It’s Friday evening. The week has been a struggle with work. Too long of a list, too many projects to move forward. So, I’m a little weary. I started writing the third San Quentin piece. Then I started writing about the history of the memoir, then change to a piece I wrote about Native American shell mounds in the Bay Area. All will be written on other days. Tonight, I needed a topic that is happy and light. 

On the couch beside me is my adorable dog, Donut. I love having her in my life. That’s who I want to write about tonight. I’ll just see where this takes me…

A Dog Lover Finds Her Hound

In my elementary school library as a kid, I had a favorite book. My name was written on the checkout label inside the front so many times, the librarian had to adhere a new one. It was a book about dogs. It described different breeds and dog characteristics, like their sensitive hearing. It was well-illustrated. My favorite discovery reading the book was that when dogs urinate in public, they are actually communicating, leaving messages for each other. “To the dog who smells this, I am Rex. I’m a strong, healthy male dog that loves playing tug-a-war and eating my kibble. How are you?”

That’s actually the bit I remember most, maybe because I had a Dr. Doolittle fantasy. I wanted the ability to talk to animals. I’d always gotten along well with animals. 

I had a recurring dream during childhood, one I always hoped I would have again and again, that I was Super Girl. My version of the superhero was dressed in cowboy garb and sometimes I could fly. Other times, I rode a beautiful white horse with wings whose constant companion was a black horse with wings waiting to be ridden by my “Prince Charming,” my knight, the perfect companion that would someday arrive. In the meantime, I would fly up on my Pegasus to my headquarters in the clouds where there was a long row of Army-green tents, each housing different animals that helped me stop crime. And, of course, we could talk to each other.

My favorite cartoon dog was Snoopy from the Peanuts comic strip. I loved Snoopy! At six years old, I asked for a stuffed Snoopy, wanting it above all other things, and when I opened a gift on at Christmas and saw the fluffy white dog-doll, I burst into happy tears. 

That Snoopy went everywhere with me, my companion during family travels, trips to the grocery store, outings of any kind. When I got a camera, all my first photos were of Snoopy in various places, sometimes accompanied by other stuffed animals. One time at a small carnival, I paid an extra ticket so Snoopy could have his own seat on the swing ride. After a while, I had a collection of plastic and stuffed Snoopys of all sizes and pretended they were a family. My mother gave me a different Hallmark Snoopy ornament to hang on the Christmas tree every year.

I drew Snoopy and other dogs constantly. I made entire family trees of dogs, cities of dogs. I had PD Eastman’s book Go Dog Go memorized and drew those dogs.

I also developed my own illustration of a dog. It had out-turned front paws—because I didn’t know how to draw them any other way—and was bow-legged. It had floppy ears and was scruffy and had a black nose and a friendly dog smile and sparkling eyes. I drew that dog over and over.

Until I was twelve, my best friend—other than my stuffed Snoopy—was a Shetland sheepdog named Ginger. She was my other frequent companion. When we moved to a new house in a new neighborhood, away from kids and everything I knew, Ginger got me through it. We went exploring in the foothills around the house. She would sniff as I rubbed wild sage between my fingers. We looked for good climbing trees. Once, we spotted a red-colored fox.

After Ginger died and my parents tried taking in another Shetland sheepdog who didn’t work out (I don’t remember why), we didn’t get another dog. I went a long time without a dog in my life. 

The first summer that I was dating my husband-to-be, I found a puppy abandoned in Redwood Park in the Oakland hills. I stopped and bought flea bath and food at a pet store and brought the puppy home and named it Sequoia. She was really cute. But my apartment building didn’t allow pets. And my new boyfriend wasn’t so happy about it either, looking at the animal as an impediment to travel and free movement. After two weeks, I found a new family for the puppy, who was renamed it Patches. 

Four years later, we got married. Three years after that, we had our first child. Eighteen months later, we had our second child. We got a cat. My husband had a pet snake. He still wasn’t big on getting a dog. I also didn’t think I could be the kind of dog-owner that I wanted to be, working part-time and looking after the kids. 

Finally, thirteen years after our last child was born, I was more than ready to have a dog in my life again. The kids were too, and we talked my husband into it (though reluctant to get a dog, he’s great with her, by the way). 

We searched for a puppy to adopt and found Donut. 

She’s the perfect dog for me. And honestly, she looks a lot like that dog I used to draw over and over as a kid. She is almost always by my side and feels like a dream come true. That sound corny as can be, I know, but it’s true. Having her in my life makes me so happy. And we do understand each other most of the time, even if it’s not in Dr. Doolittle-style!