BY NANCY KIDD

Shortly after my parents lost their beloved dog, Molly, Dad announced his plan to get a new dog. Although we were all sad and missed Molly terribly, none of us six kids—or our spouses—or even the grandkids thought Dad’s decision seemed like a good idea. My parents were, after all, in their 80s. My mom had dementia, and we were all working to keep them at home on the family farm.

It was not ideal, and we were just trying to hold it all together. None of us lived nearby, so we typically saw them on the weekends and the rest of the time relied on help from 24-hour caregivers.

As Dad became more consumed with replacing Molly, I tried to dissuade him by asking him why he wanted a dog. His immediate response was, “Well, why do YOU want a dog?” I explained that I was in a different phase of life. I tried to point out the huge responsibility of a dog, especially given Mom’s decline and their circumstances. It was pointless. He wasn’t about to listen to me.

That’s when some of my siblings stepped up to guide the process. If he was determined to get a dog, at least we might steer him away from the challenge of a puppy. If we could help him find an older dog, one at a shelter that needed a home, maybe that would work out—maybe.

My brother found a beagle mix at a nearby shelter. Her name was Tulip. She was older and had been at the shelter for over two years. Dad seemed so proud when he brought her home, and she bonded with him immediately. Things were falling into place nicely.

Everybody was happy, and we all heaved a sigh of relief.

And then, before we could even take in the next breath and begin to relax, it all started to unravel! If this dog had ever been housebroken, she quickly forgot at my parents’ home. Maybe that’s because Dad couldn’t remember to take her outside. Even with caregivers at the house, no one could get her to potty outside consistently. Sometimes she would even go out and then wait until she was back in the house to potty.

Her “issues” didn’t stop there. She brought with her ticks and fleas and deep anxiety. Every time Dad left the house, she whined and barked. She paced and chewed up rugs and the baseboard near the door he’d gone through. She hacked and she sneezed, and she even reverse sneezed, all on a regular basis!

When any of us would visit with our own dogs, Tulip snarled and charged with her teeth bared. It didn’t matter that she was much smaller. She still managed to intimidate them, and they quickly learned to stay out of her way.

Tulip lived with my parents for a couple years, and during that time nobody really liked her—seriously! It was hard to see any good qualities. The only thing in her favor was Dad seemed to like her.

Then in 2015, my mom died unexpectedly. Soon, Dad began to struggle with his own health and memory loss. When he was hospitalized for over a week, we decided not to take Tulip back to the farm. Not once did he ask about the dog.

Indeed, he seemed to have forgotten her totally.

My siblings and I have tried to share the responsibilities of caring for our parents, so I—dog lover that I am—volunteered to find Tulip a new home. Although I do truly love dogs, I didn’t like this pain-in-the-neck beagle. I just couldn’t stand the thought of “throwing her away” or seeing her traumatized again because of Dad’s situation.

I listed her on a rescue website and took her home with me for the interim. I had no intention of keeping her because I already had a perfectly good dog of my own, a sweet, well-behaved lab/shepherd mix. Besides, Tulip expressed her disdain for my dog and every other dog, so there was absolutely no chance she would be settling in at our house.

Funny how when I returned home with her and reintroduced her to my dog Maddy, she appeared noticeably more even-tempered than at Dad’s—a good sign, for sure. My husband had made his feelings clear that this living arrangement was temporary, and I had wholeheartedly agreed.

After all, we had one dog, and when the boys came home, there were three good-sized dogs—a houseful already chaotic enough.

That first night, we prepared a dog bed for Tulip in our room next to Maddy’s. As soon as we turned out the lights and settled into our own bed, Tulip began to whine and pace. Although we tried to ignore her, she made it impossible for us to fall asleep. I suggested maybe we should let her sleep with us since she was used to sleeping with Dad. My husband remained firmly opposed. “We’re not going to start that!” I distinctly remember him stating.

Tulip continued her antics, going from my side of the bed to my husband’s—appearing more frantic with the passing minutes.

And then, when he could stand it no more, my husband caved. “Come here, Dipstick!” he growled. He reached down, scooped her up and put her between us.

I couldn’t imagine anyone would want to adopt Tulip in her current state, so I started working to transform her into the kind of dog someone (else) would love to take home. I walked her alongside my dog until she got over her intolerance. In time, thanks to plenty of treats, she was successfully housebroken.

Before I realized what was happening, Tulip and I became attached to each other—BIG TIME!

I honestly don’t know how it happened because I really did not want to love her.

Although I was kind and humane to her, the whole time I was planning to pass her on to her new home. I had found someone to adopt her, and we had made the arrangements to get her to her new home.

But then, I found myself fighting tears every time I thought about her leaving. No one else in the family cared for her the way I did, and no one else wanted her in our family. Shortly before we were to take her to meet her new family, my husband came home unexpectedly for lunch to tell me he thought we should keep her.

He said when he saw the way she and I interacted, he knew he just couldn’t break that up.

Tulip now has been a member of our family for over two years. Her life with us is good, and she is generally content.

Although she is totally housebroken and tick-and-flea-free, many of her less-endearing qualities linger on. She continues to hack and sneeze and reverse sneeze—sometimes to the point it would appear fatal. So I carry tissues to clean up her sneeze messes and wipe her occasionally snotty nose.

She now falls apart when I’m gone—pacing, keeping a constant watch for my return and sometimes tearing things up.

When she’s not in the mood for a walk, she spreads those paddle-footed paws of hers and leans back, putting on her brakes. I am becoming better trained because I eventually cease trying to drag her along, and we turn around and head home.

It’s funny how none of that matters any more—her stubbornness, her anxiety or even her phlegm-related bouts. When I discovered I was allergic to her, I just took allergy meds rather than let that be a deal-breaker. None of Tulip’s challenges matter one bit because, somewhere along the way, my husband and I both fell head-over-heels in love with her!

We both realized we had been changed. I looked at my husband and saw this hulk of a man who became putty in the paws of a little beagle. He knew it, too, and he conceded without regret.

“That’s what can happen,” he offered, “when you just open your heart to what is.”

YES! YES! YES!

It worked with Tulip, and I believe it can happen with people, too. It can happen with kids struggling in detention or with any other person we encounter in a given day. When we make a decision to meet someone where they are, and we can release all our judgment and all our personal expectations—when we choose to truly open our hearts to accept and just be with them where they are—wondrous things can and do happen.

We discover there is room for them, too, within our circle. There’s always more room.

P.S. For the record, if my husband and I are home, you can bet Tulip never misses a night sleeping between us!