Girl's Best Friend

When I was two, my mother gave me a dog and named it after my father, who she had just divorced. In a single act, she taught me to love dogs and distrust men. I was an adult YEARS before I got the full irony of the joke; it was days before I stopped laughing. It did, however, make me appreciate the true loyalty of a good dog.

My father came from old money, a German heritage, and an iron grandmother. He married my mother in defiance of them and he heeled after six months and went home to Atlanta. When he met and married his second wife, she was a best in show, not a rescue.

I did not know my father but I did love my dog and the many dogs after Joe. Sophie, my Labrador Retriever, was an immeasurably happy dog. She was joyful in retrieving the morning paper and helping to carry in the groceries and she mothered every puppy or kitten I brought home. When thunderstorms frightened her in the night, she would bump the mattress on the bed, hyperventilating, to awaken me. I would move to the sofa and Sophie would heft her 82 lbs. on top of me and shake while I held her. With Rosie, my Chow Chow, I fell in love the second I held her soft puppy fur. I turned into a puddle whenever I looked at her. Rosie occasionally followed my suggestions--she never entertained commands!--but only when it suited. A lover angrily tried to insult me by saying my stubborn nature was matched only by Rosie's; I secretly took it as a complement. She was beautiful and strong of heart as well as head and I gave mine to her as willingly and completely as any lover I've had. My grief at her death was wrenching; her portrait hangs in my bedroom.

The dog in my life now is Max. We became companions through historical repetition: my mother gave Max to me, like Joe, forty-three years before. Max's job was to replace the recently departed Rosie, a job infinitely more difficult that of replacing my father. She chose him because he was the kind of dog SHE likes, but he's not really my type. My mother brought him home from a shelter knowing I'd keep him rather than send him back. It put quite a strain on our relationship (Max's and mine; my mother and I keep, at best, a strained relationship). We went to therapy to dislodge my mother from the middle of our bond. I'm happy to say that we're on good terms now, Max and me. Max chases cats, barks at falling leaves, pees on the neighbor's shrubs, and runs in the opposite direction when called. Max trusts that in the midst of my aggravation I will feed him, walk him, and remember his favorite organic, human grade, vitamin-enriched biscuit each morning. He forgives me when I occasionally forget the biscuit but he is cunning in his non-verbal cues to help remind me--doggy improvisation. Max hates baths but he loves walks on the beach. In return, I have a fuzzy, willful bundle of hyperactivity who thinks I am the most wonderful human in the world in a way only a dog could. I love the deep night comfort of rolling over in the bed and feeling Max adjust his butt to fit my new position, still sound asleep.

We are a pack of two. And I have my parents to thank.

LR