Lately Indy has been waking up early, collecting the Oregonian from the front porch and sitting down at the kitchen counter with the adopt-a-pet section. With scissors, she cuts out the faces of the dogs that seem like they are lost or lonely and with scotch tape, she displays them on the wall. Sometimes if the paper is late, she will comb the Humane Society website, always looking for small dogs that would fit into a bike-basket or purse. The other morning as she was browsing online, she came across a little white chihuahua who answers to the name of “Tiny Timber”. She asked me how much money it would take to buy the dog and I told her a lot and she said she had money saved in her piggy bank and I tried to explain to her that it wasn’t about the money.

Everyday we have canine negotiations: she makes me promise that she can get a dog when she turns nine; I say that we can talk about it when she is ten. So for now she drags a leash around with a stuffed dog tied haphazardly to the other end. The dog is furry and small and forever covered in sticks and dust bunnies. And at the moment, that scruffy little fake dog plays the part of Tiny Timber. But every now and then, when I fixate on the real leash/fake animal combo, i feel a tugging at my heart: the kind of overwhelming wave that makes me want to drive straight to colombia boulevard, march directly into the warm and stinky kennels of the Humane Society and take home the first little pooch that gives me the sad-eye-sideways-glance. But those waves of canine-longing always end and when they do, i offer my child the option to adopt a Betta fish instead. Indy asks if she can name her new pet Tiny Timber, and I tell her that it’s the best idea I have heard in a long time.

*outtakes from this week’s you are my wild post. check out week 13 and the work the amazing photographers involved in this project.


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