Several years ago, my new daughter-in-law, Galina, called me to tell me about a
    puppy she and my son wanted to buy. I thought it was an inopportune time, he
    being a new Marine and knowing he wouldn’t be stationed in Annapolis for more
    than two years. They were so young too, and a dog is a big responsibility. Of
    course, I could have said all that, but they both wanted this “special” little dog
    whose breed I had never heard of, and who was I to say they shouldn’t have a
    puppy? I had two dogs and a cat at the time.

    “A Shima Imu?” I said.

    “No, Katie, Shiba with a B, Inu, with an N, it’s a Japanese dog” Galina said.  
    While she spoke I googled (I live at my computer) and found the cutest pictures I
    had ever seen of the most adorable puppies, which came in several colors. Some
    of them looked like little bear cubs, some like little fox cubs, and some like little
    Huskies.  Theirs was the one that looked more like a Husky.

    When she said the breed was Japanese, I thought to myself, that figures. My son,
    Nick, is half-Japanese, and he loves the culture. He never embraced my Italian or
    English or German ancestry, quite like he embraced his Japanese, but that was
    okay, I embraced the Japanese culture too.

    “So who is going to take care of the dog while Galina works and you are guarding
    the Navy?” I asked my son.

    “Don’t worry mom. We have it under control.” Which is Marine speak for butt out. I
    can take a two- by- four hint.

    My daughter in law had moved across the country, far away from her family to be
    with my son. She took a leave of absence from UC Santa Barbara, packed her bags
    and at nineteen years old became a the wife of a Marine, which is not an easy life. If
    the dog made the transition easier for her, and made my son a little less homesick
    for his dogs too, then I was really all for it, despite my doubts about who would walk
    and feed the little guy.

    “What’s his name?” I asked.

    “Foma” my son said.  “Pronounced Fomah with the accent on the last syllable, but
    we call him Foma because it’s easier.”

    “Hmmm.” I said. “Does that mean something?”

    “Well, it’s sort of the equivalent of Erkle, in Russian, but not really.” He said.   

    “Hmmm.” I said again.

    Galina is Russian, actually from Russia, hence the compromise; which is a good
    thing in a marriage; Japanese dog, Russian name. I can’t wait until they have kids.
    Foma instantly became the talk of the town. The scenic harbor town of Annapolis
    on the Chesapeake Bay is a wonderful walking town. Nick and Galina walked Foma
    all over, visiting everyone they knew and he quickly became the Ambassador of
    Happy. Foma makes people smile.

    When they needed babysitters, the Marines stepped up. Foma, who would never
    weigh more than twenty pounds, was not a girly dog. He was a tough little guy, as
    long as he wasn’t scared.  Galina made sure that the Marines did not scare him.

    The kids brought him to North Carolina to meet me when he was a baby, ah, I mean
    puppy; about eight or nine weeks old, and maybe seven pounds. I fell in love; my
    other dogs did not. However, no one ate him so we thought it went pretty well.
    One year later, Nick transferred to California, preparing for a deployment to Iraq, so
    once again they stopped by North Carolina with Foma for a visit. He got along well
    with the big dogs this time and we even left them all home alone together when
    running errands.  I was scared, but Galina, our own dog whisperer, was relaxed and
    trusted everyone.

    When Nick and Galina arrived in California, they were stationed in the desert. Foma
    quickly made the adjustment, and once again was everyone’s little buddy. Many of
    the same Marines were still with Nick, so his “godfathers” were still available for
    baby-sitting, at least until they all deployed.

    Galina decided to go back to school during the deployment. She would lose the
    support of the other wives, but she felt that she would be able to handle the
    deployment better if she kept busy. So of course, my daughter- in- law the over-
    achiever, moved back to Santa Barbara, went to school, worked and took care of
    Foma, all by herself.

