Life with Dogs
It seems that I’ve lived my entire life with a dog. For as long as I can remember, we have had at least one dog, if not several. We’ve gone through dozens of orthopedic dog beds, each with their own history and their own memories. The one I remember the most was a small one that had a bones pattern. I remember it so well because of two little bulldog puppies we had, named Salt and Pepper (my sister was ten when she named them, so there’s no accounting for taste or sense.) The puppies were sickly and had to be bottlefed near the end. One morning I woke up to bottle feed, salt, a pure white puppy, and was confused when I saw that she did not respond to me. I immediately went to my parents and announced, “Salt’s not moving!” My dad assessed the situation and told me, “She’s dead, Jo,” in a perfect imitation of Doctor McCoy from Star Trek. It was my first experience with death, and I can only be grateful that my first experience is still an amusing story.