When I say my boy wanted a dog, I don't refer to either of my little boys. They were fairly indifferent. I'm speaking of my boy, Patrick, the one nearing 30 who has, at least since the time I encountered him, dreamed aloud of owning a dog. And not a small one. His enthusiasm grew when the process was underway of buying a house of our own on an acre of our own amidst fields and forests. In the wilds of the Upstate countryside, we would need a fierce protector of our gardens, children, and chickens. Or so he argued. And I agreed. Sometimes. Other times, I remembered my childhood dog and saw her for the first time through the eyes of a homemaker.
My childhood dog was everything a child could want. She swam with us in the pond, followed us loyally around the house and property, slept in our beds, rolled wildly in leaf piles and mud. She slept side by side her feline friends in slivers of sunlight on the kitchen floor. My brother took her to dog school and she came out well trained and obedient. She was strong and able, playful and cuddly. She was patient with our youthful antics (like playing dress-up) and our shameful impatience. She made us laugh, attended every family camping trip, loved exploring corn fields, creeks and woods as much as we did.
The adult in me saw history from a new perspective. Dripping wet dog, stampeding through the house, shaking off as she went. Tripping numerous times daily over the ever loyal canine who couldn't grasp the idea of personal space. Enormous amounts of shedding. The stink and filth associated with a dog rolling in mud, dead animals, or leaked car oil. Sometimes after rolling in said filth and odor, she would sneak inside to gaily roll on the carpet. And she hated bathing. The daily, ever-present dependence on human care, rendering family vacations and other occasions somewhat tricky. Not to mention the emergence of old age, failed hips, and incontinence.
But the realization that dogs require work was mingled generously with euphoric apparitions of young Lindsay jumping through Atlantic waves alongside the gleeful snap of labrador teeth. How could I deprive my boy (and boys) of such fond memories and such a merciful, trusting friendship? By mid-January, after two months in our new location, I concluded that such deprivation is not part of my character. With a nod of approval, we left one holiday weekend to search the shelters for the perfect match.
Enter Cocoa. She was in a shelter in Lyons, NY. One year old mix of Lab and Shepherd. Loving, energetic, obedient --the boys love her. She is eager to play, yearns to cuddle, thinks she's much smaller than her actual size, easily submits, and has quickly gained the trust of our cat. She is loyal and even compliant to the boys.
Me? Well I just try to keep up with her shedding and clean up when she tracks mud through the house. And that's pretty much what I expected.
