It’s pretty hard to imagine anything cuter than puppies or kittens. They’re soft. They’re fluffy. They’re playful. They’re fun. They’re also irresistible and they turn a house into a real home. Every year, Santa Claus listens to millions of children around the globe recite their wish lists with puppies and kittens sitting at the very top! Most families want them. And mine was no different.

Heidi, a small yet plump 20-pound Dachshund, helped my parents raise my brother, sister and me during our early childhoods. She chased us around the backyard, nipping at our heels, never tiring of her babysitting responsibilities. Doll clothes fit her perfectly (after we cut holes in the pants for her tail). One of my father’s shoeboxes was repurposed as a portable baby carriage for her. I lovingly lined the interior with a thin flannel receiving blanket, dressed Heidi in the frilliest pink Easter outfit in my doll’s wardrobe, including white gloves and a bonnet with that killer elastic neck strap that was tight enough to sever a little girl’s head straight off her body, stuffed her into the box and greeted my dad when he arrived home from work.

“Look what’s in the box, Dad!” I said as I carefully removed the top. There was Heidi, crammed into the size 11-½ shoebox, surrounded in ruffled eyelet, taffeta and ribbon.

“Peg! You can’t keep the dog in a box like that!” he said, reaching toward me in an effort to rescue Heidi.

“It’s not a box, Daddy! It’s something to carry babies in, and besides, you’re not the boss of me!” I argued, shielding the box from him.

“Oh no? I’m your father! Of course I’m the boss! If I’m not the boss of you, then who is?” he asked.

“God is,” I affirmed, always demanding the last word.

For a long time I wondered why suddenly Heidi didn’t live with us anymore! Could it be that when my sister leaned in to smother her with kisses, awakening her from a sound, well-deserved nap, that poor, startled Heidi accidentally bit her on the lip? Probably.  It appeared that Dad really was the boss!

We all felt Heidi’s absence deeply. For several years, every Christmas, birthday, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Fourth of July, Columbus Day, Halloween or any other day that we thought might bring us another dog passed but yielded no blessed result.

“PLEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSEEEEEE could we get a dog?” the three of us begged our parents.

“We PROMISE we’ll take care of it! We’ll feed it! We’ll take it for walks! We’ll do EVERYTHING! PLEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSEEEEEE?”

But no. My parents remained firm in their resolve . . . that is, until Earl and Renie Kidder’s Dachshund had a litter of puppies! There they were, seven tiny, grunting bundles of warmth, nestled just beneath their mother, some of them silky smooth while a few of them seemed a bit fuzzy, like Brillo pads.

“Hey Earl,” my father began, “are you SURE these are Dachshunds? Look at those three right there!” He knelt down next to the canine maternity ward and pet the three scraggly pups with just one finger.

“These sure don’t look like Dachshunds to me!” he said, concluding his inspection.

“Ya . . . you’re right, Joe,” conceded Earl, “we’re not entirely sure WHAT the mix is, but we sort of suspect that Winston might be the father. He’s always around the kids and the neighborhood, so . . . he just might be the culprit!”

Winston, a 95-lb. massive Old English Sheepdog, belonged to the Murphys who lived on the next street just behind the Kidders. He was part of the neighborhood gang of kids who played with us every single day. He was there for hide-and-seek, although he never hid very well AND he was a dead give-away to OUR hiding spots! Freeze Tag was one of his favorite games. As soon as one of us became “frozen,” he’d come bounding toward us at full speed! He wasn’t big on chasing us, but he LOVED the kid-to-dog tackle! Winston was never tardy or absent from snack time either. Oreo cookies, Cheese Nips and popsicles disappeared right from our hands and into his mouth before we knew what happened. I used to throw a tennis ball for him to chase. He seemed to be interested as he searched for the ball, but his focus waned very quickly. Mrs. Murphy finally figured out that he had so much hair hanging over his eyes that he couldn’t see where the ball had gone! She gathered it up into a ponytail to see if that would help! Bingo! A whole new world opened up for Winston! Not only could he see where the tennis ball had gone, he could also see . . . Gretchen . . . the Kidders’ dog!

