by Susanna Solomon
It wasn’t my fault Lilly was blue. She was born that way. I’d heard about it over the Internet, this litter of blue puppies, and like most things I’d read online, I didn’t believe a word of it. But when I went over to Dr. Trent’s house two weeks later and saw them, I fell in love. So Lilly is with me now. She’s snoozing at my feet. Pretty gal. She’s the color of the sky, on a beautiful day when the sun is out and all is right with the world. She’s a light, powdery blue.
The breeder said it was natural selection. I said “Pooh-bah!” I washed Lilly in dog shampoo, and even if the water turned a little blue, Lilly was still, well, blue. I thought she’d been eating dye, but her Science Diet proved that theory wrong, and I thought, when I first got her, that her poops would be blue, but they were normal. And I thought that, no, her nails were not blue, they were clear, almost tan, like regular dachshunds, and her eyes, bet you knew that, they were blue too.
Oh, my little Lilly turned heads. People accused me of dyeing her food, dyeing her fur, but they stopped when I told them she was a natural cerulean blue, and when they wouldn’t stop arguing, little Lilly peed on their shoes, or on their toes if they were wearing sandals and I had a good laugh. So what if she was blue, she was the happiest pup I’ve ever had.
My word. The vet had a few words to say when I brought Lilly in for her shots. Dr. Davies wanted to call ABC news, but I said no, no publicity, Lilly had enough trouble as it was, on her walks and stuff, so it was no publicity, please.
Lilly loved the dog basket by my feet when I work at home (which is most of the time) and we were making a go of it, me being a consultant and all, and her being, you know, a dog, and life was pretty alright until the day we met Percy.
Percy was red. And black. The size of a terrier. As funny-looking a dog as I’d ever seen and I tried not to laugh, but Percy’s owner, a bearded man somewhere north of sixty, gave me a grin and Lilly a biscuit so I knew she was happy.
Percy took a liking to Lilly right away and I imagined purple and black dogs. Oh dear. I’d never fixed Lilly – I mean who would ever want a blue dog, until I read, again, on the Internet, that people liked exotics, so I kept Lilly near me, not wanting to spay her or anything, until Percy was upon her, and Lilly – that harlot! – did not move away when he mounted her.
With horror, the bearded man, who later told me his name was Mr. Thomas, told me that he hadn’t bothered to fix Percy. We watched the pups engage. They were not interested in finishing or coming apart. Oh dear. My face, I’m afraid, turned bright red, the color of Percy’s back, and Mr. Thomas, after he yelled at, tugged to no avail at Percy, and looked upon the dogs with disgust.
At long last the deed was done. Lilly, delighted, walked away with her tail high. That little scamp. I wondered if there was such a thing as a morning after pill for dogs but the vet said no. I exchanged a glance at Mr. Thomas, scowled at Percy, but what did he care, he saw something across the street, and ran for it, pulling Mr. Thomas along behind him.
Over the weeks that followed little Lilly wasn’t so little anymore. I dreaded what was to come, clown dogs. Six? Seven? Lilly wouldn’t tell. Towards the end her little tummy scraped the ground when she waddled. I’d curtailed our walks by then because people stared at her or commented and I wasn’t going to explain that she’d been humped by a red and black terrier. No thank you very much. She was a corker, my Lilly was, sticking close to me, underfoot almost, staying closer and closer. I made a whelping spot out of my closet with towels and newspapers, comfort for my not so little pup.
It was the middle of the night when I heard Lilly snuffling and scratching at her blankets and I knew her time had come. I kept the lights on, brought her water, and of course, my camera. History in the making; clown dogs coming. I held my flashlight, watching her, cooing at her, petting Lilly’s back and ears. There was movement, wet, and round. Pup one. Brown. Pup two. Blue. Pup three red. Pup four black. Solid colors. Lilly panted. I gave her water, helped her with the pups. Pup five. Blue and black. Pup six. The circus girl. All colors. And then Lilly went to work cleaning them. As they scuffled and looked for teats, I curled up beside her, on the floor. I couldn’t keep my eyes off my circus dogs.
Two weeks later I called Mr. Thomas. He was sorry to say he had moved away. Four weeks later I called ABC. If there was money to be made, I wanted some. The pups were taking all I had.
Now, I sit at my desk, working. Seven dog beds lie at my feet. Seven pairs of eyes watch my every move. Seven tails wag together. We could have a sports team! Someone told me once I was living a dream. That my pups weren’t real. And no, I wasn’t dreaming, I pinched myself and have the bruise to prove it. You want to see it?
A year later Mr. Thomas rang my doorbell. “Rhonda? Percy wants to come in and meet his family,” he said.
“Not on your life,” I replied, holding the screen door closed. “Unless he’s been fixed?”
“I haven’t quite had …,” Mr. Thomas sputtered as Percy nosed open the door, “time,” he exclaimed as Percy bounded inside. Before we could catch him … he. Well, you know the rest.
It took another year for Mr. Thomas to marry me, and luckily the vet fixed Percy after his second incident. Now we have children, human children, real children, but they aren’t blue. For that, at least, I am thankful.
