Arizona

The gravel road winds through open country, spewing dust and hunks of rock beneath new tires. Every surface is covered in a layer of grit and smells like clay and pine trees. To wait until age twelve for a dog is absolutely unjust, exciting, and totally terrifying all in one breath. I can hardly contain myself.1

My mother and I are twenty miles out in the country, scanning the numbers on mailboxes and searching for the house. I sit up higher in the seat, looking quickly from left to right in anticipation. We finally see the house, and we approach the driveway. Time slows down and we creep up to the barn. I can hear the rocks under the car being spit up on the undercarriage, banging out a rhythm that rivals my heartbeat. I can feel my heart pounding through my t-shirt, sure that everyone can see it, too.2

When we come to a halt, six huge, wiggling, rolly poly puppies surround our car. Black and white, cream and red colored mongrels yip and paw at the doors. It awes me that they’ve only been breathing life for three months. The spring air whistles around me as I dash from the car, enthused by the prospect of puppy fur and leash training.3

Every puppies withers reach me mid calf, except HIS. At knee height, and thirty-three pounds, he sticks out in every single way. I couldn’t tell you what drew me to him, but the moment I see his huge hazel eyes, we are bonded. He crawls into my lap and I envelop him, arms wrapped around his barrel chest, fingers entwined in thick black fur. I roll him over and cradle him like a baby. His eyes laugh, and he’s mine.4

I place him in the back seat of our car and curl up with him. He lays his head in my lap and licks his nose. Our eyes meet again, melting, and I whisper lullabies to him, running soft puppy ears through calloused fingers.5

Back in Creston, I read words off of billboards asking him what his name should be. We pass “Arizona Auto,” and as the first word escapes my lips, his ears perk up and he paws at my hand, grinning in only a way a dog can. Soft puppy eyes dance when I repeat his name. Wagging tail beats a rhythm on upholstery.6

“Okay, Arizona. That’s your name, buddy.” He whines, crawling all thirty-three pounds onto my lap. I rest my cheek against his bony skull, breathing in the smell of moist puppy fur, freshly mowed grass, and a faint smell of cattle. A contented sigh is shared between the two of us, and he sprawls out over me, taking in all the affection I will give him.7

Five years will pass. Thirty-three pounds will become a solid ninety-one. He hears his name, said with enthusiastic notes twirling through every consonant and verb, every variation from Air to Zopie send shivers down his spine, causing gangly limbs to clamor to occupy my lap, and wet eskimo kisses to be exchanged dutifully. We will pass through trials from agonizing allergies, to stitched toes and ear infections. I will struggle finding food he can eat without breaking out in red bumps and open wounds. For years on end, I will try, using steroid after steroid with no real positive outcome. But vet expenses cannot lesson the bond and the love we share. The moment I look into those heartwarming eyes, I’m immersed in the day we got him. I’m smitten to death by the color of his eyes, the feel of his fur, and the sound of his voice when he hears the noon whistle. He will try my patience on the end of the leash, and test his dominance in the pack of my home at every opportunity. Despite this, he’s the only man in my life whose whiskers don’t tickle me, whose love is unconditional, and who’s breath is always okay for kisses no matter what he ate for dinner. He won’t talk behind my back, won’t question my decisions, right or wrong, and he won’t every yell at me for not living up to his standards. Creature comforts are filled at night with a warm body next to me, and kicking feet aimed at tender ribs can never make me love him any less.