Titles:

Irving's First Christmas

Misty's Gift

The year was 1962. The place, Halifax, Nova Scotia. It was a momentous occasion to be sure, because my friend Irving was about to celebrate his very first Christmas. It was a Tuesday evening -- still several days before Christmas -- but Irving and I were celebrating early. He was scheduled to leave for Montreal the following morning, to be with his family over the holidays, and I would be heading for the town of Shelburne on the south shore to spend Christmas with my Mom.

I still get the giggles as I remember the look on his face when I first popped that magical question. "What do you want for Christmas Irv?" It was only September.

Irving's eyes widened. His eyebrows raised making deep furrows in his forehead. His jaw dropped; his mouth opened and closed a few times, with no sound forthcoming. Finally, he said, "Jackie!" He paused a few seconds, and then continued, "I'm a little Jewish boy. I don't celebrate Christmas."

"Well, I do," I retorted, without hesitation. "And I didn't ask you if you celebrated Christmas. I asked you what you'd like to receive as a gift. I intend to buy you a Christmas gift."

His forehead was still deeply furrowed; his eyes still wide with amazement. But a major grin now stretched from ear to ear. His eyes danced. "Are you really going to buy me a Christmas present?"

"Yup."

In the months that followed Irving asked me almost daily if I was really going to buy him a Christmas gift. Each time he asked I assured him of my intention to do just that. His excitement was beyond description. At times he was so filled with glee he'd dance around the room. Often he'd break into song. "I'm get-ting a Christmas pres-ent. I'm get-ting a Christmas pres-ent." As for me, I coasted on his glee, continuously reminded of the truth about gifts and giving that I knew in my heart to be true. It really is more blessed to give than to receive. The joy of giving Irving his first Christmas gift was far greater than any joy attached to receiving a gift from someone. And it did occur to me that I might not be getting a gift in return. That thought was a little disappointing, but I knew I could live with it.

Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. Not because you get gifts from family and friends, although that's certainly part of the fun. Actually, I think my favorite "gift" each Christmas was always my stocking. Funny how certain memories stick out in your mind. I remember vividly how I would jump on my mother's bed as soon as I woke up on Christmas morning. And once she was clearly awake, I'd retrieve my stocking from the mantle. It was always stuffed with trinkets and edibles and stretched almost to the point of tearing. Then, sitting yoga-style on top of her bed, I'd unwrap -- one by one -- the treasure-trove of goodies in my stocking.

Traditionally, the first item was always a tangerine. And typically, it was my first of the winter season, and always as sweet as honey. Other food items would follow, chocolates, popcorn, plus toys, pens, socks and assorted bobbles.

My stocking was the only thing I was allowed to open before breakfast. And since half the fun of opening a present was having someone to share the experience with, there was never any thought given to opening it by myself in the living room. Always, I would drag the stocking into my mother's room and onto her bed, so that she could share my fun. I did not consider the possibility that she may have seen all these items before since she had probably filled the stocking. As far as I was concerned, Santa had filled the stocking, and she was seeing its contents for the first time, just as I was. In retrospect, I think she was seeing the contents of the stocking for the first time, because she was seeing through my eyes.

When the last tidbit had been removed from my stocking it was time for breakfast.

Mom and I, and Granna (my grandmother) would have a leisurely breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and jam, juice, and tea, and then adjourn to the living room to sit around the Christmas tree and open our gifts.

To an outsider, we were a civilized lot, that's for sure. There was no mad tearing open of presents. No free-for-all with paper and ribbons flying in all directions, and everyone talking and squealing at the same time. Usually I'd play Santa, and retrieve gifts from under the tree -- one at a time -- for each of us. We took turns opening. For example, as Granna opened her gift, Mom and I would watch, sharing her anticipation, her surprise, and her joy. Then it was Mom's turn, and then mine. This pattern continued until the last present had been opened.

When I was ten or so we started opening our gifts on Christmas Eve rather than Christmas morning. That was because Mom started working for the telephone company, and was scheduled to work on Christmas day. Instead of breakfast, we'd have supper together. Some where around eight we went to bed just long enough to let Santa come and fill my stocking. By nine the three of us were in the living room, taking turns opening our gifts.