Earl and my dad joked about the unlikely, unusual and awkward mating of these two breeds, but the humor was lost on my 5-year-old self.

“I can’t really get a clear visual on the actual event,” chuckled Earl, “but these pups are either gonna be real hairy Dachshunds or real ugly Sheepdogs!”

Whatever. I didn’t care. I just REALLY wanted one of those furry puppies! Following an intense family meeting with all three of us kids vowing to keep our rooms clean, our beds made (never a problem for me, but I vowed, nevertheless, for effect), never to argue with each other again, ALWAYS to set the table, clear the table, wash and dry the dishes, keep the turtle dish clean, do our homework without being told, and basically to be model children for the rest of our lives, my parents agreed to allow an addition to our family . . . by four feet! My mother was the only one who wasn’t fully overjoyed and committed.

“I’m not sure about this, you guys,” she said warily, “I just KNOW I’m the one who’s going to end up with the full responsibility of taking care of this dog! The reason dogs are called ‘Man’s Best Friend’ you know, is because the women do all the work!”

“No, Mamma!” the three of us chimed in simultaneously, “we PROMISE we’ll do it! We’ll do ALL the work!”

(Famous last words!)

Ragamuffin (Rags, for short) was enthusiastically welcomed into our family by four out of the five of us. The fifth silently tolerated her. We three kids honored our commitment to attend to the puppy’s needs . . . well, almost all of them, anyway. We fed her, walked her, played with her, cuddled her and loved her like crazy. Cleaning up from her back end hadn’t been part of our initial contract. In fact, we hadn’t even thought of it when negotiating the deal, and there had never been an exact schedule itemizing all of the duties. Luckily for us, however, my mother’s affection for Rags grew as soon as it became clear that Rags inherited her size from Gretchen and her hair from Winston. She was the most adorable Dachshund/Sheepdog mix imaginable! Mom picked up the slack and assumed the task of keeping the back yard clean.

As time went by, Mom and Rags spent most of their time together. Of course she saw the writing on the wall from the very beginning when she cautioned us about getting a dog in the first place. Just as Mom had predicted, her dog duties grew in direct proportion to our development into preteen and teenagers. Our days at school stretched into extracurricular activities, slumber parties, Brownie and Boy Scout meetings, piano lessons, choir practice, Glee Club, baseball games, swim meets and play dates. And so it went. We grew up, went to college and moved away. Mom, Dad and Rags held down the fort.

My experience with dogs had been so positive, that at one point I thought of becoming a veterinarian. Yep. Me. A DOG DOCTOR! On top of that, I wanted to move to Montana and raise St. Bernards! After all, taking care of Rags had been so easy and effortless, what was wrong with bumping up the average weight and number of dogs? Rags grew to a full adult weight of 18 pounds. I knew my love for her was greater than 18 pounds worth, so . . . what about doubling that? No, tripling that . . . or quadrupling that? St. Bernards seemed like nice dogs and I had enough love in me for a whole bunch of them, so . . . I was going to raise them!

UC Davis is THE school for animal husbandry. Throughout high school, I set my sights on attending that university, keeping my end goal in mind. I was, however, tackled broadside by chemistry, biology, trigonometry and calculus with the same force as one of Winston’s attacks during Freeze Tag! There was no way I’d ever get through the rigorous requirements of vet school with my lack of aptitude for even high school science and math. I had to abandon the dream of a ranch in Montana and a herd of giant St. Bernards. I would have rather stuck needles in my eyes than endure the challenge of years of science and math involved in veterinary medicine.

