Every time I read security questions with the option to provide the name of your first dog, my brain gets stuck in an indecisive loop. Recalling the name of your first dog should be easy especially for a dog lover. My history in establishing a first dog is much more complicated than it should be. As a child, I found pictures of myself as a toddler playing with a beagle mix puppy. Based on the photos, this puppy and I clearly shared the same home where I placed him in my stroller, carried him tucked under one of my arms, hid in an oversized coat for him to find me, and generally did all the things that a child who wants a dog and doesn’t have one longs to do with said dog. The thing is though, I don’t remember having or playing with the puppy. That puppy didn’t stay in our family long enough for him to become part of the memories that stay with you forever. Our family wasn’t and still isn’t one for delving into painful pasts and so it’s never been clear at what point in my childhood that puppy disappeared. It’s also not clear to me whether the puppy left first or my father did. Or maybe they left at the same time. Much like the puppy, my father appears in some of the earliest photos from my childhood and then is gone. In real life, my dad would sometimes take us to visit with him, but mostly he wasn’t around. Then, starting a few years ago he chose to stay in my life which is a story for another day. My father’s presence now is how I know the puppy’s name was Sleepy. It’s also how I know that my mother had prepared a casserole of macaroni salad to take to a family gathering and while she and my father got ready to go, I fed the entire dish to Sleepy. Technically then, Sleepy was my first dog.
The dog that I first remember though was Holly. It was near Christmas and my mother, my stepfather to-be, my brother, and I drove out to the Amish farms for a Christmas puppy. Holly was in a dark, stinky barn in an enclosure full of puppies smeared with feces. Nonetheless, Holly was welcomed into my arms and into our home. We were completely unprepared for a puppy. No one knew anything about housebreaking a puppy or keeping her safe from all of the things she chose as chew toys. Holly’s signature move was going potty under the Christmas tree which she did often. There was a skirt around the tree which simplified clean-up, but not enough to prevent my mother from having a full-out crying jag under the tree while Holly went potty there for the thousandth time that day. I knew before the words were said that Holly wouldn’t be staying. She was gone quickly and, my brother and I were told, was warmly welcomed by her new family who showered her with a new collar, appropriate toys, a crate to help her learn boundaries, and a trip to the veterinarian where Holly was diagnosed with a host of things causing her frequent trips to potty under the tree. It was not a merry Christmas that year as no amount of preparing for baby Jesus’ birth at Catholic school could heal my heartbreak. Holly was a love come and gone too quickly. She left an ache for a dog that wouldn’t go away for many years–until Shaggy.
The first dog to last long enough in our family to be called mine was Shaggy. We found Shaggy at an animal shelter in the summer between my 6th and 7th grade years. For reasons I don’t remember, my stepfather-to-be took my brother and me to an animal shelter. Perhaps his intent was to lighten the impending life changing event–the birth of my half-sister–that was to come at the end of that summer. The dog who was to become Shaggy was a medium-sized black and white tangle of matted fur from nose to tail. Her exuberance for human attention caused her to bounce nonstop and her tail to wag with such vigor that it became a weapon. As she bounced, her tightly knotted hair coat moved ever-so-slightly as though it were one thick piece of rug. Somewhere under all that mess I found two very kind and appreciative dark brown eyes looking back and knew she was meant to be ours. According to the as-yet unnamed dog’s identification card, she’d been found as a stray on the streets of Philadelphia. It’s almost impossible to believe that she could have such a happy, friendly temperament after living on the streets, but one look at her dirty, matted, physical exterior and you knew the identification card told the hard truth. Luck was on all of our sides. Shaggy was on her last few days before she was to be euthanized. My stepfather-to-be had had a shaggy, black and white, mixed breed dog as a child and the similarity both in personality and in looks to this current Shaggy made it easy to convince him of fate. Our family vacation was planned for the coming week, complicating the adoption. With a little pleading, the shelter workers agreed to allow us to adopt Shaggy that day and return for her after vacation. It was a happy time and it lasted until my mother met Shaggy. My mother was horrified by Shaggy’s exterior which had become even more matted and stinky in the time between our finding her in the shelter (my mom wasn’t with us for that) and bringing her home. Strong words threatened to have Shaggy returned to the shelter so as not to bring diseases to or otherwise create an unpleasant environment for the future newborn whose arrival grew closer every day. Wanting the dog as much as my brother and I did, my stepfather-to-be scheduled Shaggy for the fastest grooming appointment he could find. That groomer/miracle worker shaved, washed, and brushed until Shaggy’s outer appearance (complete with pink bows on her ears) aligned with her sunny, sweet personality. Bring on that newborn baby sister–Shaggy was ready for her!
