This weekend was very sad for me. Saturday morning Brooklyn and I went to visit the home of the family that was hoping to adopt her. Obviously I had mixed feelings about it; I liked them when I met them at adoption days, and they were obviously excited about Brooklyn coming to live with them, so I wanted it to work out. But I love her too, and I don’t want her to go! But it’s not fair to Ian if we keep her and he has an extra dog to take care of for 6 weeks while I’m in Indianapolis, and it’s also not fair to them because they really want to adopt her. And it’s not fair to her either, because she deserves to go to a home where she will get the exercise she needs and undivided attention. *Sigh* As soon as we walked in the door of their house, though, I knew that it was the right place for her. They were so excited to see her, and let her sniff around the house for a while, then they started showing her the toys they had bought for her. I had mentioned at the adoption days that she likes squeaky toys; they had already gone out and purchased a buffet of squeaky toys for her. Squeaky balls (two different colors), a bone-shaped squeaky toy, and the best of all – a giant squishy lamb-shaped pillow with squeakers in each of its feet. She instantly loved it; she picked up the pillow and shook it around, then she threw it, picked it up again and shook it some more. Then she found a squeaky ball and started squeaking it. Many people would find the constant squeaking annoying, but not this family – everything she did was beautiful and adorable and perfect. There was absolutely no way I could say no to them. They filled out the adoption application on the spot, and I left without her.
It broke my heart to leave, especially because as soon as I started to put on my shoes, she was instantly by the door, waiting to go. She whined and scratched at the door after I left, too. I called them later that evening to see how it was going, and they said she whined for a few minutes, but they distracted her with toys and she eventually calmed down and settled in. They took her out shopping to PetSmart, and played catch in the yard, and she took a nap on the couch with them, and they just love her. They will probably spoil her silly, which is just what she needs after such a lonely life.
I also learned this weekend, completely by accident, that imprisoned journalist Roxana Saberi and I both went to the same high school and graduated the same year. This news totally shocked me, because even though her name was vaguely familiar to me, I have no recollection of her whatsoever. I even pulled my sophomore yearbook out of storage and looked her up, but there were no sparks of familiarity. When I read about sad stories such as these, I always feel sad about it – I suppose for the same reason I cry when something sad happens on TV or in a book I’m reading. But when I know someone, it always has a little more of an impact. Now I feel, perhaps irrationally, even worse for not knowing who she was.
Why, though? Would I have felt bad for not knowing her if I had simply read an article she’d written or seen her doing a report on the TV? I doubt it. In fact, as I flipped through my yearbook I realized that I only really remembered 2-3 people on each page. Some of the other names were familiar, but the faces certainly did not ring a bell. Do I feel guilty about not knowing those people? No. I certainly wouldn’t expect any of them to know me; I was definitely not what you would call popular. I had a small circle of good friends and another circle of friendly acquaintances. The majority of people in my school probably had no idea who I was. I did participate in some extracurricular activities (of the decidedly nerdy variety, I will admit), but Roxana Saberi did not participate in any of these. I think part of it must be due to the fact that I was a part of the yearbook committee – a photographer. I probably took some of the pictures of her that were in the yearbook. I know that when I was in school, I knew the names and faces of all my classmates because I was responsible for identifying their pictures. But try as I might, I do not remember her. But why should I feel bad about that? I would not expect her to know me. Logically, my guilt makes no sense. But I can’t seem to logic it away.