My affinity for dogs was strong, unwavering, and readily apparent, by the time I was five years old. This attraction was almost certainly genetically pre-determined by generations of ancestors (including my parents) smitten with canines.
 

You’ve flipped through all the magazines in the waiting room, and heard the stories of countless animals as they filtered through the veterinary clinic with their owners. They arrive and leave again, bidding you good luck, and yet breathing a silent breath of relief that it is you who remain. The hours of waiting grow long when your pal of fourteen years is in the throes of an uncertain surgery. And so, you find yourself wandering the hallways, reading the numerous memorials, awards, and diplomas that paper the walls – anything to take your thoughts somewhere else for a few minutes.

Two years ago on a bitterly cold February night, the terrier across the street from my father’s home began to bark uncontrollably, much to the puzzlement and consternation of her owners. In an attempt to determine what was bothering Winnie, they opened the door and let her outside, where she promptly raced across the street to my father’s garage (something she had never done before). When her owners went to retrieve her, they found my father lying on the garage floor with a broken leg.

My first puppy was a memorable and life-shaping experience. Although my parents never admitted it, I suspect they finally caved in to my pleas for a puppy, when the neighbors down the street called to let them know I was spending an inordinate amount of time sitting next to their beagle, on top of his dog house. I thought he looked lonely and sad, too young to realize that beagles look this way most of the time. His name was Blaze, and I thought he was the most handsome dog I had ever seen.

My dog did not come with an owner’s manual and I suspect that yours didn’t either. It’s lamentable, since most of us would probably find it helpful to have instructions on how to operate a canine in four-paw drive. How do you make it go? Does it have more than one speed? Most important, how on earth do you make it stop?!

A few years ago, I brought an adolescent dog home from the shelter. You know the type – part beagleshepherdspaniellabrador. A robin stalking, trail sniffing animal who liked to herd birds and paddle water out of her bowl as fast as I could put it in. She was a four-legged piece of imperfection with soulful eyes and poetic ears, and while furtively stealing my socks out of the laundry basket, she also stole my heart.

If I’d gone to puppy classes, I’d not have chewed your glasses

Or caused you such great pain

Oh I woulda been a good dog, and I coulda been a good dog

If I only had been trained.

I would not be just a nothin’, my mouth all full of stuffin’

From your new couch and chair

I’d behave – you must believe me

Don’t you know you’re s’posed to leave me
 In my crate when you’re not there.

(chorus)

Oh gee, I’m running free – I slipped out of the door

You can chase me but you’ll never catch me cause


Stubborn little nose
Finds its way without a map
GPS on paws

Tri-colored and keen
Pleading eyes and happy soul
The hound of my heart

Several years ago, Jessie Beagle and I visited a veterinary specialist two hundred miles away in the Windy City. Jess was fifteen at the time, which is old by anyone’s canine standard, but she was still active and spry, and I wanted to get to the bottom of some health issues she was having. I was fortunate to find a young veterinarian in Chicago, trained at Iowa State Veterinary College. She was a spitfire from Scotland and was a good sport about her Scottish accent, amidst so many Midwesterners. She quite clearly loved animals, and had a special penchant for my old, very white beagle. For the purposes of this article, we’ll refer to her as McTavish.

Not long ago, as I walked through the parking lot of a major discount store, a large crowd had gathered around the back end of a tired looking van. “Free Puppies,” was hastily scrawled on a brown cardboard sign, and taped to the outside of the vehicle. Inside there were seven, maybe eight, active balls of fur. Some were eager for attention, their noses pushing to the front of the pack, while others lingered in the back of the truck, uncertain and reluctant. Odds were good that some individuals and families, who had come looking for a new appliance, would instead leave the parking lot with a new puppy. Despite the sign, puppies always come with a financial and emotional price tag.

“It is a fearful thing to love what death can touch…” - Author Unknown He had a welcome home wag that pumped his tail straight up and down, before it circled around and launched into a perfect figure eight. Born in my kitchen during the spring of 1991, he was a handsome hunk of tri-colored magnificence. His sturdy legs and heavy duty paws earned him the name of Sherman Alexander, a reflection of his invincible, tank-like appearance. When he went to live with his new family later that summer, I found myself missing the chaos of three beagles, and the soft snoring noise he made while sleeping. His mother and sister gradually settled into a new and quieter routine and as unbelievable as it seemed, life went on without him. Seven years later, Alex was unexpectedly returned to me and though I was sad and disappointed for him, I knew that this change was necessary.