Bubbles

An Inspirational story by Joanne K. Hill

All Copyrights reserved.

Bubbles arrived with a huge brown grocery sack filled with toys, a food dish, and a leash. A tiny "bag lady” displaced, afraid and angry.

“She’s little but her teeth are sharp. She won’t let anyone pick her up. You may want to think about this adoption,” I was warned.

I didn’t have to think about it, for I knew what Bubbles must be feeling. I was seven, two years older than Bubbles, when dropped at a stranger’s house with a bag of belongings. I didn’t bite, but I certainly did protest.

Bubbles was separated from her beloved playmate because the little girl’s new daddy didn’t like dogs. I was separated from my brother and sister, because my parents were getting a divorce and neither one seemed able to care for us.

I coaxed the little Yorkie into my arms and we headed home. But as soon as I let her down in my house, Bubbles rocketed into the coat closet to become a furry black ball scrunched on top a boot in the corner.

“Take your time Bubbles,” I said, leaving the door open, her sack of toys nearby. But neither the toys nor time brought Bubbles out of the closet. My five-year-old granddaughter did.

The instant Bubbles heard Heather’s voice she bounded out of the closet in greeting. I leaped to catch Bubbles but I needn’t have worried, for Heather was exactly what Bubbles was hoping for. A little girl to play with. It was love at first sight for both of them.

It took awhile, but soon Bubbles and I became good friends also. She liked to tease me ... putting on a “Please pet me ... I’m so neglected” look. Friends played along. “Oh, you poor dear. Well, come right up here, I’ll pet you if she doesn’t.”

Then Bubbles would hop on a lap and look at me as if to say, “Na nah na nah na nah.” We traveled together a lot, mostly in a 24-foot Jamboree motor home. She loved riding in her carrier between the two front seats. She never barked while we were moving, but she did like to greet gatekeepers in the parks.

Bubbles had a keen sense of who to trust and who not. Even though she was little, she was mighty. More than once her growl and bared teeth kept a suspicious stranger at bay. Her intuition went beyond people. One day as we sped down the highway, she began barking frantically. I pulled off to check things out.

Approaching the off ramp, I glanced at the gas gauge. Empty! We made it to a station and once I started the pump, I gave Bubbles a big hug and a treat. But as I started out of the RV again, she started the barking. Looking up I saw a sign, “Have you checked your oil?” I hadn’t and it was down a quart. That was the only time she barked while we were moving.

Bubbles died in February, 2001. She was 15 years, 8 months old. We had 10 great years together. Someday I’ll meet her at the “Rainbow Bridge” where all good little pets go.