Trixie Dougan Bijou Bellman was my mom’s dachshound when she was a kid. Though extremely short, Trixie had a rich and independent life. She walked around their Minneapolis neighborhood, giving wide berth to the front yard of Mrs. Sinclair whose reputation as a witch had clearly been conveyed cross-species.The abbreviated pet traveled an impressive circuit that included a stop at my great aunt and uncle’s place for some type of biscuit. This was apparently surprising in that, according to my grandfather, my uncle was notoriously tight. (Grandpa swore his brother-in-law bought one top shelf bottle of scotch ever and then would pour low budge stuff in to offer to guests.) Later I would suggest to my mother’s father that perhaps he was the only one who got the jive liquor — everyone else received Johnnie Walker Black. Grandpa just stared. (I’m not sure he ever got me.)

Anyway Trixie would next head over to the butcher’s shop and wait on the sidewalk for the besmocked counterman to open the door and pitch scraps to her. Sated, she’d finally waddle home for a well-deserved nap.

Then my tween aged mother entered a radio contest that had as its grand prize a blonde cocker spaniel puppy. Mom, whose parents had no idea she’d mailed off a persuasive, heartfelt piece of fiction about how nothing would make her happier than for the Bellmans to finally have a dog of their very own, of course won. (She would later go on to become a best selling novelist). When the deejays showed up to present her with the puppy, no one was more confused than poor Trixie Dougan Bijou Bellman.

When I was growing up in DC during the 60’s and 70’s we had two canines, Luvi and Haggie. Haggie was the Dalai Lama of dogs, gentle, attentive, soulful. Luvi, on the other hand, was the most hated canine in the country, specifically on the Left. My dad was one of the leaders of the antiwar movement and we had lots of people in and out of house. (Most not spying on us.) Anyway, Luvi was a non-shedding biter who when not attacking guests would peruse their suitcases. Then, during large-group situations she’d trot out embarrassing items, sometimes forcing Haggie to participate in tug of wars in front of mortified academics, actors and Pulitizer Prizer winners.

We had a collection of unclaimed laundry.

When I got married and started a family, we, too, had a long line of illustrious animals. Some actually belonged to us. Elvis G. (we had Elvis L., another non-shedding poodle) was a boxer who used to camp out on our deck, watching our daily goings on through the glass door. (We couldn’t let him in because of our daughter’s allergies — but that didn’t seem to bother the voyeur.) Day in and day out, he took his seat and stared as we went about our business. Sometimes because of glare we’d pull down the shade and the thigh-high, big-shouldered silhouette would still remain; reminding me of the shadows of New Orleans strippers, their faceless shapes projected through tight white screens as come-ons.

It was a little creepy at first but like people on reality TV shows who ‘forget the cameras are there’ we acclimated to our audience. I mean we’d nod hello every morning but we’d been asked by his parents not to feed him. So (for the most part) we didn’t, we just went about our business providing live entertainment.

A couple years went by and then his family announced an impending move. Which was sad. (Change always unsettles me). Shortly thereafter I was upstairs writing in the office-slash-guest-room with Elvis L. laying at my feet. An un-dog who never barked, Elvito Pepito suddenly began howling like a madman. My heart did one of those choking things as I slowly rotated the office chair, expecting Jack the Ripper in the doorway. Instead it was Elvis G. who

just

couldn’t

take

it

anymore.

He’d broken in. He had to. Once before it was too late.

Another boxer who orbited the fam was Ursa who lived in the space that my mother converted into an “English Garden”

(basement)

apartment in her DC row house. When Ursa’s parents would leave for work, Mom would open the connecting door and the dog would spend the day upstairs. I don’t know why she never told her tenants about the relationship (they probably would’ve been grateful knowing the old girl had company) but it remained a long-lasting illicit secret.

More recently at our empty nest, my spouse and I have had PJ as an an ancillary pet. He is a scruffy terrier of sorts who lives about a third of a mile down the dirt road from us. An escape artist he shows up, scratching at the door until we let him in. PJ shares a meal with Ridley and while he’s eating I text his parents to let them know where he’s landed and then they will either pick him up or I’ll drive him home. This is such a regular occurrence we have become his emergency contact when he has a dog sitter. Sometimes he comes over at night and barks indignantly until I grant entry.

The funniest PJ story happened at a Thanksgiving when we had 30 people and 10 dogs for the holiday meal. We were having the usual annual generalized family chaos that I love when our constant guest showed up. He hung up his coat and joined the barking fray. Eventually as all the food had reached the intersecting point of cooled and heated, I popped Peej in the car and chauffeured him home. I chatted with his mom for a few minutes, then drove back to our house –where he was already waiting for me in the kitchen.

Dogs knock me out.