Shaggy readily transitioned to being our pet, but never lost her tendencies to stray, to dig through trash, or her desire to run free. The truth is we didn’t put much effort into changing her. We hid the trash at home as best we could and when we went for walks, Shaggy stayed right by my side or, if she found something worth investigating, she’d run ahead and quickly return when called. She was street smart and paid close attention to cars, something relatively easy to do in a neighborhood of narrow, one-way streets. There were times though when Shaggy held tight to her roots as a street dog. This was particularly the case about bursting through the front door. For Shaggy, the open door was an opportunity to rush out, run away as fast as she could, dig through neighbor’s garbage (I often caught her in the act), and completely ignore my calls to her. If I attempted to bring her home, she allowed me to get just close enough to almost reach her and then she’d bolt again. Shaggy returned home only when she was ready. Some days Shaggy would stay gone for just a few minutes, others she’d roam much longer. I once missed a full day of school as Shaggy had been gone so long I worried she’d never come back. I refused to get into the car to go to school. Instead, I wandered the streets calling her name for hours. When I finally exhausted myself from crying, walking, hollering her name, and describing her to anyone who would listen, I went home convinced I’d never see her again. That rascal Shaggy was sitting on the front step as if she’d been wondering why no one was home to let her in!
As time when by, Shaggy became the dog of my dreams. She slept in my room, sat by my side while I did homework, let my brother and me dress her in human clothes , let us have dance parties with her (where we waltzed and tangoed with her on her 2 back legs), and listened intently as I confided in her as though she were my best friend. Though I never thought of the future, it seemed she would always be there by my side. I wish the story of Shaggy and me had a happy ending, that she was the dog to see me through high school and onto college, but Shaggy’s life ended tragically. She and I were out for a walk. An adult man and his very large dog were approaching us and I reached to grab Shaggy’s collar to hold onto her until they’d passed. The man hollered that it was okay, that his dog was friendly so I let Shaggy run up to greet the other dog. The other dog lunged aggressively at Shaggy and in her effort to get away, she darted right into the street and was hit by a car. I watched it all happen, every bit of it, and ran to her. She was yelping and yelping, but only her head was moving. As I reached to comfort her, she bit my hand hard. I stepped back as men who’d been nearby placed her into the back of the car that had struck her. The driver was a neighbor who lived on my street and she called her veterinarian. He advised us to go to another hospital as it was a Sunday and the other vet lived close enough that he could meet us at his hospital. I experienced the desperation of wanting to help my poor dog who was suffering loudly in the back seat and of being at the mercy of finding a veterinarian who actually could. I swore to myself in that car that I would for certain become a veterinarian–I had to know how to help animals like my suffering dog. When we pulled into the hospital, the veterinarian met us in the driveway. He opened the door to examine Shaggy and after just a moment he said the most horrible words I’d ever heard, “I’m sorry but she’s gone.”
For a long time, tears would unexpectedly fall l and I would attempt to hide them, grateful for my contact lenses as an excuse for watery eyes. If someone realized there was more, I’d quiet their concern with a simple, ‘my dog died.’ I suspect Shaggy’s painful ending is why it hurt so much to say any more. With Shaggy I experienced the joy and love that dogs bring to our lives no matter how short their time with us. In the moment of losing her, Shaggy helped me feel in my heart what I already knew in my head–that the only path for my life was to serve animals. Shaggy was not only my first dog, she was my beloved friend and the reason why I became a veterinarian.