When Granna died there was just Mom and me. That was the year I moved away from home and took my first job. About a month after I left our house burned down, so the following Christmas Mom was living in a little house trailer instead of in our big old house. I went home for Christmas vacation, and I still remember that year as one of the best Christmases ever. Mom and I were like two little kids taking turns with our gifts, and enjoying every little item as if it were worth a million bucks. We'd make the experience last for hours by stopping from time to time for a cup of tea, before moving on to the next item.

I remember one of my gifts that year, from my friend Margo, kept us giggling for at least an hour. It was a liquor decanter that played "How dry I am," when you lifted it off the table. It didn't seem to matter that I didn't drink, and come to think of it, in all the years I owned that decanter it never once had any liquor in it. We enjoyed it because it was a gift, because it made music, and because it made us smile. That was all that mattered.

And now, here I was in Halifax with a red-haired, freckle-faced, Jewish elf who was whirling about my apartment, bubbling with excitement, and waiting to share my favorite holiday. As I walked into the living room, I couldn't believe my eyes! There -- nailed high up on the wall -- was a pair of my red tights, one leg of which was stretched all the way down to the floor. I could see that the stretched leg contained a number of lumpy, bumpy, -- and obviously heavy -- objects. That stretched leg was -- without exaggeration -- at least 8 feet long. (I had 12 foot ceilings.)

"I made you a stocking, Jackie," said Irving, still grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"I see that Irv," I replied, somewhat in shock at the sight of my underwear nailed to the wall. "Where did you find my tights?"

"I looked through your dresser drawers until I found something I could use. Actually, I wanted to fill it up, but every time I added something it just kept stretching longer and longer. Finally, I had to give up before I went broke." He giggled.

I cringed at the idea that he had actually gone rooting through my underwear drawers. But once I got past the embarrassment I was incredibly touched. I wanted to both laugh and cry at the same time. This was Irving's first Christmas, and already he knew more about the magic of Christmas, and the spirit of giving, than some people ever do. He already knew that it was more fun to give, than to get. He had long since stopped focusing on the fact that he would be receiving a gift, and was totally focused on giving a gift to me. And it wasn't enough to just buy me a present, he wanted to give me my most cherished childhood experience. He wanted to give me a Christmas stocking.

It was a wonderful stocking! It was also the funniest thing I've ever seen.

Irving and I came to share several Christmases. We dated during his fourth year of medical school at Dalhousie University, and during his internship. He had just started his first year of residency at the Children's Hospital when I left Nova Scotia, bound for New York City to study theater.

We both knew I was going. In fact, we had both known from the beginning that our relationship was only temporary. There were several reasons. One, he was Jewish, and I wasn't. I didn't have a problem with our different religious backgrounds, nor did Irving, nor did my mother. Irving's parents, on the other hand would have disowned him for dating a Christian.

Part of me was indignant at the implication that somehow I wasn't good enough. Part of me was sad at the notion of being rejected because of my religion. And part of me was confused. In my mind, Christians and Jews were not so far apart. We read the same bible after all. At least the Old Testament part was the same. We certainly prayed to the same God. To me, a Christian was someone who followed the teachings of Jesus Christ. "And Christ was a Jew," I reminded Irving. "He was even a rabbi."

But religion was not the only reason our relationship was temporary. I knew I was not cut out to be a doctor's wife. I had goals of my own, which included wanting my own career. On October 1, 1964, I left Halifax aboard the Italian luxury liner Saturnia, bound for New York City to pursue my own destiny. When the ship docked in New York Harbor two days later I pranced down the gangplank in the three-piece tweed suit and hat that Irving had bought me as a going away present.

I can still hear his voice. "If my friend Jackie is going to New York, she's got to look sharp."

I did. (Look sharp, that is.) That suit had cost him his entire month's salary.

October flew by. By mid November my trunk arrived from Nova Scotia with my winter clothes, and the cold weather reminded me that Christmas was coming. My heart sank. It was going to be my first Christmas away from home.

I wrote to Irving a few times, telling him of my new life in New York, and my new adventures as a student at the American Academy of Dramatic Art. Around the end of November we talked on the phone, and the subject of Christmas came up. I lamented that I was going to be alone for Christmas for the first time in my life. And he said he was going to Montreal, as usual, to be with his family.

The envelope arrived a week later. Inside, was a prepaid airline ticket for a trip to Nova Scotia and back, and attached was a note that said "Merry Christmas!" I wept. Mostly tears of joy, because I was going home for the holidays! But there were those other tears also. The ones you shed when something touches your very soul.

