Every Boy Should Have a Puppy

The first dog I remember meeting (and probably the first dog I ever met) was my grandfather's miniature poodle named Chico.  I got to see Chico a few times a year, every Christmas and a weekend stay here or there.  Chico was a good dog, obedient.  He was good with children, and he lived until he was over 20 years old, blind, deaf and arthritic. 

A few times a year, though, wasn't enough for me.  I wanted a dog of my own.  I wanted puppy kisses waking me up in the morning, and I wanted a playmate to throw a ball to whenever I wanted.  The only problem was my mother; she didn't care for dogs, or at least didn't care for the idea of having to look after something else that may run through the neighborhood.

When I was about 10 years old, I found a German Sheppard named Charlie wandering down Iona Lane.  Charlie was friendly; he allowed me to approach him and pet him.  I had been taught how to approach dogs.  I brought him into the backyard, and I gave him water.  His collar had a phone number.  We called it, and about 30 minutes later, after I had chased Charlie around the yard, a woman in her 20s or 30s pulled up in a brand new, white 1988 Pontiac Trans Am 20th anniversary addition.

I begged again for a dog, but I was denied.  I was told that when I was an adult, with a house of my own, I could get a dog.  Until then, the matter was closed.

So I grew up.  I graduated college.  I remember sitting in a TGIF on a Friday evening (ironic, I know), on a date with the woman who would become my first wife.  We talked about dogs.  We talked about Chico and Charlie.  We talked about her phobia of dogs, and how she would never own one.  I remember consciously choosing to love her and give up my dream for a dog that night, that a relationship was more important than a dog... that if I married her, I would probably never own a dog.

But life is funny, and every boy should own a dog.

I'm married to a dog lover now.  3 months after we bought our house, we bought an 8-week-old puppy.  She is sleeping on the floor behind me as I type this, and she is dreaming of something, growling in her sleep, woofing at a bunny or a duck.  Delilah is a dream come true.  She is loyal, obedient, and loving.  She hogs the bed a bit, and her breath is something awful, but she is always there for me.  Delilah will be 3 years old in another month or so.

Every time I look at her and think for more than a second, I'm reminded of the odd twists of fate in life, and I'm reminded that a boy should never give up on his dreams.