    I know there were days during Nick's deployment, Galina did not want to get out of
    bed. But she did, everyday, if for no other reason than to take care of Foma. On
    the nights she cried herself to sleep, missing Nick, lonely and scared out of her
    mind, Foma would snuggle up to her. A breed known more for independence and
    aloofness then snuggling, Foma ignored three thousand years of breeding, and
    would not leave Galina when she was having a hard night, or a sad day.
    I don’t know the content of conversations she had with Foma, but I know that Foma
    listened to every word.

    It took a while for Foma to get used to Nick being home from Iraq. He had grown so
    close to Galina, I am sure he thought that Nick was an intruder. He came around
    though, and now when Galina isn’t home, he is Nick’s best friend.

    Later on a sunny Santa Barbara day, Nick was walking Foma and Foma slipped out
    of his collar and ran. Nick couldn’t run after him because his knees are in bad
    shape from four years of patrols with 100 pounds of equipment on his back. By the
    time Nick got to his car to search for Foma, he was gone.

    Galina called me right away.  I knew she was close to crying, but she is tough, she
    is after all, the wife of a Marine. She went into action immediately. She hung up
    flyers, she created a rally on her community website, she searched and searched,
    calling Foma’s name until she had no voice left.  Nick searched too, bad knees be
    damned.

    Nick searched late into the night. He didn’t want to give up, but finally he came
    home and decided to sleep on the sofa downstairs and leave the door open a crack
    in case Foma came home. It had been almost ten hours, but Nick kept thinking
    Foma would come home. They put Foma’s favorite toy just outside the door.

    I cried. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t help. I wanted to get on a plane, but it just wasn’t
    possible, I had my three dogs to look after. I called Nick’s father in California.

    “Please go help the kids find Foma,” I asked him.  He loves Foma too.

    “I can’t right now, maybe I can fly down in the morning.” He sounded stressed; I
    could tell he wanted to jump in his car and go. It's times like this I like him.

    I knew what it would mean to Galina if that dog were lost. Foma held all her fears, all
    her secrets, all her tears, all her happy days too. Foma held them all. Foma was
    her strength for many months, maybe even their whole marriage. I knew Nick felt
    horrible too. Horrible that it happened on his watch, horrible that he could not run,
    horrible that he would not be able to console his wife if they did not find Foma.  I
    was worried that Galina would blame him, and then not forgive him, I thought, “she’ll
    never want to have kids with him.” I know; that was a little extreme.

    I woke up at 6:35 AM to the telephone ringing. Most people don’t call me that early,
    and if they do I ignore them, but I hopped out of bed and grabbed the phone. It was
    Nick’s dad, Jon.

     “Foma is home.” He said.

    “Thank you God.”  I thought. I so carefully dole out my prayers, always saving them
    for emergencies. To me, this was a big one.

    Foma had blistered paw pads, and Nick and Galina pulled about fifty ticks off him.
    From the evidence, it looked like he walked the whole fifteen hours he was gone.
    He went into the woods, and must have had quite a time for himself, before he
    decided it was time to go home and came to their door at 3:30 AM.

    He spent the next day at the veterinarians being checked out, and bathed, and I
    believe they went shopping for a new collar. My son wants to put a GPS on him.
    Galina is thinking about boot camp.

    Our dogs are everything to us. More than people know. They give us a reason to
    keep going when we don’t want to; they protect our homes and our hearts. They
    keep our secrets, they don’t tell anyone when we are cry babies and they love us
    with pimples and scars, bad hair days, bad backs and bad knees and even bad
    moods that we take out on them.

    My grand-dog Foma really is the Ambassador of Happy.  He had so many people
    looking for him those fifteen hours; everyone wanted to help.  Too bad, he missed
    being the center of attention during his ordeal; he would have loved it.  I’m sure he
    won’t ever take off like that again. Something tells me he knows he messed up. I
    think one look at Galina when he walked in the door, her big hazel eyes filled with
    tears and the crease in her forehead, not matching the smile on her face would
    have told him that was his last big adventure. I am sure he knew.
The Ambassador of Happy