My first Springer Spaniel, Pip, went to camp to learn to retrieve, but flunked out.  When the trainer fired his shotgun over her head, it took two hours to find her.  She never wanted to be a career dog, and instead, spent her long life retrieving dropped teething biscuits, chasing water balloons in the backyard, and later sitting at the feet of my children as they studied for math tests.  

The next Springer was Stella an it was great fun to stand at the back door and yell “Stellllllllllaaaaa” like Stanley Kowalski.   The runt of the litter, Stella was lean, and occasionally mean.  But she conquered the heart of the LOML and came along, like an old maiden aunt, when remarriage brought us to Maryland.

I loved my dogs.  But they knew they were dogs.

So, what do I do with Stella’s stepbrother?  A territorial Bichon Frise who I call “Tuna Breath” when we’re just the two of us.  A white bundle of curls who believes the sofa is his, that whizzing outside is grounds for sirloin rewards, and that I am an intruder? 

I refer to him as “my husband’s dog from his first marriage.”  As long as he gets the sofa, insults don’t seem to bother him.