Article published May 10, 2009
15 and counting: Dogs have always been a part of the family
I admit to keeping a closer watch on news and photos of Bo in the White House than on the President. Being a dog lover all my life, I find the Portuguese water dog more interesting than day-to-day politics.
How I would love to pat Bo’s curly head and gently rub his back and tummy. Since childhood I have enjoyed and cared for at least 15 dogs, maybe more, and many other animals. That explains why my Mother’s Day gift was not flowers or candy, but “Animals in Heaven,” a CD by Jack and Rexella Van Impe, from an understanding friend.
My dogs from childhood were not as carefully selected as was Bo. They arrived unexpectedly.
They have come in all sizes and colors and were given a variety of names. My first dog was Pooch, a big white mongrel that wandered onto my grandparents’ farm in Rome Township, Michigan. Pooch liked to ride in the wheel well on grandma’s model A Ford to the Country Store at Rome Center, eight miles away. I found the black lab that followed me to my first newspaper job each day sleeping on our back porch in Adrian. In the ’40s the war was still fresh on everyone’s mind so I named him Sarge. About that time another dog was adopted on a Friday. Friday joined Sarge in walking me to work.
The cost of feeding pets and paying veterinarians was not a consideration. The animals got table scraps and water, and if they needed medical attention we were not aware of it. How times have changed. Now I buy cases of dog food, cook chicken breasts and rice, and know our vet better than I do the neighbors.
The little hound I named Jack may have been my friend for two days but he put me on record as a dog thief. I was about 8 years old when I unchained him, brought him home, and hid him in the cellar with water and bread and milk. The night the sheriff came to the house and asked my mother if Mary Alice had brought home a dog was forever a favorite family story. The dog was valuable and I was guilty. Was I punished? Probably not.
None of my furry friends came with papers or family lineage records. All but one were giveaways or throwaways. There also have been walk-ins like the beautiful springer spaniel that came to the house and gave birth to eight puppies the next day under the porch. There was a second challenge when a box of starving puppies was found near the railroad track on Byrne Road. Fortunately I was having a large group of people for dinner that day and the guests took the puppies.
Caramel Jane, a chihuahua named for her color, was the only animal I have paid for. She was purchased at a Toledo pet store when I couldn’t bear to see her tiny feet going through the wire cage. I invested in a caramel-tone area rug for a rental apartment. Our life together was shortened when the aunt who took care of Caramel during my mother’s illness cried so much when it was time to return her that I gave the dog to her.
Charlie, a German shepherd puppy that was a birthday gift, soon replaced her. I was living at the Plaza Hotel and hired taxis to take Charlie for rides while I was working.
A cocker spaniel went home with me after an auction because the owner planned to shoot it when he moved away.
Buffy and Murphy, my beloved collies, brought much joy for many years, until we reached that dreaded decision that tears your heart in a million pieces when it’s time to say good-bye.
But just when I said no more dogs — losing them is too much heartache — what should come down the driveway but a lovable black-and-white 3-month-old discard. Sixteen-year-old Digby and I are growing old together, with similar aches, pains, and pills, but with an enduring devotion to each other.
Bo doesn’t know or care that the Obamas are the First Family or that he was chosen to live in America’s No. 1 residence and be titled First Dog. He doesn’t care about politics or the Secret Service. He just wants to be the family’s best friend. That’s what dogs do best.
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