This story is for Ryan (6 years old) who constantly says, "Tell me about the time you got Esteban when he was a baby Mom." One day you can read this as often as you like.
Bringing Esteban Home
It was December 27, 2006. At that time in my life I was completing my internship for speech therapy. My roommate since freshman year of college had just moved out to go on with her life and I was beginning to seriously consider getting a puppy. It was not a fun thought coming home to a dark, lonely appartment. It seemed like a puppy might bring a lot needed companionship and cheer.
I had some Christmas money from my grandparents. I had been trying to decide what to get my boyfriend (now my husband) for his birthday that day. I had been to the one or two places around town and hadn't found anything I thought was very compelling. After stopping at Walmart, the town's biggest shopping area and the one that held the greatest possiblities and coming up empty, I found myself contemplating taking the highway right off Walmart out to the Humane Society.....just to look. Not to buy anything of course. Just to browse around. But I took my Christmas money...just in case.
They had a lot of puppies that time of year. There were a lot of cute ones. I knew I wanted something that would be big, sturdy, protective and dependable. A type of dog who could stand to go running with me and who, later, would hopefully be good with kids. I found myself standing in front of a cage holding eleven eight-week old wiggly puppies, mostly brown with different markings. There was one who had pushed his way to the front, climbing over all the rest. His eyes were gorgeous. They were a blue-ish green with dark black markings. He was a silver-grayish-brown. The tag said these puppies were a "chow-hound-shepherd mix." I asked if I could get to know that one with the pretty eyes. They took him out for me and let me play with him in the front yard. He didn't walk. He hopped, like a bunny and his ears flopped around his face. His tail had a slight curl up, the chow in him, I suppose. When I petted him, he was surprisngly fluffy and silky soft. In that clumsy puppy way he stumbled and tripped over himself to where I sat and made himself at home in my lap, curling up in a plump ball.
I decided I should probably think about it some more. A puppy was a big responsibility after all. I wasn't sure how I felt about the "chow" breed. So, naturally, when it came time to leave, I found myself paying for him, signing some papers, tucking him under my arm and settling him in my lap where he snuggled in and fell asleep as I drove home.
I had to break it to my sweet guy that for his birthday I had bought myself a puppy. He was a real sport about the whole thing. He groaned. He said I was not allowed to name it. It had been a long running joke that I thought of the most horrible names and would never be allowed to name pets or children (especially after I named my roomate/my shared cat "Hegbert.") Josh said very firmly that he would call my puppy "Steve" to "Bring normallacy to his life." When I discovered the spanish variant of "Steve" was "Esteban," I knew I had my name.
I bought Esteban a sizable crate, one that would grow with him. I got him a neat water dish that attached itself to a liter soda bottle and refilled as needed. I got him a cute food bowl, leash, collar.....Josh drew the line at the dog jacket though, claiming he would not be seen with a dog that wore clothes. I set him up with a vet and got his vaccinations up to date. I started the potty training process.
Whenever he would squat down to do his business somewhere in the house, I was on him like a flash picking him up and dashing outside with him, where he would finish and get praised and treated. He cried the first few nights (prior to getting his crate)....but as soon as he was trustworthy around the house, I left his crate open for him and he usually made his way to the foot of my bed.
He was docile and easy to train. He had a habit of following me around the house and settling in a corner of the room, keeping an eye on me while I studied or worked at the computer, or dozing next to my chair. When I came home from work, he would pick up the nearest thing to him, usually an old sock (which I stuffed and left in his crate to help with teething), his tail wagging so hard his whole butt shook from side to side furiously. To this day, as a middle-aged dog, he has a terrible habit of picking socks up around the house and walking around with them.
I will never forget one day, when I had taken him to my parents house with me for dinner. My little sisters were chasing each other from room to room and Esteban was romping in his clumsy way around their feet. One of them slipped on the slick kitchen floor and fell on him. The yelp of distress Esteban let out was so loud and so panicked I thought for sure I'd have to take him to the vet. Like a bolt of greased lightning he shot across the floor, nails clicking, and huddled in my lap, shaking. My dad remarked that Esteban "knew who his mommy was."
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