I wrote this on January 27, 2016.
It’s about my black lab, Maggie. I never published it. But this week, August 21st, Maggie suffered a sudden, fatal accident and left me much too soon.
In honor of her memory and the constant, unfailing love she gave me, here is a story about the love of our pets, our love for them and and love for ourselves.
My first two children, before I had Amelie, were my two dogs: Roscoe and Maggie.
Roscoe was my first dog. He is a magnificent, 22-pound, white-and-black Boston Terrier.
He’s my Golden Dog. He can do no wrong.
(Maggie is the Black Sheep – I’ll explain later.)
When I lived in New York and practiced law, I couldn’t have a dog like I wanted to have a dog. My long work hours meant that my dog would live most of his life alone in my apartment, while I lived most of my life alone in my office. I was working on my parachute out of my lonely office existence, and dreamed of a career where most hours working were also hours with my dog.
I had vague dog-owning aspirations, without specific breed, or dog-friendly lifestyle, in mind, until I took a trip to visit some old friends in Austin, Texas, where I lived before moving to New York. I picked up a coffee in the afternoon from Austin Java. Dark-roast in hand, I walked into a new art gallery along the Second Street Disctrict. He stopped me in my tracks: there he was. The dog of my heart’s desire. Completely indifferent to my presence, he sat on a cushion like he owned the place, or at least was the bouncer. The snub-nosed, snob of a dog, was a Boston Terrier. The object of my doggish aspiration was set.