Of dogs and puppies

We are dog people. We are not dog people in the sense that we are obsessed with dogs and have dogs that are ultra pampered and spoiled. They are taken care of and quite comfortable, but I actually had a friend tell me that I'm the ONLY person she knows who treats her dogs like dogs. Apparently I'm a dying breed.

We are dog people in the sense that we are not cat people. Nothing against cats. I'm half allergic to them and can never figure them out. Too complicated I guess. And they belong outside. But outside there are coyotes. So, we don't have cats.

Yes, we are dog people. But we are NOT puppy people. The two dogs that we have right now we did not have as puppies. They came to us after the puppy thing was over. One is a rescue dog that was abused and eventually abandoned by her former owners. The other was the pampered pooch of an elderly lady who passed away. I would argue that they are two of the best dogs on the planet for many reasons. One comes when she's called and the other one doesn't shed. I'm obviously not too hard to please.

Yesterday my brother came into town. He brought his puppy. His little cute beagle puppy. His cute little impulse buy beagle puppy that his wife fell in love with at the pet store. He's pretty smitten himself. How can you not be? Look at that face.



But, she is a puppy. My husband came home and was home for a grand total of ten minutes before he commented, "If we ever get a puppy again, one of us has dementia, and the other one . . . "

"Is dead?" I finished for him.

"Yea."

We've had our share of dogs that weren't so great. One was named Sadie. She shed unbelievable amounts of hair for a smooth-coat dog. She was part dalmation. If you've ever had a dalmation, you probably know where I'm going with this. If you've never had a dalmation, don't get one. She spent the better part of her life jumping fences (8 foot chain-link fences) and running away.

I spent the better part of my life while we had her chasing her around city streets furious that she wouldn't come and worried she'd get hit by a car. Two emotions that when experienced together at that level of intensity make normal level-headed people such as myself wish for some sort of medication. Really it was probably the dog that needed it, but I was driven to the brink by that dog. On a regular basis.

My brother's theory is that we gave her the wrong name. Like she would have answered to a different name.

I doubt it. But it's a good theory.