The puppies currently not eating the baseboards in our sun porch were delivered by Caesarian Section exactly eleven weeks ago. Their mother, Gem, our five year old Border Collie, had a difficult pregnancy, and there were tough hours when we thought we had lost both Gem and her three pups. We did lose one in the birth canal, a girl, but brought two boys and their mom home, emotionally spent but brimming with gratitude. Gem, still woozy, slept in the car and on her bed when we got home. The two tiny puppies were carried home in a knitted ski hat placed inside a thermal sandwich bag. One was considerably larger than the other and a good bet to survive the night; the other was tiny and at risk. Our ten year old, Banner, had been left at home and was puzzled by the urgency with which we set up a critical care nest for both pups.

Both of the puppies currently not eating the flooring in our sun porch made it through the night, and our concern about the smaller, an ingenious problem solver we call McGyver, faded as he gained weight and combative spunk, successfully pinning his brother, a wonderfully goofy fluffball named Gus Gus, in a series of wrestling matches that continues to this day. Gem turned out to be a more attentive mother than we had imagined, and Banner has slowly warmed to the new dogs, this morning finally inviting them to play on our lawn.

Banner is moving slowly and often in pain. I sink my fingers in his thick fur and scruffle his neck and ears as he slowly finds a way to fold himself with less discomfort. I remember him as a puppy and as a mature therapy dog, He’s always been hungry and generous, and those qualities remain in full. Tough days and tough choices lie ahead, but today my job is to ease him to his pad and remind him that he is loved. 

When the puppies currently not chewing the flowerpots on the front porch are ten, I will be 88 years old, if I stay viable. There is always the possibility that one or more new dog may join our pack, but I’m settling into the notion that these are probably my last puppies. The phrase “Memento mori” is not unfamiliar, but I haven’t needing reminding for quite a while. Gem, meanwhile, has just settled into a patch of sunlight outside the dining room sliding door, stretching out as her hormone ravaged tattered coat begins to show signs of returning to its lush abundance. 

I didn’t grow up with dogs. Three adopted dogs were around for a short while, but the boxer and the bulldog were hit by cars soon after arriving at our home by the busy road, and the third went to my grandparents’ home where he lived happily and uncrushed for the rest of his dachshund days. In what may be an impulse common to college seniors anticipating graduation and entry into the adult world, I adopted a puppy made available on the front steps of the small grocery store in town. The advertised cost of this freckled puppy of no particular breed was $10.00, but as sales had not been brisk, and patrons had grown tired of stepping over the dog basket, she came to me at no cost. I called her Charity, and was a reasonably attentive owner until a fantastic job opportunity took me to Switzerland, leaving Charity in the warmth of my former mother-in-law’s care. On returning to the US, I missed having a dog and adopted another freckled dog of no particular breed when my son was about four. He got to name the dog and so, Fong Humphrey bounded through a year with us before he was killed while we were away on a trip to meet Raffi, Sharon, Lois, and Bram in Canada. 

I wasn’t sure I could love a dog again, but dogs have a way of appearing in my life when they should.

My wife and I like to describe the day we met. I was interviewing for a job; the acquaintance assigned to take me on tour forgot to show up, and Mary stepped up. Life was complicated for both of us at the time, but I now absolutely believe in love at first sight. Over the course of the next year, we figured things out, and her dog, Hopper, and my son made us a family. There is no doubt in my mind that had Hopper not approved, I’d still be a bachelor. I’m also convinced that Hopper brought out the best in me. He was a great and active dog of several particular breeds who let me love him. He was failing some years later as we began a move from Massachusetts to Alabama. I drove down early with Hopper in his car bed, stopping frequently to check on him, encouraging him to sniff all the way, state-by-state, hoping he’d make it to the new house. Hopper had time with the kids and the new yard, but he was slowing and in pain. A kind vet came to our home at the end, and I held him in my arms as he passed.

I still miss him, but recognize that he left me two great gifts. It’s always dangerous to swim in these waters, but as I held Hopper, I was convinced that he had a spirit, that all mammals have a spirit, that I have a spirit. In addition, for reasons that don’t matter, until Mary, until the kids, until Hopper, I had only known emotional detachment. The grief I felt when Hopper died was an emotion I could not summon when my parents and grandparents died. This grief lasted for months, long after Mary was ready to bring a new dog to our family. 

It’s pretty clear to me that kids have their distinctive personality from the start, and so do dogs. I picked a German Shepherd puppy because he fell asleep on my feet. Having far too much confidence in my ability to untangle the description of the dog in German, I mistook his breeding as a Schutzhund to mean he was a sport dog rather than a “protection dog”. Maus (Fledermaus Bat Ears) was goofy, a mostly unlikely protection dog, wonderfully patient and affectionate with our small kids, but useful when door-to-door solicitors arrived unannounced. The protection side emerged later when we had moved to California and lived in a boarding school community. Too many strangers too close made Maus jumpy, and finally, we had to return him to his breeder in Georgia. I wept again as I watched him loaded into an airplane at LAX.

While still in Alabama,Mary had become interested in dog sports and tried to find a dog who could compete in obedience trials, searching the entire region for an Australian Shepherd with an engaging personality. This search led her to visit a number of more than moderately revolting puppy mills operated by more than moderately revolting owners, including one whose sales pitch included presenting a dog who urinated on command. With incredible tenacity Mary kept searching until she found a breeder in Wisconsin with an adorable puppy she would call Fax, because the owner could fax information but could not fax the dog. 

I’ve written elsewhere about our first border collie, Blitz, a tremendous dog athlete and intuitively effective therapy dog. I’ve also described Jinx, who in her last years, virtually blind, wandered off, became confused in a snowstorm, stumbled into a swimming pool and lay overnight with the fur on her paws frozen to the side of the pool. We rescued her the next morning and built a sauna in a bathroom to bring her back from the brink. She wobbled to my son’s embrace and lived another year. I’ve written about her son, Satch, an irresistibly charming and handsome blue merle border collie who loved children and was unfailingly kind, and Jinx’s daughter, Rogue, maddeningly strong willed with an impish sense of humor and keenly intelligent mind. 

My love for each of these dogs is profound, and I miss each one, finding a bit of Satch in Banner’s fondness for broccoli and pears, and quite a lot of Rogue in Gem’s ability to resist our requests that she not take off like a bottle rocket when the local bears move through our woods. Hopper, Maus, Fax, Blitz, Jinx, Satch, Rogue – all gone and still with me.

One of my students was puzzled by our inclusion of dog after dog in our family. “You know they’re going to die. You know it’s going to break your heart. Why would you keep doing that to yourselves?”

I’m watching Banner sleep on his back with his paws in the air. For the hour or so that he naps, he isn’t hurting. I’ll give him his meds this afternoon and a CBD biscuit this evening. I’m far from ready to let him go; he’s just starting to be the elderly and occasionally corrective uncle the puppies need in order to develop their dog manners and protocols. He’ll sleep next to my end of the couch tonight as I watch the news and wake me in the morning with his howl indicating that I better get up and prepare his breakfast.

Who knows what’s coming next? I don’t. I do know that I can’t imagine not having loved each one of these good dogs. 

Meanwhile, the puppies have figured out that I might have a plastic bag filled with broccoli sprouts somewhere on or about my person. At eleven weeks they sit for treats and occasionally come when they are called. We’ll see more of who they will become week by week, but they have already taken their place in the heart of our life.

That’s why.