Dogless

When I moved from 40 acres and a sprawling house to an apartment in the city, my life changed in radical ways, but the one that stands out most is that for the first time in my life—my entire life—I was living alone. I didn’t even have a dog.

When I began the search for a new place to lay my head, there were some compelling requirements my no-pets apartment building still fulfills: affordability, downtown location, and a sense of security so my children didn’t worry about me. I am fortunate all of that came with a view that frames daytime sky scenes that can rival my old ones in Patten—but I lost the dog.

My 10-year-old Sasha, a mixed rat terrier with the sweetest dog face I have ever seen, moved to Bangor, too. She moved in with friends who had a house and allowed me to come and go whenever I wanted. Sasha would spin around and skitter all over the kitchen every time she heard my voice when I opened the door. I like to think that no matter how long we might not have seen each other, she would always have been that happy to see me, accepting unquestioningly my return. People have trouble with the unconditional love thing, but not so with dogs.

When all else becomes fuzzy on the memory card, I can call up the dogs and place myself firmly on the timeline of my life—both as child and adult. I’ve had other animals—cats and rabbits, snakes, parakeets, a cockatiel, tiny spotted-back turtles, goldfish. The list is long, but the dogs moved in and practically took a chair at the table. Definitely a place on the bed.

I have never been breed-loyal. We had a Doberman, a Samoyed; the rest were mutts. They were all funny and mellow, and somehow came to us unbidden, although I do remember my brother and me giving my mother a puppy for her birthday when I was about 9. Jason, a big gawky brown mutt, used to go on his own vacation a couple of times a year when I was a teenager. We might spot him in another neighborhood and call and call but he’d ignore us, act like we must have the wrong dog, and return weeks later well-fed, often dressed in a college sweatshirt. I think one was Harvard, but I might have made that up. I did not make up how happy he was to be home.

And yet for all that love and history, I am delighted to find myself in this canineless life—no tufts of billowy hair under the couch, clinging to my black pants; no need to be home at a certain time.

A few years ago when my oldest son and his wife had just started dating, he called me up to ask my opinion. “Mom, we’re looking at the cutest puppy. What do you think?”

“I think you’re crazy,” I said, adding, “You don’t even live together. What if you break up? You’ll have dog custody issues.” He laughed. The next day he called to tell me they had their dog. It’s a good thing that kids don’t always listen to their parents. I was so wrong. Sampson is the perfect dog.

For them.