Eighteen years ago today, we left work, stopped at the pet store for some supplies and made the trek down to Orange County to pick up a cute little beagle puppy we found in an online newspaper ad. We met her mom, Molly (McGrew’s Good Golly Miss Molly), who loved to hang out in the front yard hunting bunnies and squirrels. She was friendly and had been a good momma. Rory was one of the last remaining puppies. Someone was considering coming to get her over the weekend if she was still available, so we made the long drive after work to beat this other person. And it was one the best decisions we could have made. Rory was the last of six puppies born. She wore the red bow to tell her apart. Her dad was Sir Andrew Arthur of Lee but we never met him. But she was born of hunting lines, not show lines, so she was taller, leaner and had a more intense prey drive.

We played with her for a bit and talked with the family. Then we loaded her up in the newly placed dog crate in the car. We figured we’d just pop her in and get home. HAHA! We didn’t even make it out of Orange County before our first stop. She was nervous. And in what we could come to know as true Rory fashion, she had already peed and pooped herself in the crate. And was stepping in it. We pulled off the 5 at the In N Out near that wintery cabin restaurant we saw a million times but never actually went to. (Apparently, it’s called Clearman’s North Woods, huh, who knew.) We somehow cleaned her up and got the crate clean and tried again. Made it home this time.

John had already decided to stay home with her the next day and it was a good thing because she was up crying her wire puppy crate all night long! What? No one told me it was like having a newborn baby. But she was in a new place, scared and probably missing her mommy. I had originally wanted to name our dog Lanie but one look at her and knew she was not a Lanie. Rory is what came to mind (Gilmore Girls influence, maybe? Not sure.). Today I can’t imagine her being anything but a Rory. The following day when we left her home for the first time, we gated her off in the kitchen and we came home to her sitting on the couch. She squeezed out in that little space under the cabinet. She never stopped squeezing, climbing and chewing her way out of anything.

Our fiercely independent little beagle. My darling Rory. She loved to hear this story of us bringing her home. I told it to her many times, especially on her birthday. Yes, she loved it. Or maybe loved the tone of my voice telling it. I just remember the closeness of telling her this tale of long long ago and kissing her sweet little head. Happy Gotcha Day Rory!