"By George," I thought, "I think he's got it." More than anyone else I've ever known, Irving knew the true meaning of Christmas. His gift was truly unselfish, and his heart was truly pure. He was giving me an airline ticket because he really wanted to give me a gift, and not because of what he would receive in return. In fact, since he was going to Montreal, we would not even be spending time together.

Not a Christmas goes by that I don't think about Irving. Each year I open my jewelry box and take out the pendent and matching earrings that Irving bought me on his very first Christmas in Halifax. (It was in the bottom of those red tights hanging on my living room wall.) It's a beautiful set with Alaska Black Diamond stones. But I love it not because of what it is, but because of what it represents. It was a gift from Irving.

Funny thing, I don't wear jewelry much, don't even like it really. But every Christmas holiday I wear this set on at least one occasion. And when I do I raise my glass, close my eyes, and whisper a toast.

"Merry Christmas, Irving, wherever you are."

Misty's Gift

As for Misty – the oldest of the two dogs – she showed up in the summer of ‘88. It was a hot, sunny, Saturday afternoon. My husband and I were sitting on the porch steps, cooling off after gardening chores, when we spotted this big black dog coming down our driveway.

She was skinny but muscular, and her teats were swollen, which meant that somewhere she had nursing puppies. She walked past us, heading straight for the burn pile in the back yard, where she began foraging through the old burned garbage looking for food.

"Jerry, she's hungry," I whispered, immediately touched by the sight of this animal digging for scraps.

"Go get her something," my husband whispered back. I disappeared into the house and was back in less than a minute with a dish of dry cat kibble and a bowl of fresh water. I placed the bowls on the ground, and tiptoed back to my spot on the porch. We waited.

"Call her," my husband encouraged.

"Come here puppy. I brought you some food. Come on. It's okay." The dog scrutinized the two of us, then she looked at the bowl, seemingly considering my offer. Her eyes were the palest shade of blue, and the contrast against her black coat was striking. Finally, she made her move toward the bowl of kibble and proceeded to inhale it.

When she had finished eating my husband motioned for her to come to where we were sitting. "Come here girl," he said, patting his leg.

Slowly, she moved closer. When she was beside us, my husband reached out to pet her. She flinched, but as his hand made contact with the top of her head, and gently stroked her neck and her back, her body softened and her tail began to wag. We had made a new friend.

She didn't stay long that first day. Within minutes her head lifted and she looked off toward the hills, seemingly listening to something that neither Jerry nor I could hear. Suddenly, she bolted and was gone.

The following morning I spotted her coming down the driveway again as we were finishing breakfast. Quickly, I jumped up and poured a bowl of cat chow, and ran outside to meet her. She approached cautiously at first, her head down, but her tail wagged as soon as I spoke.

She devoured the food, then stood beside me and pressed her head against my leg, waiting to be petted. I sat on the porch steps, stroking her head and back, and continued to talk softly to her. "What's your name? Do you live near here? Do you belong to someone or are you homeless? Where are your puppies? How many puppies did you have?"

She made a strange sound in her throat as I stroked her coarse black fur. It was sort of a gurgling sound, somewhere between a moan and a growl. Actually, it sounded a lot like purring.

Misty wore no collar, so my husband and I could only wonder where she came from. Our country house is on Long Pond Road, in Wayne County, Pennsylvania. The nearest town – Honesdale – is 8 miles away. We have a few neighbors "up the road a piece," but at that time there were none that we knew very well, and we had certainly never seen this dog before.

Her visits became a regular part of our weekends. Typically, she came several times a day, and after each visit she'd leave – presumably to go home and feed her offspring – but she was always back a few hours later. Each Sunday we'd drive to New York City, back to our other home on the upper east side in Manhattan, and I'd spend the entire week worrying if she was okay. Was she hungry? Was she digging through our burn pile looking for scraps?

Every Friday we'd return to Pennsylvania, and within an hour of our arrival there she was, prancing down the driveway toward us. The ritual was always the same. First she'd eat, and then stand next to me waiting to be petted. I'd stroke her head and talk to her. "When are you going to show me your babies?" I would ask. Misty would look at me thoughtfully, then press her head against my knee and purr.

