When people ask me if I'm a dog lover, I reply that I am, generally, but love only certain dogs. There are breeds you could never convince me to take in. Although little, poofy dogs surely give great joy to their owners, they are not destined for my embrace. When I was a kid, we had "Lady," a mutt that we enjoyed. But since my long-suffering wife Lisa and I have been married, we have had a succession of great dogs, none of which was less than fifty pounds, which is one criteria for us to consider. We have had, in all, nine dogs in our almost-49 years marriage.
Our first three were purebred English Bulldogs. We fell in love with them because they are stoic, intelligent, and fun just to look at. They were Dudley, Petunia (who appeared in Reader's Digest), and their offspring, Hefty Hannah. None of them lived very long. "Bulldogs will break your heart," the breeder told us when we acquired Petunia. Dudley was the biggest at seventy-two pounds, a big boy. Later, after enjoying other breeds, we took in Mable, another English Bulldog, and our last.
When we switched away from English Bulldogs and bought a purebred Golden Retriever, Chester, who grew into 93 pounds of mushpot. Like his breed, Chester was sweet and intelligent, but ran off sketchy people and aggressive dogs in our neighborhood. He lived nearly thirteen years. I believe all beloved family dogs eventually break one's heart. Our last three dogs have been mostly pit rescue dogs, and all of them wonderful. The last two were tragically short-lived. We are currently enjoying Odie, the young, eighty-plus pounds lap dog who is the most affectionate, which is saying something. He was preceded by Lilly and Roxie and we are confident Lisa, Odie and I will all go to Glory at once, in our sleep, years and years from now.
