“If there is reincarnation, I want to
come back as your dog.”
I
was never sure whether this comment by an ex-boyfriend’s mother was a
compliment or not.
However, I,
too, had made some disparaging comments of my own. Over the years, when bemoaning my frequent
disappointments in relationships, I often remarked:
“What
can you expect? I was raised by wolves.”
Referring
somewhat cynically to the fact that I’ve spend most of my adult life living
with dogs. Period.
Perhaps
it is the wisdom of hindsight. Perhaps I
have finally accepted that I choose the
company of canines. Whatever the reason,
recently I found myself inventorying the relationships I’ve had with canis lupus familiaris.
I've always said that Walnut took care of
me. Found on Walnut Street by Emily
Deane and brought home to Olney in a cab, Walnut wound up with me when Emily’s
parents refused to let her keep a dog.
I, on the other hand, at 22 already had my own house. And then, with Walnut’s arrival, my own
dog. Though she lived the first years of
her life in a state of benign neglect,
Walnut probably saved mine. From what I was able to piece together at the
time, Walnut apparently met a burglar at the top of the stairs and escorted him
out the back door. All he got for his
trouble was an obsolete pocket calculator.
Walnut got a steak. I am proud to
say Walnut spent the last years of her life in a Center City high-rise where
Charles, the door man, greeted her by name every single day.
Found on my birthday,
Kizzy’s full name was Kismet, for obvious reasons. If any of my dogs truly was a wolf, she was
the one. Resembling a little coyote,
Kizzy had the wiles to match. She
wiggled cunningly into Walnut’s empty space and stayed for 13 years. Almost literally my constant companion, Kizzy
traveled to Florida, North Carolina, and New York, as well as to most of my
appraisal assignments. She is
immortalized in Mutts: America’s Dogs by Brian Kilcommons and Michael Capuzzo. (Still in print...in case you're interested).
Nicky arrived as Kizzy was
entering her dotage. A puffy Pomeranian,
Nicky was my only alleged purebred.
Nicknamed “The Mayor,” Nicky loved people and delighted in greeting
everybody. Though he arrived in middle
age, Nicky hung around until he was about 14 years old and was best known for
providing background music whenever I answered the phone.
What do I say about
Pepper? My friend Lorraine cajoled me
into a visit to the Humane Society of Ocean City soon after Nicky’s death. “A dog is not a boyfriend,” she chided.
“You can get another one right away.”
Pepper was my “special needs” dog. She gave the first impression that she had
no intention of being anyone’s best friend. In the shelter for six months, she
lacked most of the canine social graces.
My “Fox Terror,” Pepper nonetheless endeared herself to me and to a
select few around me. I lost her too
soon to lymphoma, but not before she ingratiated herself in her quirky, noisy
way, with the admissions and oncology staff at Penn Vet.
And now there is Mi Amigo, aka
Migo. Enter Lorraine again: barraging me with Petfinder photos after
Pepper was gone. The closest I have come
to online dating is falling in love with a lop-eared, red Chihuahua mix. Mi Amigo – placid, with an “I’ve seen it all”
look in his eye - is my furry Valentine,
my friend.
So, maybe I really have been “raised
by wolves.” Certainly, none of my
boyfriends treated me as well as my canine companions. I am proud to say,
though, that I treated most of my
boyfriends like dogs.
You
know, that ex-boyfriend’s mom was an attractive redhead and Migo is…do you
think?
Nah……
