We never had pets growing up. Well, scratch that. We did have pets. We had a series of three hamsters, dozens of guppies and eventually a cat named Max. Notice what’s missing? A dog. When I was about 6, right before my parents divorce, my parents took my brother and me to Orphans of the Storm in suburban Chicago. I’m not really sure why we went, as my mother is morally opposed to animals, or something ridiculous like that. So I’m sure it was my father’s idea. He was a man who grew up with dogs. Lucky guy. Anyway, my mother’s famous last words went something like this “we’re just looking… we’re not bringing anything home with us.”

We did bring something home that day, although it wasn’t the Siberian Husky I’d fallen in love with; the one who dragged me around the entire fenced-in property by his leash. It was, instead, a tiny little Yorkie that my mother named Liza. As in Minnelli. You can imagine how thrilled I was. No offense to the Yorkie lovers out there (my mother-in-law included, proud owner of three), but in my book, that is hardly a dog. I mean, what is it about those little buggers, that they just cannot do their business anywhere but inside… on the floor? Anyway, she was still a dog. And I was a small child. And I was attached. Day one went something like this… I woke up very early in the morning with my father to let the little girl out into the fenced-in dog run attached to the breakfast room. She came back in and we fed her. I left, albeit unwillingly, for school. I talked about her all day. I dreamt about her all day. I rushed home after school, fully prepared to be met at the door by my new little puppy. I was not. I went into my bedroom and there it was. A hamster. No dog. A hamster. Had it all been a dream? A cruel joke? I kissed a dog goodbye and only a few hours later was greeted by a hamster?

It was not a dream. Or a joke. My little puppy had pooped on the basement floor. And she had worms. Pretty normal, right? Not for my mother. Dog went right back to the shelter and was replaced with a hamster. And I cared for that hamster. I did. She was sweet, her name was Fluffy. But she didn’t live long. And I couldn’t take her on walks around the neighborhood, or play fetch with her. Although I do remember a few trips down the slide on our backyard jungle-gym.

Like I said, my mother is just not an animal person. Rodents didn’t seem to be a problem. Is a hamster even a rodent? I don’t know. But there were a few… after Fluffy came Squeaky. I don’t remember who came after that. They were interspersed with lots and lots of guppies. And then Max. He came when I was 16, after years and years of begging for… you guessed it… a dog. I asked for a dog and I got a cat. Humph.

I love my mother dearly, but I will be honest here. I have forgiven her for many, many things over the years. But never for this. Never for swapping my dog for a hamster. Disagree with me if you like, but I think that children should have dogs. I just do. And I honestly feel cheated.

Until recently, we were a two dog household. And not just any dogs, but two large, slobbering and clumsy dogs. Chamo was our most precious black Lab and I don’t know a better dog in all the world. He was incredible, and although he was already four when he came into my life via my then-boyfriend (and now husband), I can honestly say that he was the first dog that I ever fell in love with. He was incredible, everything you could want a dog to be. And then, there is Atticus, our Border Collie / Australian Shepherd cross. The sweetest and dopiest dog ever. He smiles. No joke. A real smile. Something like only 2% of dogs do that, and we have one of them. I rescued him when I lived in Ames, Iowa. He’s my little sidekick, but he’s passionately in love with my husband. My husband, the ultimate Master to his dogs.

Anyway, when we lost Chamo, I was sure I’d never have another dog again. It was the most God-awful thing I’d gone through and I was sure I’d never recover. It’s been a long road, and we still talk about Chamo all the time. We have a portrait of him that hangs in our Family Room that was done by an artist down in Fairhope, Alabama. Which, although a little off topic, I should mention is one of the most charming little American resort towns I’ve ever visited. And I’ve been to many. This one is down on the Gulf Shore and is full of quaint little shops and good restaurants and the most incredible little bed & breakfast, had a French name, but it’s escaping me right now. Anyway, Chamo’s spirit is always with us, and recently, we just started talking about adding another dog to the household. For me, after more than half a year of constant grieving, I’m able to step back and see that the energy in our house is a little off kilter, and I’m sure it’s because we’ve always had two dogs. So…

As the snow continues to melt and spring heads our way, we’re thinking about dogs. And although the black Lab seems to be the official dog of our little town, I’m not willing to go there. It would be unfair to a new puppy, those enormous paws that Chamo left behind would be too hard to fill. But I know I want another Retriever, whether it be a chocolate (my husband’s newest idea) or a Chesapeake Bay. I know there’s another Retriever out there for us, another little guy who’s going to love to chase Frisbees and make a small flood in the kitchen after drinking from the water bowl and get fur all over everything. And I can’t wait…