Good Dog

My friend and I were talking about dogs tonight. His last was a golden; a fine dog and it hurt him to put her to sleep.

The first dog I had was a cocker spaniel/Irish setter. I was in the military when I got Annie. She was two years old, she'd been beaten and was scared to death. It took weeks to get her out from under the furniture. She was a good dog.

Many years later, when I met my Lovely Bride, Annie was jealous; tried to nudge her off the couch, in fact. My wife-to-be laughed and hugged her. I knew then that this was the woman I wanted to marry.

I'm looking now at a picture of Annie lying on a different couch. I didn't think I'd cry when she died, but I did. So did my wife.

I wasn't sure I wanted another dog. But, we have Katie now. The boys love her, a lot. She's a lab, sort of, a big doofus that never should have left the pound. I call her Cujo, and Satan's Hound, and Evil Dog, and none of it bothers her. She wags her tail.

About 10 minutes before the boys get home from school, she lies down in front of the door and starts whining. When they get home, she gets a treat. As much as they love her, she loves them, twice as much.

She would die for them.

My son was coming home from basketball, and none of us were going to be here. Not his brothers, not Mom, not Dad.

"Are you sure it's okay?" I asked. "Coming home to an empty house is a little creepy."

"It won't be empty. Katie's there."

I miss Annie. Katie, though, she's a good dog too.