戴安娜·尼科尔斯 /Diane Nichols
My six-year-old daughter, Mary, held on to my hand as we walked through the animal shelter. We wanted to pick just the right puppy for her sister Kitty's 12th birthday. I scanned each cage, noticing all the pairs of needy brown eyes staring back at us. It was neediness for love and a happy home-things the girls and I also hungered for since their father and I had divorced.
“Here are our newest arrivals,” the volunteer said. He led us to a cage where three puppies were sleeping. They were the size of small bear cubs with beautiful fur.
“What kind are they?” I asked, stooping down to take a closer look.
“They're chow mixes,” the boy said, “I've never seen such awesome-looking dogs.”
My heart quickened as the pup in the middle suddenly yawned and looked up at us. She was breathtaking, with oversized paws and silvery-black wolf markings on her face. Most of all, it was her eyes that struck me. They were so gentle and sweet. As golden as her fur. Something told me that she was the one.
As long as I live, I'll never forget Kitty's face when we surprised her with her new companion.
“I'm going to name her Cheyenne.” Kitty beamed.
In the coming days, Cheyenne accomplished exactly what I was hoping for. Instead of the children feeling homesick for the life we'd lost, they spent time playing with their new puppy. Instead of feeling depressed over missing their daddy, they romped and laughed for hours. It gave me hope that they would make this very diff icult transition a bit better-if only something would help me do the same.
It was on a late April afternoon that things took a horrible turn. The girls were in the backyard playing with Cheyenne while I went to the store. When I got back home and pulled into the driveway, a pickup truck came speeding down our street. I got out of my car, keys in hand, and saw that Cheyenne had gotten loose. She ran past me in a blur.