1983, thirty weeks pregnant, and I decide I need a dog. Larry asks me in a rather pissy manner, “Sally, you don’t like animals, why the hell do you want a dog?” It was fairly obvious he was not in favor of this addition I thought so necessary to our little family. Well, hormone induced tears and two nights on the couch went a long way towards changing that attitude. Forget the fact we lived in a second story apartment and the snow was currently crotch level, I needed a damn dog. How would our family pictures look without a little lab puppy in them? Certainly not like anything from “Parenting” magazine. This baby needed a puppy to grow up with, I knew without a doubt it was not going to have brothers and sisters. Screw the fact that I’m allergic to fleas, there will be a dog in this house before I birth this baby!

Off we go on the puppy search. Larry is half hearted into this at the best, but I really don’t give a crap. This quest, this mission of a crazy pregnant lady, will not be over until I find one that makes me happy. Struggling newlyweds, baby on the way, and I don’t give a shit how much we have to spend on gas and food. We are not settling for just any dog, we are having a black lab puppy. Now I am not totally unreasonable, it just has to be a mutt that looks like a lab, I’m not asking for a full bred one. We grab an Uncle Henry’s and I start reading. The very first ad and I’m laughing so hard I piss myself. “Wanted to trade: 2 hard running beagles for a gun. Don’t care what kind, need to shoot the weasel in my cellar.” Well since we neither had a gun nor wanted “2 hard running beagles”, that one was out. There were a few with promise though; “lab mix puppies” seemed to be available in various locations throughout the state. Drive, oh my God, did we drive.

First stop; Troy, Maine. We pull into this house, I guess it was a house, it had four walls and a roof covered with blue tarps held on by tires. Just as I go to open the truck door, a frigging turkey charges me. Make no mistake, this was no ordinary turkey. This thing had survived the nuclear accident at Three Mile Island. Its’ wattle was mangled and flapping up and down, half it’s beak was missing, and the guttural sounds coming out of it could be likened to dying zombie. Now I’m in the truck, screaming, Larry is standing outside trying to fend off this attack turkey, and out of the house (and I use that term loosely) comes a person. Long, black, greasy hair, jeans with mud all over them, and to this day I still don’t know if it was a woman or a man with man boobs. “What can I do you folks for?” Larry starts to explain why we’re there, and I’m in the truck hissing “not here, we’re not getting one here.” “Never mind,” he sighs and gets back in. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he bellers. “Chicken lice are what’s wrong” I sniffle, and immediately he looks at me like my next stop will be the mental hospital. So, now I have to explain to him that fowl such as turkeys have chicken lice and I will not have a dog that has been exposed to chicken lice. For chrissakes, he knows I’m allergic to fleas, can’t he figure out what havoc chicken lice could create. Back to the Uncle Henry’s for another look see at the ads. Stop Two; Arundel, Maine (did I mention I didn’t care how far we had to travel for this puppy). We pull into the driveway, nothing fowl or otherwise seems to be in attack mode, so out we get. A pleasant lady answers the door (in 1983 people opened their doors to total strangers), and we explained we were there about the puppies she had advertised. “Right this way” she says and leads us towards the back of the house. As we get closer, we can hear a dog growling. This was no I wonder who’s coming growl, this was a come around that corner and I’ll rip your leg off growl. Did I mention, not only do I not really like animals, and am allergic to fleas; I’m scared of just about 99% of the canine population? The lady can see the look of terror on my face and assures me the dog is friendly, but she will lock it up just in case. Friendly, my ass, the growl has escalated to a not only will I rip your leg off, but I will tear your heart out immediately after, tone. We make it to the puppies in the box, and there lay six little doberman, pit bull, rotweiller mix puppies. A blind person could have seen there was no lab in these dogs. “Maam”, I inquire very politely, do these puppies have any lab in them?”, ever mindful of menacing growl in the next room. She launches into a long convoluted explanation, that to make a long story short, narrows it down to some time about 1930, one of their ancestors had been had been part lab. Foiled again, there is absolutely no way one of these spawn of Mama Devil in the next room are coming home with me. Back to the truck and Uncle Henry’s we go. Considering the fact we started in Wells, drove to Troy, and are now back in Arundel with no puppy, I don’t think I need to explain what Larry’s patience level is at this point. After considerable discussion (during which time he could have been driving), we head off to investigate the next ad. This one had promise, it even mentioned that the father’s line had been AKC registered at one time whatever that meant. Stop Three: Boothbay Harbor. As we pull in two little girls are playing with a lab looking black dog in the front yard. I’m all grins, Larry’s blood pressure drops back in a range compatible with life, and out of the truck we get. I ask one of the little girls if her parents are home (they are) and if the dog she playing with is the mother or father of the puppies they have (it’s the mother). Into the house we go with no fear for life or limb. The little girl’s mother takes us to a box with two of the cutest little puppies I had ever seen. Not knowing a damn thing about dogs, I would have sworn they were full bred labs. I pick them up, coo over them, and make a decision. It is a little black ball of fur with big blue eyes, (I have no idea they will turn brown). I am clueless if it’s even a boy or a girl, but I don’t care, it will not be making any babies with me as an owner. Spay or neuter, either way this little one will never be a parent. The decision is made, and home we head. Larry can taste the Budweiser waiting in the frig for him.


The bad news for him is this puppy quest is not over. We need a collar, we need a leash, we need a kennel, and the list continues to grow. We stop at Woolworth’s for supplies, but someone has to stay in the truck with the yet to be named puppy. Larry grudgingly agrees to stay and off I go for puppy necessities. Forty five minutes later I return to find the puppy has won Larry over, I however am still on his shit list. “Just exactly how long does it take to go to one section of a damn store and buy a half a dozen things?” Obviously, he has no concept of the right collar with a leash to match and the importance of puppy toys. As we start the drive home, the discussion turns to the naming of the puppy. We can’t agree on anything, though Larry has told me it’s a girl so I haven’t suggested Duke or the such. It had taken us about twenty minutes to agree on both a boys’ and a girls’ name for our baby, but an hour later we still haven’t agreed on a name for the dog. As we are turning down the road to our apartment a song named “Ebony and Ivory” came on the radio. “Ebony”, I shouted, that is the perfect name for her. For the first time, since puppy quest 1983 started Larry agreed with me. Ebony, it was. As I got out of the truck, I had a fantastic idea (or so I thought). “How about we got a yellow lab puppy and name it Ivory?” was my simple question. The murderous look on his face told me that no amount of hormone induced tears, real or fake, was going to make that happen in this lifetime. Ebony would just have to be Ebony, with no Ivory.