Faithful Friends

I don’t have any pets now. But over the years, we took many different species into our home or yard, including dogs, cats, Oxfordshire sheep, chickens to lay eggs, iguanas, gerbils, turtles, fish. I remember when we found a tortoise wandering on the lawn with a shell the size of a toilet seat. We escorted him back to the lake, never to be seen on land again.

At different times in my life, dogs have been present for loyalty, companionship, relationship—and life lessons.

CHARLIE: When I was twelve years old (in 1950s New Jersey), we acquired Charlie, a handsome little pup who grew into a medium-large sized, jet black and sleek mixed breed.

But my parents had never owned pets in the past and didn’t know how to handle a dog in the home.

When he grew into a much larger, muscular, and active animal, they housed him in a corner of our unfinished, dusty, musty, dark and cluttered basement. I think they were scared of him. I doubt if they left a light on at night.

When my little brother Stuart and I came home from school, we immediately retrieved Charlie from his prison-like conditions and took him out for his walk. He was young, strong, and needed exercise badly. Our town had a leash law so he could not roam freely. In those days, choker collars (a looped chain that tightened around the neck when the dog moved too far ahead) were commonly used.

Even so, Charlie pulled us, actually dragged us, down the street. His magnificent natural instincts to run and leap were completely developed, but thwarted. We were deathly afraid to let go of the leash, fearing he would run away or get taken back to the kennel.

After about a year of misery for our dog, my brother and I came home from school one day to my mother’s definitive announcement that Charlie was going back to the pound where we had found him as a pup. Hot tears poured down my cheeks uncontrollably—I can still feel them—as I embraced Charlie, feeling his warm body and his heart beating quickly in his chest.

We got him from the basement and brought him into the warm and blessed daylight where my mom took a picture of us. I have no recollection of the return to the kennel, and I am glad for that.

And then, he was gone.

LEROY: I came home one weekend from freshman year at college (in the 1960s) and found a puppy in the kitchen surrounded by a cardboard enclosure with blankets folded up in the corner for a bed.

My brother had brought home a mixed breed puppy from a litter in the neighborhood. Leroy was a warm cocoa-color with white markings, a distinctive brown spot on top of his white forehead.

By now, we had a fence around the yard so that Leroy could run freely and enjoy life. We also took him for daily walks to explore the neighborhood and meet others of his kind.

My mom grew to love him too, so when Stuart went off to college and marriage, she adopted Leroy for her own. He slept in my parents’ bed. They officially became loving dog owners.

Leroy only committed one transgression. My widowed grandfather brought his sister-in-law from Paris to New York to marry her when they were both in their eighties. She was not only a great cook but could make croissants and other continental pastries. She baked a heavenly and flaky apple strudel for their engagement party at our house and placed it in the center of the dining room table.

We enjoyed visiting in the living room and then returned to the dining room for coffee and dessert. No dessert to be found, but the trail of crumbs led to Leroy under the table, licking his paws clean.

If ever a dog can have a guilty look on his face, Leroy is the poster boy.

TOUCHY: Fast forward to the 1970s in Massachusetts, and I am married with two little stepsons. A customer of my husband owned a kennel and gave him a male Golden Retriever in exchange for many haircuts.

At first we lived in an apartment, then moved to a small ranch house, a carriage house, and finally to a house on ten acres of forest and meadow, bordering on Lake Chebacco.

Touchy grew into a large and square-jawed type. He was sweet and gentle as they come, protective of the children and buddies with our large tiger cat, Columbus, an unlikely pair. Both roamed the area freely, a natural paradise.

The one thing Touchy did not do was retrieve. If the kids threw a stick into the lake, he stood on the shore to watch it float. On the hottest days, he consented to stand close to the edge and sink down enough to get his tummy wet. He would take a dip, but never swim.

What he was really good at—dropping whatever he was doing in the woods or the field and coming when called. Here Touch! Here Touch! I miss calling his name into the distance and then watching him—within minutes— bounding towards me, on the ready to please his owners.

When he died at age thirteen, we conducted a funeral and buried him on the property that was his lifelong home. We moved, but he rests there forever, near the edge of the woods.

ARCHER the Boston Terrier lives in New York City with my stepson. When I visited, I got to couch-surf in their Upper East Side apartment, my responsibility being to take her for her midday walk. This saved a professional dogwalker fee of $25.

I offered to keep her at my house north of Boston when Zim went on a trip to Bryce and Zion for a month.

Archer loved the freedom of running around the yard, exploring the woods, and breathing in the fresh air. I’m sure she loved the feel of grass instead of pavement under her paws, and the creatures and new smells in the country.

She parked herself at Ari’s feet under his computer desk for her quiet time during the day. Then she curled up next to me to sleep every night. I became very attached to her. And I felt the same emotion from her grow over the month.

When I was ready to pick Zim up at the train station, I decided to surprise him and bring Archer to greet him. He hadn’t seen her for so long and missed her terribly.

But I wondered if he realized how close Archer and I had become.

We waited at the car. I held Archer on her leash as Zim walked towards us. When he was close enough, she leapt straight up like a missile taking off to outer space, all the way to his face, and yelped and licked him madly, bouncing up and down—never looking back at me.

Zim, she’s your doggie for life, and she’ll be faithful to you forever. How could I not have understood that?

But Charlie haunts me, the pup who from the beginning of his life did not have a chance to fulfill his true nature as an animal or even as a member of a loving human family. He surely wanted to run, to leap, to play, bury his bone, curl up on the rug, meet others of his kind for canine courtesies.

I imagine him reaching the Rainbow Bridge, racing across it without hesitation into the world he missed here, the hated choker chain falling away.

Then run, Charlie, run! Leap on your powerful hind legs, your chest heaving, panting, barking. Chase a ball and bring it back for more. Turn over on your back and wriggle energetically in the dirt. Take a moment to sniff an area of interest. Run, Charlie, run! Forgive me! Then run some more, to your pure heart’s delight.