"How old is she?" I asked.
"Gee, I dunno. So much goes on around here. I think maybe 4 months," he said.
This farm is where we buy eggs when we're at our cabin in Knox County, OH. When Phil had gone to get eggs on Saturday, he was smitten by a small, brown puppy. He told me about him when he got home, mentioning that he had a larger, white littermate. I said, "I don't really like white dogs."
"Why not?" asked Phil's sister.
"I don't know. I just don't. I don't like white horses or white cats either."
"That's weird," said Phil's sister.
Tuesday morning when we were getting ready to return to MD, Phil said, "I keep thinking about that little brown dog." We both agreed that now was not the time to get a dog. We have an ailing cat and Phil is looking at knee replacement surgery before Christmas.
"We can stop at the farm on the way home to see if he's still there, " I said.
Up the gravel drive we went. Six horses stood outside the red barn, watching. A pair of Holsteins paid us no mind. The little brown dog ran out to greet us.
"We're kind of thinking we'd like to keep the brown dog," the Amish man said.
"Where's the white dog?" asked Phil.
"Sophie's usually here with Stan," he replied. "I don't know where she is now"
"Oh, did the vet come by?"
"No, I gave it to her myself."
"How much do you want for her?" asked Phil.
"Oh, you can have her."
"How about $20.00?"
Using half a roll of paper towels, I mopped vomit off the quilt, the cooler and the silvery folded-up sunshade. Then I fished a pair of grubby capris out of the "dirty-clothes" bag. I changed into them between two open car doors while milk trucks whizzed by.
As soon as we were on the road again, Sophie settled down for a long nap. We agreed that we couldn't call her Sophie. Close relatives had had a beloved dog named Sophie and she had died. Our puppy needed a name before her first visit to the vet, which would happen the next day if at all possible.
How about Dilly?
Yes, she looks like a "Dilly."
Dilly it is.
She's going to be a wonderful pet.