Inevitably, the subject of pets comes up at various points – college, for example, or pre-school parent chit chat or little league chit chat or pediatrician appointments.  “Any pets?”  “Yes, a dog.” “Oh, we want one but my husband’s allergic/my kids won’t take care of it/we don’t have the space/I like cats.”  “We have a puppy.”  “Oh, a puppy and four kids.  You must have had a dog growing up.”

A dog?  No.

Many dogs?  Sure.

We had: multiple chocolate labs, 2 basset hounds, 2 golden retrievers, another basset hound, an Akbash, a terrier, a whippet, a yellow lab, a grande bleu de gascogne.  This is not including the Saint Bernard, other labs, and dalmatian before I was born. We weren’t dog hoarders – these dogs came and went, some stayed long enough to be hit by a car or have fleas or try to kill our friends.  It’s possible we were not meant to have dogs or, in fact, any living creatures.  But we did so love them.  We fed, groomed, checked for ticks, cuddles, rubbed tummies and yet Clover ran four towns away (over 50 miles!) to mate with some dog he hardly knew.  And Woody’s best feature was his immunity to all flea meds.  Stilton served only as a way for me to kiss our neighbor (“Just going to walk the dog, Mom!”).  Some got canine cancers.  Others, a swift kick to the head by the horse in the English countryside.  It was tough to be a dog in our house.  The odds weren’t great: maybe Fido would go off with the Corsicans on their farm when we moved yet again, but it was just as likely that Fido would wind up losing his tail or getting hit by lightning.

In grad school I lived with a pack of dogs (some human, others canine) and they all survived!

So now, we have a dog.  We have A dog.  He is six months and only 1/3 his full size.  He is a hairy, furry beast.  And I adore him.  He is the living, dog equivalent of a s’more.  Sweet, compelling, beautiful, and the cause of much drool.

In the fall, he will be my blanket around the campfire.  Meanwhile, tonight it’s oven s’mores.  And tomorrow? Frozen s’mores!