Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy

I can still name most of the cats I had as a girl There were dozens: scrappy outdoor toms; sleek indoor beauties received as birthday gifts; strays; babies born of the strays mating with the scrappy toms; inherited cats with names; new and nameless baby kittens. I loved them all, my parents allowed them all. Our home also, at various times, sported an aquarium filled with sleek scarlet betas and gossamer guppies, a hamster cage, and mixed-breed ankle-high dogs. One time we even rescued an infant rabbit around Easter; we named him Cadbury and he lived for 3 days.

My father buried all our pets. Each pet was uniquely mourned, and their deaths recalled as easily as their names. Scarecrow was poisoned and then drowned in the pool. Sassy’s kidneys shut down after 15 years with our family. Miss Kitty spent her last hours in the cat house outside that Papa built for the cats. Killer was my 14th birthday present and died in Papa’s arms 17 years later. Buster died of heat stroke while we were on vacation. Mooch was found one late summer day hiding in a closet. Papa held her at the vet’s office as they administered the shot, took her home and buried her before returning to work. I came home that day from registering for my first high school classes to find a pink teddy bear on the kitchen counter with a bookmark tucked between its paws and a note from Papa written on the back about how much I loved Mooch and how brave I was to make the decision to have her put to sleep and end her suffering. I still have the bookmark. I read the note the day after Chester died.

We never had a big dog. There were a couple attempts, but Momma preferred cats and small dogs, and since we were never lacking in pet love, I always saw owning a big dog as something paired with adulthood. I would dream of my large canine, though. I would own a Rottweiler named Chet who drove in the back of a pick-up truck with me on various adventures. I would adopt a blue eyed Siberian husky and name it after some mythological character. My dog would be large, loyal and never leave my side. My wish was granted in Chester.

I hadn’t set out to adopt a large dog when I found Chester. Instead I was considering a medium sized dog among a litter at a pet store. The dogs were adorable, but yappy. I didn’t care for them. I stood in the area where the dogs being considered for adoption ran and played and charmed potential buyers into taking them home. The white puppies were trying very hard. They rolled over each other, barked, jumped, shook toys; they did everything a dog does to win over a human. Chester, a lone pup, sat quietly off to the side, watching the other puppies play. He was plump and fluffy. His ears pointed straight up and his eyes, hooded by a layer of furry skin, were soulful and a bit worried. Chester’s eyes were always a bit worried. I approached him, gathered him in my arms and buried my face in the folds of neck scuff that surrounded his sweet face. His mouth opened to reveal a pink tongue dotted with black spots. He was so odd looking; I had to have him! The playful pups were forgotten and the strange worried creature came home with me.

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