Early one Sunday morning – the weekend I started my vacation – I was awakened by the sound of yelping. It sounded like an animal in distress. I leaped out of bed, donned slippers, flew down the stairs and out the door. I listened and followed the sound. It led me to the base of a tree, about 100 feet from the house. There, hidden beneath the soft underbrush was a warm, fuzzy, black ball of fur. I picked the whimpering pup up and held him close to my body. It was Misty's baby. The markings were unmistakable. The same white tip on the end of his tail. The same white bib and white socks. And that tiny little white mark on his forehead. My God, I thought, she understood me! She brought me one of her babies!

"And what are you going to do with him at the end of the week when your vacation is over?" Jerry asked me. Neither of us was quite prepared for this unplanned addition to the family.

"Don't know," I replied, but I knew I had to do something. Leaving an adult dog behind to fend for herself was one thing. Leaving a six-week old pup was another.

Midweek, I took Misty for a walk hoping she might actually show me where she lived. She walked beside me at first, then I slowed down, and allowed her to take the lead. It worked! She turned left and I followed. At a fork in the road she turned right, and I continued to follow. Before long we came to a mailbox where she made another left onto a dirt driveway and up a steep hill. Soon I was gasping for air as we climbed higher.

Good grief, I thought, if she does this hill five or six times a day, she must be burning a zillion calories. We passed horses in a pasture as we climbed, and eventually came to a small white house at the top of the hill. From somewhere a woman's voice asked "Can I help you?" A thin young woman with long blond hair all the way down to her hips, wearing blue jeans and a white tee shirt stepped out from behind the white house. She was barefoot. "Who are you looking for?" she asked.

"Actually, I'm following this dog," I pointed to Misty. "Do you know who she belongs to?"

"She's mine."

I introduced myself. "I live down the road. First house on the left before you turn down to Long Pond. Your dog comes to visit me on weekends which is mostly when I'm here. She seems so hungry all the time I thought she might be homeless. So today I decided to follow her, and she led me here. By the way, what's her name?"

"Misty."

"How many puppies does she have?" I asked.

"She had seven. One male and six females. Would you like to see them?"

"Yes, I would. Per chance, are you missing one?"

"Yes, the male," she looked puzzled. "But how did you know that?"

"He's with me. Misty brought him to me . . . as a gift."

"Misty!" Her voice had a scolding tone. "So that's where he disappeared to. I'll come by and pick him up."

Misty's owner, whose name I learned was Jennifer, led me to the horse barn where six of the puppies were romping in a mound of hay. They were all variations on a black and white theme. Some had brown eyes, some blue like their mother, and two of the pups had one of each.

The puppies had been born on July 4, under the horse trailer outside the barn. Misty was not permitted inside the house, Jennifer explained. I shuddered at the idea of Misty sleeping outside on cold winter nights in the Pocono Mountains. She had been adopted from the Dessin Animal Shelter when she was six months old, and had been with Jennifer for four years. This was her first litter. For reasons no one knew she had not gone into heat until this year. When I thought about it later, I realized that it was probably starvation that kept her from going into heat. She simply hadn't been given enough to eat.

The big mystery was solved. I finally knew who Misty was and where she lived. I was relieved to know she had a home, although perturbed to discover she wasn't allowed inside it. And I was relieved to know that her puppy had a home to go back to. Now I could stop worrying about what would happen to him when my vacation was over. I didn't need a dog in my life. I already had four cats, plus a schedule that didn't leave time for dog walking. I definitely didn't need the stress of a puppy.

As I walked back down the hill toward home, I kept telling myself how relieved I was. But the ache in my heart told a different story.

Saturday came, and Jennifer still had not come by to retrieve the puppy. That afternoon I trekked up the hill to the horse farm and announced that I'd decided to keep him. If Jennifer minded she didn't say.

The following day as Jerry and I packed to return to New York, Misty watched our every move. Her eyes said "I want to come with you." Clearly, that was out of the question. She belonged to someone else. Finally, I kissed her goodbye, and with her puppy snuggled in my arms, we drove away.

In the weeks that followed the puppy got an official name. Caleb. And he learned the primary purpose of newspaper in New York City apartments. He got his first shots, and he quickly adapted to car trips to and from Pennsylvania each week.

