There were very few things I could be sure of in my twenties. The only constant in my life at that time was my toothpaste, good ol’ Tom’s of Maine, Cinnamint. Everything else in my life was in flux, but each morning and night Tom took care of my teeth. I’d been traveling, had worked on a farm, lived in two half-way finished shacks, and now was proud to call home a twenty-foot Prowler travel trailer.
No longer could I fit all that I owned into my Honda Civic and drive away (something I prided myself on), but at least all that I owned was on wheels. The Civic sure wouldn’t be what hauled it off, but it could be hauled off to somewhere else if necessary. You see, I had a desperate need to be free. Not bound to anything. So much so that I couldn’t even bring myself to put a bumper sticker on my car. One might say I have a fear of commitment; I like to call it a preference for flexibility. Did I mention that I am a Libra?
At the same time, however, some part of me—the maternal part no doubt—yearned to take care of something. When presented with the opportunity to own a dog I jumped at the chance. The important fact being that this was a grown dog, not a puppy. If there was one other thing I was sure of, it was that I did not want a puppy. I’d had a puppy. Under no circumstances did I want another.
A dog was unmistakably a commitment, but if the need arose to move on, it would always fit in my car. And hopefully it wouldn’t puke in my car like the puppy once had, over and over. (Who ever heard of a dog with motion sickness?) Anyway, I had plenty of time to think this through since the dog in question had been found abandoned on the side of the road, pregnant, and was now nursing a pack of hungry puppies. I told my friend who found her that I’d take the mother if she’d find homes for all the others. Six weeks later and “Lilly” was mine.
She, as a matter of fact, fit in the Civic quite nicely. Everywhere I went, Lilly was the co-pilot. Not confined to the backseat like any old pet, she claimed the front passenger seat as her own. And when I couldn’t bring her in with me somewhere, she dutifully kept my seat warm. We were inseparable. Except when she got a little too friendly with a skunk. Lilly did not sit in the front that week.
Life goes on, however, and soon she found herself sharing the passenger seat with my new beau, who would within a year become my husband. Lilly took to John just fine and he accepted her as part of the family. Fast forward another year and Lilly’s world (as well as ours) was rocked. We had a baby. My mother had once told me that when we had kids, I’d forget all about Lilly. Never, I protested. She was practically my first born. I am beginning to realize that Mom’s know everything.
As my mother accurately predicted, life with a child—a human child—has a way of rearranging one’s priorities. It didn’t happen overnight, but slowly and surely Lilly was no longer the favorite. She began to take a back seat. No longer did she get the full belly massage. A distracted rub under the table with the sole of someone’s shoe would have to suffice. But she took it in stride, and like most dogs she made the best of what little attention she was offered.
Her time inside was limited. She spent a good deal of the day pining away at the front door wondering, I suppose, when we would come to our senses and realize how easy we once had it. I mean, for goodness sakes, she came house trained! And there I was scrubbing baby poo off cloth diapers. What were we thinking? Trained, weaned, and fixed. And if she stunk, (usually due to her uncanny ability to find road kill and roll in it) out she went. No back-talk (in fact, no talking at all), and she ate the same food—straight from a bag—everyday without complaint.
