I’m a lot of things—a daughter, sister, friend, marketer, dancer, reader; but a large part of me is defined by my love for dogs. Ever since I was a baby, there have been puppies in my family. There were Big Lady and Little Lady, who were my parents’ kids before my brother and I came into the world; then there was Amy, a worm and flea infested pup that I begged my mom to buy from the farmer’s market. My brother and I pooled $35 and presented it to her owner, who said she was a “chi-wa-wa/beagle” mix. Shortly after Amy arrived in our home, my mom rescued Kibbles, a beagle/basset hound mix found wandering around the halls of her school; then came Ace, who adopted my brother and dad while they were on a camping trip. Apparently, he just climbed up in the Jeep and rode home with them. Somewhere in all that puppy hoopla was Cici, a purebred Chihuahua that we had for only six months before she died of parvo virus. Dakota was the next pup to come into our lives, saved by euthanasia by my brother, who was helping a girlfriend move. While he was in the process of boxing and storing, the girl’s neighbor announced she was taking her sweet 6 month old puppy to the vet to have her put down because she was a constant reminder of the boyfriend who gave it to her and subsequently left. No doubt it had something to do with her black heart.
But I digress. We had 3 dogs at the time (Amy, Kibbles, Ace), so Dakota took refuge with a family friend. When my mom and I returned from a trip to London a few years later, my brother had a welcome home surprise for us that took the form of a yellow lab/golden retriever cross. We ended up keeping Peanut, and she has become a loving thorn in the side for the older dogs in the house (they’ve got 9 years on her!).
After college, I moved across the country and quickly started longing for a dog of my own, even though I said I would give myself a year to get on my feet. To alleviate this pain, I decided to volunteer at the local animal shelter. One day, I walked in, checked the list of dogs needing a walk, and thought, “Freckles sounds like a cute name. I’ll go check him out.” What I saw was a terrified heap of brown and white fur, curled as closely to the wall as he could get. When I walked into his kennel, he actually recoiled, and if he could have dug a hole and escaped, he would. I sat down, and it took him a good five minutes before he approached me. That’s when I knew he was mine. I took him home a week later. I’ve been an official dog owner for a year and half. Freckles has gone from hiding in the closet when company comes over to jumping up on my friends in greeting (this is cute until it’s a white shirt). It took 3 months before I ever heard him bark, and now he howls every afternoon when I get home (he’s a Hound/Pyrenees mix so he doesn’t really have a true bark unless he’s in protection mode). He won’t get in his bed at night until I’m in mine, and he plays with his treats as if they were toys.
Like I’ve said, I’ve been around dogs my entire life, and I think they bring something special to every family they join. That’s why I’ve started this blog. I hope to fill it not just with my stories, but with those around the world.
