Ellie showed up as a passenger, along with 11 other puppies, riding in the way back of a gray, mid-’80s Volvo 240 station wagon. It was a humid day in August. She and her siblings rode in from Waldoboro, Maine.
Aside from loud exhaust noises, the car was a solid runner with very little rust, a rolling Swedish example of longevity and steadfast reliability. The driver and puppy owner, a sturdy, middle-aged Mainer, personified the same traits. She looked precisely like she had sounded when we talked on the phone a few days prior.
The ad was clear: “Farm-raised box-a-dor puppies. Vet checked. First shots. All must go—$250.00. (One hundred dollars refunded with documentation of puppies being spayed or neutered.) Waldoboro, Maine.”
When we first spoke on the phone, the pup’s owner was stove-side, boiling chicken giblets, fresh green beans, and carrots for the newly weaned puppies. While we talked, I could hear the spoon scraping the bottom of the pot. She doted on the dogs, I could tell.
She told me that the litter was unplanned—12 breathing byproducts of a lovestruck male chocolate lab who overcame the encumbrance of loosely lever-latched doors in her 200-year-old farmhouse.
The lab’s lover was a lady boxer breed, a calm dog who spent most of her days sitting beside the woman’s cancer-stricken husband—usually on the couch leaning hard against him. “You couldn’t pull her away from the duty,” she said. Thankfully, her husband was now in remission.
It had been six months since my family had laid to rest a loyal and loving Llewellin setter, Nickson—a good boy. The mourning was over.
I prepared my wife with hints of the happiness ahead. All commentary led to a smoothly delivered inquiry regarding adding a member to the household tally. I surmised, “It would be best for me to have a dog at the camp in the woods, and here too, at home. It’s time to get a pup.”
I added that barking dogs are known to drive away interlopers who intend to harm a family. “You’re a cop. We should be fine without another dog,” she said.
Finally, she agreed to travel with me to meet the breeder and her furry clan. It was in the parking lot of a hardware store in Searsport, Maine.
We peered into the blanket-strewn space through the Volvo’s dusty rear windows. With a finger to the glass, we pointed when we could identify a specific puppy face, figuring out which dog would best fit into our lives. A solitary black puppy sat in the far back corner of the wagon, sequestered by choice from the epicenter of squirming dogs.
“Maybe she’s the calm one,” she said.
My wife reached in and picked her up, cuddling the tiny dog under her chin. “She’s so sweet, Timmy.” We played with her on a strip of grass near the car. The pup we would later name Ellie (after a character on the ’60s TV show “Beverly Hillbillies”) followed my wife. When my wife stopped walking, the dog sat at her feet, gazing upward at her face as if she’d already taken a masterclass in winning hearts and minds.
I tried to pay the pup owner in cash, but she wouldn’t hear of it. “She’s free to people that I trust will follow through on spaying. I only have a dollar amount in the ad to keep the wrong people away. You’ve got a place for her to run at the lake. I want you to have her.”
I tossed the cash through the open window, the envelope landing in her passenger seat.
“A deal is a deal. Thanks for meeting us.”
Since that day, eight and a half years ago, Ellie’s never, and I mean never, had a potty mistake in the house. She learned to ring the tiny sleigh bells I hung from the doorknob within minutes, a notification that she needed to get outside.
Within three hours, Ellie rang the bell when she wanted to go and play, too. We had to take the bell down by day three to avoid the constant ringing. While her father made his way through doors by clever nose maneuvers, Ellie merely whacked at the knob with an outstretched paw. We didn’t need no stinking bell.
She’s a fierce watchdog with the most loving spirit I’ve encountered. Her hearing is bionic, and she can catch 10 tiny biscuits thrown quickly in succession—never missing. We surmise her eyesight is stellar.
She sleeps most often in a bay window, watching the yard. Even late into the night, you can find her there. Camp trips are better, and she whines out her rendition of, “Are we there yet?”
With our granddaughter, Ellie is the gentlest of souls, embracing the minor ear-pulling, but looking hopeful that it would stop. She has a face that shows both love and grouchiness at the same time. Most owners look like their dogs; that’s what they say.
Ellie’s daily antics have become amplified through my Facebook page. She has a loyal following. If she could type her own stories, the page and blogs would flourish, tripling in followers. The reality is she needs me for this, at least.
She’s slowing down, recently diagnosed with some joint pain. Her followers’ get-well notes overwhelmed my inbox for a few weeks.
She’s sturdy, not soft; reliable, not regal. She barks and growls too much, but as far as we can tell, she’s not mad, just very vocal. You’ll see no love in her eyes if you try to get in the house. But if you get past the foyer, you’re stuck with her forever; she never forgets a face or the head scratch that came with it.
In many ways, Ellie is the Volvo 240 wagon of dogs; I’m happy she didn’t show up in an Escalade.
