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.
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