When I was seven, like a lot of kids, I asked my parents for a dog. Like most (smart) parents, they said no. They told me I could have one when I turned nine.
I turned nine. They said I could have a dog when I was 13.
I used to be kind of bitter about this. Many of my friends’ families had dogs, and they didn’t have to be 13. How unfair!
But as I’ve gotten older, I realized that what my parents did was brilliant. And if they hadn’t, I doubt I would be the type of dog person I am today.
Since I had to wait for what seemed like forever for my first dog, I researched. Well, as much as an elementary-school kid can. I went to after school care at the local Rec Center, where once a week or so they’d troop all of us off to the library down the street. Methodically, I managed to check out and read every single book in their dog section. Every week, I’d return the five or so books I’d taken the past week and get the next five on the shelf.
I learned about all the different breeds I could. My parents thought it was a hilarious trick that I could be walking down the street and immediately rattle off the breed of every dog we passed. I learned about what happened when you put time and effort into training a dog, and what happened when you didn’t. I learned about The Seeing Eye, the oldest guide dog school in America, based in Morristown, New Jersey. I realized that my dream dog (at that time a German Shepherd) was probably not the best choice to have in a townhouse where it would have to amuse itself alone for six to eight hours.
By the time my parents and I seriously began our search for my first dog, I knew pretty well how to pick a dog suited to our lifestyle. We needed a young adult dog; nobody was ready or willing to take on the challenge of a puppy. We could offer about an hour of walking a day, so a high-energy large dog was out of the question. Short coat was a must, since extensive grooming wasn’t and still isn’t my favorite thing. We decided to adopt, and went through several shelters before arriving at Pets In Need, a rescue I’d done a report on in sixth grade. (When I was in school, if you gave me an open-ended project you could bet money that it would either be about Jackie Robinson or dogs.)
There, we found Buddy, a black Lab mix with some emotional baggage. I wanted him; the parents were less sure. Finally, I convinced them. My mom called Pets In Need and discovered that just that morning, someone had walked in and adopted this dog who had been in Pets In Need’s care for more than twelve months.
I was devastated. But just a short time later, Pets In Need called to tell us that a two-year-old female Doberman mix had come in, and they thought she’d be perfect for us. She was gorgeous. She was sweet. She wasn’t loud or pushy. She, like Buddy, had certain baggage; she had had at least one litter, and had a somewhat shy and reserved temperament. We brought her home and named her Angel (not because she was so lovely, oh no—because I was and still am obsessed with Buffy the Vampire Slayer and she had to be named for the vampire with a soul, Angel).
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