Every weekend Misty was on the steps waiting for us when we pulled in the driveway. She made no secret of her desire to move in. We'd let her in for short visits, then shoo her out again. Instead of going home she would lie on the deck and stare at us through the glass patio doors. I kept reminding myself that she was not my dog.

As the days grew shorter, and the nights grew colder, Misty would often lie on the deck and stare in at the fire blazing in the fireplace. Looking at her made us feel so guilty we'd sometimes let her in, and she'd lie in front of the fireplace baking her bones. At other times we'd just close the blinds so we didn't have to see her.

Each Sunday as we pulled out of the driveway I would look in the rear view mirror and see Misty chasing our car down the road. My heart ached, but that still small voice within kept reminding me: She's not your dog. She belongs to someone else.

Thanksgiving came. And then Christmas. Strangely, we hadn't seen Misty for several weeks. Late one afternoon a man came by. He said his name was Paul, and that he was Jennifer's husband.

"Is Misty here?" he asked.

"No. She hasn't been here in weeks."

He frowned and said, "She's missing."

My stomach did a somersault. "How long has she been missing?"

"She's been gone about a month. We thought maybe she'd come here."

"If she shows up, I will call you," I assured him," I can even bring her home."

"We don't live up on the hill anymore," he said. "We moved last September."

I was dumbfounded. I thought of all those weeks of leaving Misty out in the cold, thinking her owner still lived on the horse farm. I pictured her chasing our car down the road week after week. I got my thoughts together enough to ask Paul for his telephone number, but he didn't have one to give me.

"We're between places," he explained. I scribbled our number on a three by five card and told him to stay in touch with me.

When he left, I wept. Misty was missing. What if something had happened to her? What if she had been hit by a car? What if she were injured and lying in the woods somewhere, bleeding and dying? What if I never saw her again? It didn't matter that she wasn't my dog. I loved her, and I wanted her to be safe.

I gave Jerry the news. He too, was sad. He too, was haunted by Misty's eyes staring at us through the patio doors, waiting to be let in. And he too, pictured her running after our car every week. All those months we'd kept pushing her away because we thought her owners still lived up on the hill.

The following night, I was awakened by Caleb's barking. I looked out the window just in time to see a big black dog on her hind legs peering into the compost bin. Misty!

Excitedly, I called her name. She looked up and her tail began to whirl. I raced down stairs, Caleb close behind, and flung open the front door. In seconds she was there, tail thumping, her lip curled high to expose all her front teeth. She smiled from ear to ear. We hugged. We cried. Caleb barked. Misty purred.

For the rest of that week I waited for Paul to call me. I wanted to tell Paul and Jennifer that Misty was okay. At first, I worried that the call wouldn't come. By the end of the week, I worried that it would.

And so it was that Misty moved in, and came to live with us in a condo in Manhattan. Overnight, she went from being an outdoor country dog, sleeping under a horse trailer, to being an indoor "yuppie puppie" living in a New York high-rise.

Together, Misty and Caleb drew lots of attention because their markings were so identical. People would stop me and ask, "Are they twins?" Their personalities, however, were distinctly different. Misty was the social butterfly. She adored people. She walked up to total strangers, pressed her head against their knee and waited to be petted. Caleb was the perpetual puppy, always playing, dancing and clowning. He was aloof with strangers, but the people he knew he was devoted to.

Misty was the adventurer, always chasing squirrels, or digging at an old dead tree to see what she might uncover. She was the best mouser I've ever seen. In the winter she could dive into a snow drift and come up with a mole in a flash. Caleb went along for the hunt and the adventure, but killing was not his thing. His passion was stuffed toy animals, and over the years he has amassed a huge collection. He carries them around, washes them, preens them, and protects them. Never once has he ever destroyed a toy. He does enjoy bashing Barney, his purple dinosaur, but despite the rough-housing, Barney still has all his appendages in tact.

Together, Misty and Caleb were pure joy. Running, playing, wrestling, and chasing. In the summer they hunted together. In the winter they rolled on their backs in the snow and made doggie-style snow angels. Life was one big happy adventure.

Somehow, I made time for dog walks. And, somehow I got used to crawling out of bed before dawn to take these two magnificent creatures to the park. Often I would stand with them on the lawn near Gracie Mansion and watch the sun rise over the East river. It didn't matter what was going on in my life at the time, or how much stress I had. These were blissful moments, filled with joy, peace, and serenity.

