Saturday, August 27, 2011

Adoption . . . and a Dog

    I remember it well because I was eleven, and I keep telling myself, it wasn't that long ago.
    I sat watching the TV with my brother.  Some ugly dog walked across the screen.  It  wasn't thing ugly:

Or so ugly it was cute:

It wasn't a zombie:

And it wasn't Cerberus's cousin:

    It was still hideous though--at least "a one" on the beauty scale.  And I'm sure the the advertiser didn't make a dime off their product, just like when they used their own daughters to model.

I remember the dog looking more like this:

    So, anyway, I know the details well because every one is practically tattooed on my brain.  As we watched that stupid commercial, my brother decided to give me some devastating news.      
    "You were adopted, Elisa."
    "What?  Are you serious?"
    "Dead serious.  No one wants to tell you, but I figure it's time.  You're old enough, you're almost twelve."
    I nodded.  Twelve was pretty old.  I mean, when you're twelve, you can drive in four years.  You can't play with Barbies.  You can walk places alone.   
     I bathed in my own tears then, crying so hard.
    "Yep," my brother finally said nodding.  The commercial prepared to end, that's how fast it all happened.  "You were adopted."  He grinned again, pointing to the TV.  "And that dog is your Mama."

   On a side note, today we're leaving to a funeral.  Cade's grandma died.  
    Have a great day.  I'll check all your blogs when we get back.