Gone to the dogs

With my sister attending an Anti-Valentine's Day party, and my fiance out of the country, I decided to dedicate this Valentine's Day post to the most loyal members of my family: Leo and Franky.

My family loves dogs. In particular, Golden Retrievers.

The long line of goldens that have graced my family with their presences began in 1980, when my mother and father purchased Žuća (kind of pronounced joo-cha); a regal, best-of-show, pedigree up the wazoo, large male who was technically, my parents' first born, and my father's only son.

Like many purebread dogs who have been lucky enough to not be forced into showbiz, Žuća enjoyed a life of leisure: naps, walks, butt scratches, and of course, most importantly, food. Žuća's reign ended in the spring of 1982 when I was born. And his ranking continued to slide as my sister was born in 1985. But like most dogs, his affection was easily won. I would push food off my highchair and into his mouth - it was a beautiful symbiotic relationship. I hated green foods, Žuća ate anything. There was the time he ate almost my entire stash of Halloween candy. And the time he ate one dozen bagels. And then of course, the roasted chicken.

Žuća's death was the first death I had ever experienced. I found him next to my mother's bed. He seemed to be asleep, but didn't stir when I came over to pet him. It was an incredibly peaceful death for a dog who had lived a long, wonderful life. My mother was distraught. So much so that I remember her calling my Dad, which considering they had recently gotten divorced, was a big deal. My Dad to this day admits that he never was really able to get over losing Žuća and hasn't had a pet dog since.

Next was Taffy. My mother, sister and I all wanted to get another dog, but we couldn't afford a puppy. I also don't think my mother would have been able to handle a puppy essentially alone. So we journeyed out to Yankee Golden Retriever Rescue and came home with a spunky, young, female, with long legs and a brownish nose. "Taffy" was most definitely what we came to affectionately call later in her life, a "used" dog. She was a destroyer. Rolls of papertowels. Pillows. Stuffed animals. Real animals. Hamsters. Yes, hamsters. We could never let her off leash because she would run away. One day she escaped from the house and came back with a chicken carcass. My sister, looking for a thrill, would sometimes strap on her rollerblades and take Taffy for a "walk." I don't think Taffy ever really slowed down until she was about 10. Our mother was most attached to Taffy because even though Taffy was "our" dog, she fed, watered, and walked her, without fail, every morning and every evening. Taffy was a huge pain in the ass, but still managed to become a member of our family. Our “used” dog was put to sleep in our home after spending a solid decade driving us crazy and loving us unconditionally.

To try and soften the sadness of losing Taffy, big-hearted Joe surprised us that following Christmas with an adorable bronze-colored golden retriever puppy. I'm sure you're wondering what kind of heartless jerk can say "no" to a puppy, but I was still away at school, and my mother had been having some health problems, so it wouldn't have made for a very good puppy-rearing situation. In the end, Joe's family could not bare the thought of returning the puppy and she found her permanent home with them, and became my namesake ("Marty"). The golden retriever fever had spread.

The first anniversary of my mother’s death was made a little easier by the addition of Leo to our family. My mom had always talked about wanting an LL Bean coverdog, and now we finally had one. She would have adored Leo.

Next came Franky, who joined our family this past summer. I’m not going to get into any of their stories, because many of you reading this are (un)fortunate enough to have me constantly telling you stories about them, or if you’re really (un)lucky, you’ve had the opportunity to watch a little “Dog TV” at our house.

Anyway. I dedicate this post to the dogs. Because a dog knows just the right time to place their head on your lap as you start to cry. Because they cannot conceal their excitement over an ice cube treat. Because they cannot help but greet you after work with ears perked and tail wagging. We can all learn something from our dogs as they walk next to us down the street, panting, ears blowing in the breeze, absolutely thrilled to be in that one moment, not worried about anything behind or in front. Cesar Millan be damned. These dogs are family.