move. At first we lived an hour's drive from each other. Then at three. Then - at eight, finally - at twenty-four. By the time we settled down in South Florida and got married, Jenny was on the cusp of her thirtieth birthday. All her friends already had children, in addition, her body began to send strange signals. They testified that the possibility of having children, which seemed so obvious to us, begins to disappear.

I approached her from behind, put my arms around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

“Don't worry,” I said. I have to admit, she asked the right question. None of us have ever had to seriously care for a living being. Of course, pets lived in our families, but that doesn’t count: we knew that our parents would always take care of them. We both dreamed of having children someday, but was either of us ready for this step? Children seemed something… scary. They looked so helpless and fragile, like glass Christmas decorations.

Jenny tried to smile.

“I thought getting a dog would be a great way to exercise,” she replied.

* * *
As we drove northwest in the dark, where the outskirts of West Palm Beach give way to long rows of country houses, I contemplated getting a puppy. Undoubtedly, it was a huge responsibility, considering that we both spent the whole day at work. Nevertheless, both were aware of what awaited us, because they grew up in families where there were dogs who were simply adored. I had a St. Sean, and Jenny had a St. Winnie's setter, a pet. All the brightest childhood memories for both of us are inextricably linked with these dogs. We walked together, swam, played, got into various troubles. If Jenny needed a dog solely for her mothering skills, I would try to change the subject and maybe give her something to calm her down. But since we wanted to have a child in the future, we were convinced that our family would not be complete without a dog lying on the rug by the door. When we started dating (that is, long before the idea of ​​having a baby came to our mind), we could talk for hours about our pets. We said how we miss them and can't wait until we have confidence in the future and our own home where you can get a dog.

Now we had both. We lived in the city and in the near future were not going to move anywhere. We had a roof over our heads - a home that we considered our own.

It was a lovely house in a wonderful little fenced area of ​​a thousand square meters, which would be ideal for a dog. Its location also fully met our desire: a nice small town, only a block and a half from the Coastal Canal, which separates West Palm Beach from Palm Beach mansions. Our Churchill Road ended in a green park that stretched along the coast for several kilometers. The paved path along the coastline was perfect for morning jogging and cycling and rollerblading. But above all - for walking with the dog.

Our house was built in 1950, and it fully reflected the charm of Florida: a fireplace, stucco walls, huge windows that let in a lot of light, and balcony doors leading to our favorite place - a glassed-in porch at the back of the house. Our yard looked like a cozy bay, lost somewhere in the tropical latitudes, where palm trees, avocados and bright flowers grow along the banks. A sprawling mango tree towered over our green space, and every summer ripe fruits fell from it with a sound like someone jumping off the roof. Often, lying in bed, we heard this thud on the ground: boom! boom! boom!

We purchased this two bedroom, ensuite house right after our honeymoon and started renovating it right away.

Its former owners, a retired postal clerk and his wife, undoubtedly preferred green. So the facade of the building, and the inner walls, and the shutters, and the front door were painted, and green curtains hung on the windows. The carpeting that the former owners ordered before selling the house to give it a marketable appearance was also green. However, this shade was not a cheerful green with a yellowish tint, not a cool emerald, not even lime. No, it resembled the color of vomit after indigestion, only with a touch of khaki. In general, it looked a lot like a military barracks.

On the first evening we spent in the new house, we tore off the new green carpet and threw it out into the street. Beneath it was an oak plank floor in excellent condition. It looked like no human had stepped on it at all. We carefully sanded it and varnished it to make it shine. After that, we decided to spend the bulk of our two-week salary buying a handmade Persian carpet and spread it out in front of the fireplace in the living room. Over time, we repainted all the green surfaces and replaced all the green things - the postal clerk's barracks gradually turned into our home.

It seemed that we were putting things in order for the sole purpose of having a huge four-legged tenant with sharp claws and large fangs, with a rather modest knowledge of English, who is ready to turn everything upside down here.

* * *
"Slow down, mate, or we'll miss the right house," Jenny grumbled. - He's around here somewhere.

We drove in impenetrable darkness along the bottom of the former swamp. After the end of World War II, it was drained, and then this site was settled by suburbanites who appreciated the pastoral idyll.

Jenny was right: soon the headlights illuminated the mailbox with the number of the house we were looking for. I turned onto a gravel path that led to a large wooden house with a pond and a small shed behind it. We were greeted at the entrance by a middle-aged woman named Laurie and a straight-faced large fawn Labrador.

“This is Lily, our happy mother,” Laurie said after we introduced ourselves. We noticed that five weeks after giving birth, Lily's belly was still bloated and her nipples were swollen. As a sign of respect, Jenny and I squatted down, and Lily wagged her tail happily. She looked exactly as we imagined a female Labrador: kind, devoted, calm and unusually beautiful.

- Where is daddy? I asked.

- ABOUT! Lori exclaimed, hesitating for a split second. Are you talking about baby Sammy? He's around here somewhere.” She quickly added, “I think you're itching to see the puppies.

She led us through the kitchen to a utility room converted into a dog nursery. Newspapers were spread out on the floor, and in the corner was a low-sided box wrapped in old towels. But we hardly paid any attention to it. And how can you look at anything other than nine tiny fawn puppies? They kept bumping into each other, loudly indignant at the arrival of guests. Jenny held her breath.

“Oh my God,” she finally breathed, “I don't think I've ever seen anything more charming.

We sat on the floor and let the puppies climb on us while a happy Lily fussed around them, wagging her tail and sniffing at each of her offspring in turn to make sure they were all right. When I agreed to come here, Jenny and I agreed: we will limit ourselves to viewing the puppies, but we will not rush to buy. “This is the first announcement that we call, I assured. "Let's not rush to a decision." However, after a minute it became clear that the battle was lost by me. There was not a shadow of a doubt that, before dawn, one of the little ones would be ours.

On the one hand, Laurie was what is called an illegal breeder. We treated the choice of a purebred dog like complete dummies, although we read manuals on this topic and knew that we should avoid the so-called assembly line puppies, on the breeding of which breeders usually profit. Unlike machines, purebred puppies can develop serious hereditary diseases, from hip dysplasia to blindness at an early age due to inbreeding.

On the other hand, Laurie seemed like a passionate person. She felt love for purebred dogs rather than a desire for profit. She owned only one pair of Labradors, and the female and male were not related, which Laurie documented. Lily's brood we saw was the second and last, and now she was destined to spend the rest of her life enjoying the simple pleasures of country life. Since both parents seemed to be available, the buyer could personally verify the origin of the puppies, although the male was never shown to us.

The brood consisted of five girls (four of them have already received orders) and four boys. Lori asked $400 for the last girl and $375 for the boy. One puppy seemed to be especially excited about Jenny and me. He was the most clueless in the litter and started to do somersaults on our laps, climb up our clothes, lick our faces. He gnawed our nails with surprisingly sharp teeth for such a baby and stomped around on yellowish-brown paws, disproportionately wide for a puppy.

“I’ll sell this one for three and a half hundred,” the hostess suggested.

Don't feed Jenny bread, just offer a discount. She brought home a lot of useless things just because she was attracted by the price and the opportunity to save money. “I know you don’t play golf,” she said one day, pulling a set of used clubs