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alexpgp...that in taking Shiloh to New York with me, I'll be treading on... I don't know what... sacred ground?
I spent my childhood without any pets, which is a statement of fact rather than a whinge. Since I didn't know what I was missing, well... what can I say?
My first serious attempt to have a pet occured in junior high, where I became attached to a puppy that had been born to a neighborhood stray while I was staying in the country one summer. I took the animal home, but the idea of keeping it was nixed (I was never a good negotiator in my childhood), and I seem to recall we gave up the animal to a pet store not far from where we lived.
Eventually, my family moved out of New York and soon after doing so, my dad came home with the news that he had acquired a German Shepherd. Pedigreed, the whole nine yards. He offered me and my mom a prize of $20 for the first of us to guess the name he had selected. I seem to recall he provided a broad hint in doing so, along the lines of "it's a regal name,"
I thought for a moment or two, and then blurted out, "Rex!"
I won the double sawbuck.
I cannot say I loved that dog with all my heart, because in some fundamental sense, he wasn't mine. He owed his loyalty to my dad. Sure, we spent a lot of time together, and I prepared quite a number of his meals (following my dad's strict instructions), and I even shared a few Milk-Bones with Rex, but all the time, there was this barrier between us.
Maybe it was of my own making, I don't know.
My dad enlisted my aid in building a run on our property, which never made much sense to me. Even as an inexperienced teen, I felt it was wrong to cage a dog outside the house, alone, even if the cage is roomy. Dogs are social animals; they need companionship.
Prematurely, Rex developed some kind of arthritis in his hips. Soon after, my dad took Rex to the vet and returned home alone. I don't know the details, but if they resemble my experience in saying farewell to our Max, who showed up out of the blue quite literally on our doorstep in 1986, I know they must be quite painful, indeed.
So it is that Shiloh and I will go to New York, and although she won't realize it, I'll make sure she walks in the footsteps of her ancestors.
And now... back to the final 383 words! (I peeked!)
Cheers...
I spent my childhood without any pets, which is a statement of fact rather than a whinge. Since I didn't know what I was missing, well... what can I say?
My first serious attempt to have a pet occured in junior high, where I became attached to a puppy that had been born to a neighborhood stray while I was staying in the country one summer. I took the animal home, but the idea of keeping it was nixed (I was never a good negotiator in my childhood), and I seem to recall we gave up the animal to a pet store not far from where we lived.
Eventually, my family moved out of New York and soon after doing so, my dad came home with the news that he had acquired a German Shepherd. Pedigreed, the whole nine yards. He offered me and my mom a prize of $20 for the first of us to guess the name he had selected. I seem to recall he provided a broad hint in doing so, along the lines of "it's a regal name,"
I thought for a moment or two, and then blurted out, "Rex!"
I won the double sawbuck.
I cannot say I loved that dog with all my heart, because in some fundamental sense, he wasn't mine. He owed his loyalty to my dad. Sure, we spent a lot of time together, and I prepared quite a number of his meals (following my dad's strict instructions), and I even shared a few Milk-Bones with Rex, but all the time, there was this barrier between us.
Maybe it was of my own making, I don't know.
My dad enlisted my aid in building a run on our property, which never made much sense to me. Even as an inexperienced teen, I felt it was wrong to cage a dog outside the house, alone, even if the cage is roomy. Dogs are social animals; they need companionship.
Prematurely, Rex developed some kind of arthritis in his hips. Soon after, my dad took Rex to the vet and returned home alone. I don't know the details, but if they resemble my experience in saying farewell to our Max, who showed up out of the blue quite literally on our doorstep in 1986, I know they must be quite painful, indeed.
So it is that Shiloh and I will go to New York, and although she won't realize it, I'll make sure she walks in the footsteps of her ancestors.
And now... back to the final 383 words! (I peeked!)
Cheers...