Life continued, and so with it, my love of dogs. I married young. Too young. The fantasy of “happily ever after with two cats in the yard and at least two dogs in the house” fed my dreams and expectations. My outline of the perfect life included a dog. Gosh! At one point hadn’t I wanted St. Bernards? It stood to reason, of course, that my then-husband’s insistence on a Great Dane should raise no red flags.   A big dog is a big dog, right? WRONG!!! Marmaduke in the comics endeared himself to everyone who read the newspapers; Jake, the black Great Dane in MY household, on the other hand, endeared himself to . . . my spouse . . . who worked all day . . . and stayed out very late into most evenings and “worked” on weekends.   I also worked full-time. Confining Jake indoors all day long was not an option, so, like many working families with pets, we installed a doggie door. Problem solved? Yes and no. Jake did have the freedom to go in and out of the house at will; however, our particular dog door was a recycled Great Dane brand mud flap meant for an 18-wheel Mack truck! It was so large that neighborhood children, opossums, raccoons, stray dogs and cats, mice, rats and even full-grown adults (like burglars) could pass through! Strong winds pushed branches, leaves and clouds of dust and right along with them, swarms of insects, straight into the kitchen. Being alone all day with no companion, not to mention NO DISCIPLINE, allowed Jake to drag furnishings from inside the house outside to the backyard and vice versa! Throw pillows from the sofa and area rugs from the entry way and halls doubled as chew toys. They were found outside, half-buried in the flowerbeds. Hoses, small gardening tools and remnants of citronella candles were scattered on the living room carpet, chewed, broken and oftentimes muddy. But what I had so often thought was mud was not mud at all! Jake had a very regular constitution, and if I weren’t hyper-vigilant to his schedule, I ran the risk of having to clean up an extra layer of filth . . . EVERYWHERE! I dreaded coming home. I knew what chaos laid waiting.

“UUUUUUUGGGGGGGGHHHHHH! I HATE this dog! He’s so unruly, so big and so much work! Why do I have all the responsibilities of taking care of him?” I lamented to no one who cared.

My mother’s words from the past haunted me: “The reason they’re called ‘Man’s Best Friend’ is because it’s the women who take care of them!” How right she was! She was two for two on that scorecard, that’s for sure! It was she who ended up taking care of Rags and now it was I who had to deal with Jake.

Not long afterward, both Jake AND my ex-husband went away. I raised my two young sons by myself, keeping order, managing my job, their school and sports schedules and the entire household. Needless to say, it was NOT easy! One thought that comforted me every time Life overwhelmed me was my calming mantra, I know things could be worse; I know things could be worse! I could also be taking care of a DOG! A few minutes of mental chanting and a few deep, cleansing breaths later made all the difference in the world. I was going to make it!

And I DID make it and several years later, Life DID get better! A lengthy relationship with my REAL Prince Charming moved toward marriage . . . at least that what I was hoping.   Most men seeking a woman’s hand in matrimony ask for her father’s blessing. MY Prince Charming asked my sons.

“What do you guys thing about me marrying your mom,” he asked when I was nowhere around.

“Oh . . . I dunno,” answered my older son, not too sure he wanted a change in our little family, “<sigh! > I guess if my mom’s happy, I’ll TRY to be happy.”

But the younger son exhibited no hesitation whatsoever! In fact, he looked at the situation as an opportunity to get something HE wanted.

Slapping his hand on the table, he offered, “If you buy me a dog, you can have my mom!”

The deal was made, the three of them shook hands, and we started a new chapter in our lives. I still couldn’t believe that I’d been bartered away for a dog, but then again, I still couldn’t believe that I’d found happiness with a wonderful man.

History has a funny way of repeating itself. I know a dog was part of the deal, but when we tried to select just one yellow Labrador from the litter, in a very weak moment, I suggested that we adopt TWO, one for each boy! Wilbur and Bailey grew like weeds and so did the boys! Just as Mom ended up taking care of Rags when we began high school, I did the same when my kids went to high school. My husband worked all day, but so did I. The boys’ after school activities and sports schedules kept them away from home two to three nights a week. The dogs spent their days out in a dog run along the side of our house until I got home every day. (At least I had learned a lesson from my mud flap doggie door days!) Truth be told, they remained in that dog run well past my return home. I only stopped in to start dinner preparations, and then headed back out to pick up the kids from wherever they were and from whatever they were doing.   Wilbur and Bailey bonded with each other and not us. Why would they? We were seldom home!

