My parents got a dog. You guys, I’m a fool for this puppy.
She is the most darling creature ever. I’ve lost all sense of propriety and boundaries. I want to be with her all the time. I want to buy her things and let her sleep in my bed. Which is especially weird because she doesn’t live with me.
Never mind the fact that I have three dogs of my own who would love for me to like them. That’s not important right now.
I have this theory about dogs. I think that if you get one good dog when you’re a kid, then you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to get another one just like it. When I was growing up, we had Jenny. The most good-natured, loving, forgiving, gentle dog. We got her when I was four years old, and I loved her for every day of her life, even as I sat with her when the vet put her to sleep when I was in college. And I’ve spent the rest of my life trying to find one like her.
We found her. And I’ve lost myself with affection.
(If you’re a fan of The West Wing, you’ll recall this name from the quick-witted secretary to President Bartlett. That woman absolutely deserved to have a dog named after her.)
Among those who know her well, she goes by Mandy.
If anyone needs me, I’ll probably be hanging out at my parents. Probably arguing with my kids to make them stop hogging the puppy.