Our First Dog by Nancy L. Eady

Writing fiction is about synthesizing real events in our lives, running them through our imagination, and coming out with something new but hopefully entertaining for our readers. My past is sprinkled with plenty of such fodder, both humorous and sad. As you may have guessed from my prior posts,  I prefer humor.

This past Friday, June 27, my husband and I celebrated our thirty-eighth anniversary. When we married on Saturday, June 27, 1987, we suffered from one fundamental difference in our belief system – dog ownership. Mark’s family never had indoor dogs; my family did. I figured my chances of getting a dog were slim to none. 

But fate intervened when my husband’s best friend, Gary, who had married a year or two before we did, brought home a cocker spaniel puppy and then, over the telephone, regaled Mark with tons of stories about how easy it was to deal with the puppy, how well it was doing, and how much fun it was. For some strange reason, even when they are separated by hundreds of miles, Mark and Gary’s lives are strangely parallel – they’ll call each other to find out that they had each read the same book or saw the same film independently. They still can finish each other’s sentences, and it is truly scary how their minds still work the same way after forty-six years of friendship. In this case, though, it worked to my advantage. With Gary and his wife in possession of an indoor dog, Mark’s resistance started to wear down. 

For New Year’s Eve, 1987, we went to a swanky party at a hotel in Charlotte, with a live band playing big band music and a sit down dinner. I can still remember, with a smile, how grown-up we felt. A perfectly lovely older couple sat beside us at our table, and somehow the subject of dogs came up. It just so happened that they had available one last cocker spaniel puppy for the bargain basement price of $100, and we were welcome to have her if we wanted. 

And then one of those moments occurred that wouldn’t happen now with 38 years of marriage under our belt. My husband turned to me and said, “It’s now or never. Do you want it?” His thinking: I would realize that New Year’s Day wasn’t the best day to acquire a puppy, especially with a two-hour drive ahead of us and the lack of permission from our apartment complex to own said dog, and say regretfully, “No.” My thinking? “If this is my only chance to get a dog, I’ll take it.” So, I said, "Yes."

January 1, 1988, found us roaming the streets of Charlotte, North Carolina in a maroon1985 Buick Oldsmobile with a three-month old black puppy in my lap, looking for a store that was open with pet supplies. (Shadow turned out to be a mutt; she was maybe a cocker spaniel/labrador retriever mix, but no papers were forthcoming. We call it the best $100 ever stolen from us.) 

Life with a puppy required adjustments. We put her in the bathroom when we weren’t at home to keep her safe. That lasted two days, which was the time it took for her to completely destroy all our bathroom furnishings, including the shower curtain. She tore it in half horizontally on day one, then somehow managed to pull down what remained on day two. The curtain remnant was at least five feet off the ground, and she was maybe six inches tall. Things got easier when the vet introduced us to crate training, which worked so well we have used it with all of our other dogs. 

Since Shadow, there has been a steady succession of dogs through our household, including multiple dogs at one time. Shadow got a sister puppy when she was 7. At six weeks old, J. P. Wooflesnort, “Woof,” was the youngest dog we ever raised. Shadow was brilliant; Woof wasn’t the brightest bulb in the hall, but she had a lovely personality. 

Currently, we have three dogs, or maybe two and a half. Daisy and Penny are ours, but Max is, nominally, our daughter’s dog. When she moves out, he is supposed to go with her. I give it even odds as to whether he actually goes; she is not paying for his food or vet care.  His desirability may diminish once she starts having to pay that herself, in which case he will be ours.

One other thing is certain – since December 31, 1987, my husband has never once turned to me and said, “It’s now or never” about anything.