my 3 sons

My first dog was Toto. We got him as a puppy when I was about 5. He was a black & white mutt, and friendly. When my parents divorced three or four years later, my father took Toto with him. I don’t remember being too unhappy about it. There was enough to be unhappy about. My mother said my father needed the dog to protect his new house, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t want either of them.

When I was in junior high, we adopted a little poodle named Bunny. Dumb name, but she came with it. Every step you took, she was at your heels, nipping your feet, trying to get you to play. I considered this my sister’s dog. My step-father was also fond of her. We never took her for a walk, just let her relieve herself in the yard. We had a big yard. She was a small dog. She died of smoke inhalation when my mother set the house on fire with a cigarette.

My father also had a dog named Django that I often used to dogsit. This was a shepherd mix, a nice dog, mostly because he wasn’t mine. He was brown with beigy red patches, head more labrador than shepherd. He lived to be very old and was put to sleep to end his suffering. Why do we consider this right and kind when it comes to dogs but not to people? This is screwed up.

I have a dog now, too, named Stella. She’s a handsome dog, friendly and well behaved, aside from eating garbage and other dogs’ shit. I like her but at this point I know I’m not a dog person, or a cat person, a rabbit person or fish person. I’m hardly even a person person. But the kids and husband wanted a dog and I went along. On the evening before we got her, we all voted and I indicated a desire to vote no. They looked at me like I’d taken a shot at the pope, but luckily missed, and was thus responsible for the pope for the rest of my life.