If you want to understand the chapters of my life, don’t look at schools, jobs, or addresses. Look at the dogs.
The Early Years: Borrowed Dogs and Forbidden Longings
The first dog I truly knew wasn’t ours. She lived next door in Clearview, Queens, a mixed-breed named Tippy, grandfathered into a housing development where dogs were technically verboten. Tippy was gentle, cautious, and deeply unimpressed by fireworks. July 4th was not her holiday. While the rest of America celebrated independence, Tippy practiced anxiety.
My cousins in Flushing had Cocoa, a cocker spaniel with a flair for drama. Cocoa pranced through northern Queens as if the sidewalks were runways and she had somewhere important to be. I adored her.
Naturally, my brother and I begged for a dog of our own.
Miraculously, our parents caved.
Domino: The Dog Who Made Childhood Complete
Ignoring housing rules and common sense, we stopped at Bide-A-Wee, the nonprofit rescue, and came home with a black-and-white mutt. My father named her Domino, a name so perfect it felt inevitable.
Childhood immediately improved.
Domino tore across our 700-square-foot apartment like a Hall of Fame running back, executing sharp cuts between furniture and humans alike. She went on long walks with us and short sprints through the living room. My mother fell completely under her spell, cooking special meals—eggs and ground beef—clearly superior to anything the rest of us were eating.
Domino knew dog people on sight. My Aunt Ardyth—veteran of Cocoa and later dogs—was her favorite human. When Ardyth walked in, Domino’s tail wagged so fast it seemed capable of generating lift.
When Domino gnawed a hole straight through the carpet, my mother patched it and hid the evidence from my father, knowing full well that discovery could mean deportation for the dog. This was marital diplomacy at its finest.
Too soon, Domino died of canine distemper at just two and a half years old. Our apartment felt impossibly quiet. Childhood took its first hard lesson in loss.
The Supporting Cast: Dogs of Relatives and Young Adulthood
Other dogs followed—belonging to family, but partially ours in spirit.
My brother’s German Shorthaired Pointer would stand rigid in the kitchen, pointing at appliances as if the refrigerator contained an adult quail. He shared Domino’s fondness for carpeting.
Then there was Bea, the bandana-wearing beagle of my college apartment in Buffalo, where I lived with roommates who had signed on for higher education—not wildlife management.
Bea was compact, cheerful, and deeply committed to her work as an urban hunter. She lived in an apartment that technically housed students but functioned as a rodent surveillance unit. Every so often, Bea would surprise us by proudly producing a mouse, tail wagging, eyes bright, as if to say, You’re welcome
She wore her bandana like a union badge. Bea was not embarrassed. We were.
Adult Dogs: Bigger Houses, Bigger Damage
Adulthood brought Scooter, a golden retriever—affectionate, loyal, and refreshingly uninterested in carpets. Unfortunately, Scooter was interested in the pool’s intake piping, which she chewed through, creating a backyard flood best described as Lake Erie-adjacent.
Still, she was a good girl.
Millie: Ten Pounds of Chaos and One Near International Incident
Then came Millie, a Jack Russell terrier with the confidence of a Great Dane and the impulse control of a caffeinated squirrel.
Millie didn’t run—she launched. She bounded up stairs two at a time, sometimes skipping entire steps, occasionally achieving what appeared to be temporary flight. She believed every object was hers, including—memorably—my son’s shin guards, which she stole just before a soccer game.
When panic erupted, Millie eventually returned, head lowered, shin guards in mouth, wearing the unmistakable expression of someone who had won but decided not to press her advantage.
Her greatest performance, however, occurred one summer when my boys were away at camp in Northern California. Millie escaped.
What followed was a harrowing, cardio-intensive chase up the steep inclines of Yorba Linda, with Millie turning the entire neighborhood into her personal agility course. She would allow me to approach within inches—close enough to believe—then bolt a quarter mile uphill, glancing back just long enough to ensure I was still participating.
This went on for hours.
Eventually, exhaustion—mine, not hers—ended the game. Millie finally allowed herself to be apprehended, panting happily, grinning like an athlete who had just set a personal record.
At that exact moment, the boys called.
Sensing that the truth might be… destabilizing, I calmly lied.
“All is well,” I said.
Millie, freshly captured and still vibrating with joy, sat beside me, beaming.
It was parenting, dog ownership, and crisis management rolled into one.
The Next Generation
Now my sons have dogs of their own—Gainy and Charlie—who carry on the proud tradition of hijinks, companionship, and unconditional joy. Watching them with my grandchildren feels like closing a long, happy loop.
Epilogue
Dogs have been our sentries, our comedians, our therapists, and occasionally our demolition crews. They’ve shared our apartments, our houses, our mistakes, and our best days.
For that companionship—and for the early humans and canines who figured out this remarkable partnership—I remain deeply grateful.