Spring came. And with it came the moment I'd been dreading for nearly six months. It was early on a Sunday afternoon. Jerry was upstairs napping before our trip back to New York. Misty and Caleb were both sacked out on the couch, and I was puttering in the kitchen when I spotted a car in the driveway. I didn't recognize the car, but I did recognize the long blond hair on the woman who stepped out of the car. It was Jennifer. Her husband Paul was with her. My stomach did a flip-flop. They were coming for Misty. Why now? Why, after all this time? It's not fair.

The doorbell rang, and I answered it. Misty and Caleb greeted the couple with licks and wags.

"She's here!" Jennifer said excitedly.

"Yes, she's been here," I explained, "but I didn't know how to get in touch with you. And you never called." I looked at Paul. You can't have her back, I thought. She's mine now.

Paul mumbled something about having stopped by a couple of times when we weren't home. I invited Jennifer and Paul into the living room to sit down. Paul motioned for Misty to come sit in his lap. She obeyed, but her expression was decidedly worried. Her eyes moved from me to Jennifer, to Paul, and then back to me again. Soon, she jumped down from Paul's lap and went to stretch out on the floor under the kitchen table.

By this time Jerry had come down stairs to join us in the living room. Except for a polite "hello" to our guests, he said nothing. Like Misty, his expression was worried.

I could feel my stress level climbing. I knew I had to do something or Paul and Jennifer would soon be walking out the front door with my dog.

"I want to keep her," I said suddenly. My voice was firm and assertive. It was a statement, not a question. I hadn't said, Would it be all right if I kept her? I hadn't asked. Rather, I told them what I wanted. The room fell silent. Jennifer and Paul looked at each other. "She'll have a very good home with us," I added. "We love her a lot. She'll have the best medical care, and anything else she may need."

Paul stared out into the kitchen at Misty lying under the table, and then back at Jennifer, who said nothing. Finally, Paul spoke, "Well, she sure does look like she's at home here."

"You're welcome to come visit any time you want," I said. The knots in my stomach were starting to dissipate. I knew they were going to let me keep her without a fight.

Jennifer and Paul left that day without Misty, and without looking back. Jennifer never even said goodbye. Misty was mine for keeps. Part of me wanted to dance for joy; part of me wanted to cry for Jennifer. I could feel her pain. I don't know why it took her six months to come looking for her dog, but I do believe she loved her. And I will never understand why she allowed Misty to be so hungry she had to raid garbage cans and dig through compost piles for food. Perhaps she didn't know any better. Or perhaps she didn't have enough money for dog food.

I never saw Paul and Jennifer again, but I've thought of them often. In my mind I've imagined them stopping by, and I've imagined them watching Misty and Caleb playing together. I've wanted them to see how happy Misty was. I've imagined them feeling grateful for having left her with me.

I thought of them again on Friday the 13^th. It was June, 1997. That was the day Misty died. It was a few minutes before four in the morning when I heard a sound that lifted me upright in bed. Quickly, I turned on the light. Again, I heard that sound. It was coming from Misty. It was similar to the sound she makes when she's dreaming, but this was no dream. She was on the floor on Jerry's side of the bed. I rushed to her side, calling her name, and gently trying to shake her awake. Jerry sat up. "What's that sound?"

"It's Misty, Jerry. She's gone."

We sat in silence, staring at her. Caleb looked too, as did several of the cats. It had happened so quickly. There had been no warning. True, she was fifteen years old, but she had shown no signs of illness, and had been playful until the end.

It's so hard loving animals, I thought. You have them for such a short time and then they're gone. But, perhaps that's part of God's plan. Perhaps they teach us about death and dying, and help us to understand our own mortality. For sure they teach us about living and loving.

In the city, people see me walking Caleb by himself and ask: "Where's the other one?" In the country, Caleb often sits in the grass for hours, staring into space, and waiting for someone to come lead him off on another adventure.

Caleb's behavior began to change almost immediately when his mother died. He became less aggressive with other dogs, less aloof with strangers. He became kinder, gentler, and calmer. One night, in New York, a man we didn't know got on the elevator with us. Caleb studied his face for a moment, then walked to him and pressed his head against the man's knee, and waited to be petted. Just like Misty.

Each day I watch with fascination as Caleb becomes more and more like his mother used to be. And each day I remember with awe how he came to be part of my life. He was a gift.... from Misty.