The Woeful Tale of How I Found True Love Only to Have It Snatched Away

Three years ago this month, I was glamorously taking out the trash when my eagle eye spotted a happy little Pomeranian lass sitting patiently in the parking lot, near the back door of the apartment I lived in then with Tink. Assuming the lass was with someone, I leisurely dumped the trash. After a moment, two moments had passed, I could not help but slyly and ingeniously note that there was no one else about, anywhere. I looked at the fluffball more closely and she stood blinking at me, wagging her upturned tail. I decided to wait for her owner and sat down on the step that leads to the trash. The fur-queen pranced up to me and batted her eyelashes. I reached out to touch her head. My hand disappeared into a pile of orange fluff, and then emerged again. When a car came by I snatched up the thing as if she were my own child and she stared at me with her little smiley perky brown-eyed face, blinking. Then I set her down again. She had no collar. No one was around. Five tumbleweeds blew through the chilly windy October night before I stood up, clasping her to me, and took her inside.

Once there, I offered her a glass of water but she just followed me through the apartment jauntily, panting and tumbling about. As I called a few dog-owning friends for advice, she hopped right up to my feet and spread herself out lazily, until I could have almost mistaken her for one of those hipster rugs you see at Urban Outfitters. I called Tink to see if she might know the dog, but she shockingly and sluttily did not answer her cell phone. I called my friend Eric, who suggested I call the police. I called my mother, who suggested calling the SPCA. Already I knew: I would not call the police, or the SPCA. Already I was plotting to keep her, despite my horrible allergies to furry animals of all kinds. The fluffball twittered and fluttered below. I called Tink again and she said she believed that the man next door was the owner of an orange Pomeranian. I swept the orange fluff into my arms and marched over. I walked through the howly gate and up the stairs and rang the doorbell. No one answered. I walked back down, through the gate, through our own gate, up the front porch back into the apartment, then back down the back stairs and to the parking lot. Where I saw a man, Carlos, who lived in our basement. He said, “OH, DIVA!” Of course I though he was referring to yours truly. "Do you know this dog?" I asked. He laughed and pointed next door. I pulled the fluff closer. "What?" I asked. You can never be too sure. He made a phone call and I was not sure he had understood anything until I heard the word "DIVA!" once more. He laughed heartily. He stepped up to the basement next door and tested the door. It opened. I set the queeny thing on the ground and she stared up at me. I stared down at her. Then Carlos said "DIVA, DIVA!!", opening the door more widely, and with one last long glance she turned and raced in. My last glimpse was of the wisps of her umber tail disappearing into the dark.