Wilbur

     Today was the day to get a dog.  We went to the Humane Society, feeling open to anything, as long as it was small, hypoallergenic, cute, house-trained, great with babies, in spectacular health and smelled like Aveda rosemary-mint shampoo.
     The Humane Society in Boise has two big kennels. They were filled mostly with pit bulls and black labs, but there were also four beagles.  Two were smaller and pretty young.  The other two were older and rather chunky.  I didn't get a good look because I was trying to keep a firm grasp on a wriggling Clara.  She was very excited about the dogs.
     When we had finished walking through the kennels, Simon said, "Well, what do you think?"
     We agreed the beagles were cute.
     "Do you want to take that one for a walk?" he asked.
     "Okay," I said, trying to remember which dog he was talking about.
      Simon went to get a leash and collect the dog while Clara and I hung out in the hallway.
     Suddenly, the kennel door banged open.  I looked up to see the chubby hindquarters of a very portly dog disappearing down the hallway.
     "Someone let that dog out!" I said.
     The clerk rushed after the dog and Simon emerged from the kennel door, looking both amused and a little panicked, the leash hanging limply from his hand.
     And that was the auspicious beginning of our acquaintance with Wilbur.
   
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    Wilbur is a seven-year-old beagle. He is a very good-natured guy who follows his nose and likes to have his belly scratched.
     It would be inaccurate to say Wilbur is merely "big-boned," or "of wholesome proportions."  Wilbur probably wouldn't be able to shop in the "husky" section of the clothes store, because he is not merely "husky."  He is FAT.  (He also farts.  A LOT.  As I write this I am sitting in a cloud of dog fart, emitted at intervals by a sleeping Wilbur.  I am attempting to remedy this by piling papers over his rear end. )
     The clerk finally captured Wilbur, and came back holding him under the arm pits.  It had an unflattering effect on Wilbur's physiognomy, causing all his chub to bunch up around his shoulders and chin.  He looked at me balefully.  I wanted to give him a big squeeze.
     "It's a good thing he's not one of those thin dogs," the clerk said, huffing with the effort of carrying him.  "Otherwise I would never have caught him."
     The personalized note that came with Wilbur said he would do best in a home with owners that will spend time helping him lose weight.  We have a big yard and lots of stairs.  When we first got back home, he tore around the house and yard.  By tonight, he was already so sore he could barely climb the stairs.  I think he'll be able to get healthier here.

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     When we first met Wilbur, his name was Boomer.  But it didn't seem to fit him that well.  We spent half the day trying out names for him.  I confess that, among the array of names we considered, "Meatball," "Meat loaf," and "Pork chop" did come up.
     When we were considering whether or not to get Wilbur, Simon said one of the great things about him is he's too hefty to jump up on the couches and bed.  Boy, was he wrong.  For a big guy, Wilbur is very agile.  He had claimed our bed by six this evening, and was stretched out on our comforter, dozing.  Simon said with his square ears and rotund body, he looked just like a pig.
     Since he's sweet, too, we named him Wilbur.
     Tomorrow I will blog about Clara's reaction to Wilbur.