Our Romie

“There’s something wrong with her,” I told my wife, worriedly. “She hasn’t made a sound since we got her. She doesn’t bark. Maybe she’s got a damaged larynx?”

That shows you how much I knew about dogs, and specifically about pet adoption. I hadn’t had a dog since I was a child, when my mother made a spontaneous decision to adopt a beagle from a street peddler in Honduras, where we were living at the time. My abiding memory is of Barney the Beagle peeing on the carpet, and my father going nuts.

Forty plus years later, my wife sent me an email with a photo of a six-month-old puppy who was being fostered by a coworker. “The puppy’s been brought up here from a shelter in Mexico. Maybe we should go and take a look? Isn’t she cute?”

She was adorable, a mix of chihuahua and long-haired dachshund, with soulful dark eyes. The problem was that two out of our three kids were not particularly keen on dogs. In fact, our youngest was downright terrified. “Maybe having a dog will cure the phobia?” my wife wondered aloud.

The dog-lover of the trio was ten at the time and had been begging for a dog for a couple of years. So, the family dynamic was one of begging and pleading on the one hand, and quaking and shaking on the other. But we agreed that the dog-fostering coworker should bring the puppy for a visit. It was a big event.

The dog-fosterer was an old pro. Fostering animals was her passion and she came prepared. We were introduced to the puppy slowly but surely and then asked to lead a tour of our yard. “That fence will have to be fixed,” the dog-fosterer said. “And those shrubs trimmed. I wouldn’t be surprised if she goes and hides under them and you’ll have to crawl in and entice her out.”

“Oh yes, yes,” I said. I thought the puppy was adorable and was already thinking how to win over the more anxious among us. “What’s her name?”

“Rommelita,” the dog-fosterer said. “Apparently, there was an employee named Rommel in the pound in Puerto Vallarta. This little girl’s mother was found wandering the streets, heavily pregnant. She had two puppies, obviously from two different fathers…”

Too much information, I thought. My children didn’t seem to be listening, however. Even the youngest seemed to be interested in making the puppy’s acquaintance.

The dog-fosterer continued, “They called the mama Rommelia, and so this baby became Rommelita, or ‘little Rommel.’ But my husband and I’ve been calling her Romie.”

“She seems to like us,” I said, already with visions of being a proud pet parent.

“I’m not so sure.” The dog-fosterer frowned, maybe at the perplexed look on my face. “My husband and I have a quiet house, and we are experts in dealing with many animals. I’m not sure how this little one will react to being in a house with so many children.”

It’s not as if we’re running an orphanage here. I bit back the retort, smiling as pleasantly as I could because I didn’t want her to think I was anything less than a Zen master and my wife a dog-whisperer.

“I’ll think about it.” The dog-fosterer fed the puppy a treat. “But you’ll have to be 100 percent committed. I don’t want you to take her and then change your minds in five days when taking care of a dog becomes too difficult.”

After she left, it was time for a family meeting. “What did you think?” my wife asked. “Wasn’t she the sweetest?”

We all agreed she’d been very sweet. Why, my youngest had even tried to pet her, something we’d not seen him even attempt before.

My wife bombarded her coworker with emails saying we were all in. Photos of fixed fences were sent and promises made that we were on the verge of going to PetSmart to buy every accoutrement a dog might need. The coworker seemed taken with our industry and said she was willing to let us adopt Romie.

We brought Romie home. She immediately went and hid in the bushes. She crept silently through the rooms and looked at us suspiciously when we filled her food bowl. We enticed her into a crate, where we hoped she would silently and securely spend her nights. We read up on toilet training, because either the dog-fosterer had misspoken or there had been some regression: wet spots were seen on the carpet and one had to scan each room before entering so as not to squelch one’s foot on a doggie poop-nugget.

But the kids were ecstatic. The youngest became a dog-lover overnight and liked nothing better than to sit on the sofa, cuddling her. Initially, I was happy to have a quiet, well-behaved, non-barking dog—but that didn’t last. A dog that didn’t bark was cause for alarm. I made a note to ask the vet at our introductory appointment.

One morning, I stood by the window with our silent puppy. The mail truck drove up, and the mail carrier got out with a parcel and started climbing the stairs to our house. My anticipation of getting something in the mail was violently interrupted by a sound that made me jump out of my skin: a bark!

Seven years on, Romie’s barks continue to make me jump. She doles them out liberally at other dogs, squirrels, and the cats who are her main adversaries. She now sleeps in our youngest’s bedroom, at the foot of his bed, the crate vacant and forgotten. She prowls the kitchen and dining room at mealtimes, hoping to pounce on fallen food. Her favorite place is the beach, where she loves to run unimpeded, in touch with her inner wild horse. She dislikes fireworks and is not overly keen on vet visits, although the vet staff always tell me what a good girl she is. She turns up her nose at rain—a predicament in Oregon—but she gambols about giddily in the snow. After a grooming, she looks very proud of herself. All in all, bark or no bark, she’s changed our lives for the better and we’re now a family who can proudly claim to be well and truly dog besotted.