My husband and I really tried to break the barrier between us and Them. We enrolled the dogs in obedience classes and accompanied them every Wednesday night, but Wilbur, the more strong-willed of the two, spent most of his sessions in the time-out corner with another stubborn dog, Max, a German Shepherd. Our next-door neighbor constantly left messages on our voicemail recorder complaining of the dogs’ incessant barking. We weren’t home during the day! How did WE know they were contributing to the noise pollution in the neighborhood? Contributing? NO. They WERE the noise pollution in the neighborhood.

“I can’t believe my son actually traded me away for . . . DOGS!” I cried, “and I thought it was CUTE!”

All in all, my adult experience with large dogs had been a complete and total disaster. Jake was a 185-lb. nightmare and Wilbur and Bailey were 80-lb. evil stepsons! It frightened me that I was beginning to think I hated ALL dogs!

The nest eventually emptied, dogs and children alike, and I was footloose and fancy free of all dependent responsibilities! Wow! What a fabulous feeling! No longer working, I filled my days with activities that had long been on the back burner for an eternity. I learned to golf, I joined clubs, I went out to lunch with girlfriends, I sewed, I read and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of every day.

“I think we should get a dog,” suggested my husband one weekend, “I’m gone a lot, and I’d feel better if you were protected when I’m not around.”

WHAT DID I JUST HEAR? IS HE OUT OF HIS MIND?! A DOG!

“I’m just fine, trust me!” I responded, trying (albeit unsuccessfully to convince him that I didn’t need protection) “I’m way too busy to take care of a dog!”

A few weeks passed, but the thought of Carl surprising me with a dog kept nagging me.

“What if he comes home with a puppy? I won’t have any say in what kind of dog he gets! What if it’s another Lab??? Good God!! I just CAN’T have another Lab! I’d rather get another divorce than have another big dog! What am I going to DOOOOOOOOOO?”

One of my neighbors had just adopted an 18-month-old liver-and-white English springer spaniel. Her husband loved the breed and had wanted one for quite awhile. This young dog became available through a local veterinarian’s office, so Sharon brought it home on a trial basis.

“Hello there, this is Sharon,” she beckoned from the other end of the telephone, “if you’re not doing anything, come over and meet our new dog, Rusty!”

Of course I ran right over there! After all, it wasn’t MY dog! At first glance, I felt serious tugging on my heartstrings.

“Oh! He’s SOOOOOO cute!” I cooed, “and look how funny he is!” I said as Rusty tried to catch his stub of a tail.

“Ya, he’s cute alright,” agreed Sharon, “but I don’t know if we’re going to keep him. He may be too much dog for us!”

I stayed and played with Rusty for awhile, the entire time hearing Carl’s threatening words: “I think we should get a dog!” and I did NOT want him to surprise me with a giant Labrador, Golden Retriever, Great Dane or anything, for all that matter. If I had to have a dog, I wanted one of more manageable size AND I wanted to be included in the decision. NO SURPRISE DOGS!

As a preventive strike against being blindsided by a surprise puppy, I said, “Work with Rusty for a few days, a few weeks in fact, but . . . if you decide you don’t want him, call me first. We may take him!”

Shortly thereafter, our household grew by . . . four feet. Rusty and I spend a lot of time together. Of course I saw the writing on the wall from the very beginning when I asked Sharon to “call us first” in the event Rusty proved to be too much dog for them. Just as Mom said a long, long time ago, “Dogs are called ‘Man’s Best Friend’ because it’s the women who take care of them!”