THE DOG WHO LOVED ME

CHAPTER 1 It was a woman. The person that first warned me against getting a male dog. Why not? I’m a male, surely the dominant species. Surely the better of the two. No, that’s not totally true. The female is absolutely fascinating, and powerful in that. So, who told me to get a female dog? I mean, all men want their dog to be their buddy. But it turns out that when it comes to a dog, there are reasons to want a gal. To have all understanding of this story, you should know who’s idea it was to get a dog of her persuasion. It was my wife, Edith. You might ask, who listens to their wife? Any man who wants to stay happily married. Edith had some insights into this problem that I would never have anticipated. Once I voiced the need for a dog, and I emphasized need, Edith’s first response was that the first addition to our family should be the one we were expecting. To this, I countered that the dog should be first so that we would at least be beyond house training before we had our rug rat crawling thru the dog’s first experience with newspaper. Edith agreed. It always surprised me when she did that, because I knew she knew that she was smarter than I was in almost everything. So every time she agreed with me, I couldn’t help but be surprised. It was one of the many things that made me love her. Since I seemed to be on a roll, I told her that what we needed (what I wanted) was a German Shepherd - translation, a manly dog. Edith said no. “Why not?” “For so many reasons” “Name one.” With eyebrows raised, oh so sweetly, she said, “German Shepherds are big dogs.” “The better to protect you and our little ones.” “Ones? Just how many will you have me produce?” “As many as time and your health permits!” She grinned. She is so pretty. When she grins, I am totally undone. “That is a topic for another time. Stick to the issue. Have you considered whose dog this will be?” “Mine, of course.” Dogs were the male domain, whether the dog was male or female. “I’m glad you agree. You will be in charge of everything about the dog, except one thing. I will pick the dog out.” I was flabbergasted. “No.” My response was weakly stated. The choice of the dog was like the choice of the family car - strictly a man’s thing. My domain. “Did you say something?” “Uh, no. I was just clearing my throat.” “Maybe you should take something for it. Back to the dog. First, we want a mutt.” This was unbelievable, but reason prevailed and I said nothing. “Pure bred dogs are expensive - all you get is a piece of paper. Mutts live longer; they’re healthier, smarter, and less temperamental. While we’re on it, we want a small dog.” “What?” I mean who wouldn’t want big dog? “Because we have to feed this dog. I want 8 lb. bags max of dog food in my cupboard, and I want poop no bigger than a small zip lock bag.” “Why” “Because what goes in, will come out - and we will step in it, and your child will climb through it.” “My child?” “Yes, rule number one. Any child of ours that is soiled by dog poop will be cleaned up by the one in charge of the dog.” “What?” I was conscious of saying ‘What’ too many times. She just looked at me, like I should already know. And so it went, like so many of our ‘discussions’ went. But it was what made our marriage work. And that always made me happy.