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Last in a series As Scott slowly recovered from distemper he began to eat on his own and even play. It was a huge relief; my best friend was going to be OK. To my parents, though, he was “a dog.” Actually, they were right. We love our pets like little people in furry suits, so shouldn’t they comport themselves like good children? Canine brains are hard-wired differently. Scott was genetically programmed to point and retrieve birds with mental focus, along with a generous helping of physical stamina. Confined to the kitchen, only allowed outside on-leash to prevent damage to the suburban landscaping, he was a fish out of water. Maybe I should have raised guppies instead. Not! I was clueless and, sadly, so were my parents. Scott’s house soiling and woodwork chewing were “bad behaviors.” I did my best. We tugged on chew toys together and played ball outside…

Third in a series
It was with gravitas that I began young Scott’s feeding regimen. I knew I was up to the task.

Second in a series Father and son trundled off in the family station wagon to a somewhat dilapidated quasi-farm. In the corner of an ancient barn sat a plywood enclosure of delightful Britanny puppies scampering around their haggard-looking mama. Looking back, it’s clear how badly she needed a break from the unrelenting demands of puppy production. Because I was a boy it somehow made sense to me that a male puppy would be a good choice. The first cuddler to hop into my lap was my immediate BFF. My father’s childhood cocker spaniel was named Scott; my dog would be his namesake. I was the luckiest kid on the planet. I am older now, wiser and a bit battle scarred, but still lucky. Now it was time for Responsibility. No more fun and games. Vaccinations for puppies, a concept in its infancy at the time, got my attention next. I…

First in a series I’ve always loved pets. I remember watching Lassie and Rin Tin Tin on TV, enthralled with the loyal bond between these dogs and their children. By age 8, I just had to have one of my own. Making it happen was a long shot. My father was not an approachable man but I somehow mustered the courage to ask if I could have a puppy. He intoned, with stark clarity, that I alone would be responsible for all dog-related chores: feeding, training, exercising, and clean-up. I was committed – more than ready, although I had no idea. The stars must have aligned. To my astonishment, he consented. I was quietly delighted a couple of days later when he arrived home with a copy of the Complete Dog Book from the American Kennel Club. I opened this tome to a random page. Staring back at me was…