Just a Little Dog

When I was 5 we had a collie named, quite originally, Lassie. Lassie was hit by a car the same year JFK was assasinated. I was devestated by the loss and refused to allow myself to become attached again to a dog. We had dogs but they were never mine. I said that dogs were smelly and drooled and were, unless you had a sheep farm, completely useless. I might pet a dog but I would not love one. The only dog I really ever liked, after many years of avoidance, was The Neighbor's bichon. I would meet him sometimes for cocktails.

The Child really, really, really wanted a dog so we got one. It was smaller than a pony. It was a noble, mommy thing to do, bringing a dog into the house. I did not count on falling in love. He was only 8 weeks old when I picked him up in Portland. The Breeder looked at me intently and whispered, "This is a very special dog". I started crying when I saw him, which surprised the hell out of me. I blamed it on the oxytocin, the hormone that makes you go "oooh" when you look at a baby something, but he was, in fact, a special dog.

The Dog has a unique relationship with each of us. He smelled me first and I spend the most time with him so I get a lot of pure adoration. There's more of a bouncy, "let's tumble" vibe toward The Spouse. The Child gets the classic a-girl-and-her-dog best buddies treatment. He is, however, happiest when he has us all in the same room. Then he enjoys rolling on his back so that we might more easily stroke his belly.

The Dog looks a little like a Wookie. He sometimes sounds like a Wookie, too. He will, usually, sit on command. He will also dance on his hind legs, lie down and sometimes come when he is called. He would do anything for a Chicken Stick from Trader Joe's, which is why we won't let him run for Congress. He doesn't smell (usually) and he never drools. He's just a little dog and we love him.