A number of years ago, my friend Bob got into a philosophy—The Three Principles—that genuinely seems to help people and make them happy. When he told me that his mission was to make everyone happy, out of my mouth popped, “Give ‘em a puppy.” While that wasn’t as funny to him as it was to me—his jokes are equally offensive—we remain friends. But I got to thinking about the remark and realized that it was true.
Many of the people I know who have gotten a puppy or adopted a dog have remarked how happy the pooch made them. Among those is my daughter, Melissa, who acquired a six-week-old Corgi last fall. When I met Jake, he was around three months old. We formed an instant bond, aided by a few dog biscuits, and played and cuddled the whole time we were together. He is almost full-grown now, and his belly drags in the snow. He is adorable, and the whole family is in love with him. I include a photo of him here:My cousin, Linda, with whom I am close, also got a puppy around Christmas. To my knowledge, Linda hasn’t had a puppy since the family dog from her youth, Chick. She has reared a family of four boys and a husband, but no dog. She named the pup Winifred Mildred and texted the accompanying photo of Winnie with this comment: “I haven’t been so attached since Chick. Really God’s gift.”
And I can’t leave out my neighbor, Abe, the man who hates dogs and was forced by his family—mostly his youngest daughter, Gracie—to get a dog. One day last fall, they went to One-of-a-Kind Pets and picked out a six-week-old mixed-breed puppy. Her name is Ruby, and she is now mostly full-grown at around 25 pounds. She looks like a hound to me with a very cute white tip on her long slender tail. Ruby is a part of the family and rides with Abe everywhere he goes. Abe, the man who didn’t want a dog, is now the pack leader.
My friend, Bert, lost the canine love of his life, Reggie, to cancer last year. Before long, he was toting around an odd-eyed black husky-like puppy in a big cage in the back of his van. Linus is still a puppy and has bored his way into Bert’s heart. Linus was a mutt that they picked up at the pound, as they have done many times. Bert had three dogs when I first met him.
I got my first dog as a puppy for my seventh birthday. As I have written before, up until that point in my young life, I was very afraid of all dogs. Blackie changed that and became my best friend while I was growing up. She died when I was 23. From there, it has been dog after dog, sometimes as many as 11 when we lived on the farm. We took in a Shepard mix who was pregnant with nine puppies, and we already had Gretel on loan from our son Brendan. Now I am constant companions with Juneau and Buster.
They are under my desk as I write this piece, as they are wherever I go. We read the newspaper in the morning, one dog on each side of me on a small couch. If I take a nap, they manage to squeeze tightly against my legs on the bed to the point where sometimes I can’t move. In fact, this was portended long ago from a man in the same hospital room as me. I was recovering from a burst appendix, and he had just gotten back from surgery to remove his gall bladder. He may have still been under some kind of pain killer when he said, “I saw a pack of dogs around your bed. They were protecting you.” I’ve thought about that on and off ever since.
I know of many other people who have gotten a dog and are very happy to have done so. To all you lonely people out there: there is a cure for loneliness—a warm puppy.
