid-sized, loveable, low maintenance dog.  Perfect.  Last week she learned there would be a rescue group at a local Petco with their usual German Shepherds and, lo-and-behold, a Wheaten Terrier.  Come Saturday morning she was there.  There were 8 or 9 German Shepherds and there was Thatch. 

Thatch, as the rescue lady explained, had been hit by a car in Los Angeles and abandoned.  His right front leg had been mangled.  Animal control did their best to repair his leg and then waited a period of time for someone to claim the dog.  No one showed.  Thatch was then sent to a place where animals are sent that have no future.  It was here that the rescue lady saw him and took him in.  Romy fell in love with Thatch, signed the necessary papers and took him home. 

 

 

I called her that afternoon to see if she wanted to come for dinner.  She explained what she had done, reality and regret beginning to sink in.  She knocked on our door and there was Romy with Thatch.  They call them wheat colored.  I would say more like strawberry blond.  If they had a casting call for a Disney movie about a little girl and her dog Thatch would win hands down.  To look him in the eye I had to part the hair over his face. 

He laid at Romy’s feet while we had dinner.  She told us she thought she had made a mistake.  His leg was so bad she had to carry him up the stairs to her apartment.  Her dream of going for walks with her dog in the beautiful Back Bay area where she lives would not be feasible.  The high cost of potential medical bills was a daunting thought.  After much discussion, she made the decision to return the dog.  We helped lift Thatch into the back seat of Romy’s car and she left. 

 

 

After a sleepless night she called the lady and told her of her decision.  Romy carried Thatch down the stairs and to her car.  He resisted mightily as if he knew what was happening.  Before leaving him Romy asked for assurance once more that nothing would happen to Thatch.  The lady, with all the heart you would expect of someone who rescues’s animals, assured Romy that she does now and always will have the same feelings for him that she did when she saw him and made the decision to save him.  She said once more nothing would ever happen to him.    

Romy was heartbroken.  As parents, Terry and I were as well.  Our kids have moved on to lead their own lives but we still live and die with them.