As I've done the mental gymnastics required to decide whether or not to adopt a dog , I've been thinking about all the canine friends I've had. I can't even count them all--but I'll never forget my favorites: Tony and Ivan, Black and Sasha, Cookie and Pollo.  

We sold some knives and forks from our wedding silver to buy Tony because he was a registered German Shepherd and he cost a whopping $65!   Here we are in front of our house on Huisache, Tony a year old. 

On one occasion, he saved my life right here in the Huisache house.  Bandits (who called themselves The Thieves of Baghdad) had a long spree of breaking into houses, raping and terrorizing people.  Our friends one street over were among their victims.   

A week or so later, two men matching the description of the  men appeared at our door posing as magazine salesmen.  Tony and I were home alone that night, and Tony took over the situation with an impressive show of force. He bared his teeth and growled ferociously, and the men were gone in a flash.  Then Tony wagged his tail and licked me, "It's okay, Girl, we got rid of 'em." 

Here we are four years later (we'd moved to Helotes), Baby Day and me (first two on the left)  and some friends.  Tony's in the back seat not about to get out--in case we decided to go someplace. If anybody said "Go" or "Car," he'd race to be the first to get in. 

Ivan was an ugly little Red Heeler--who like most of our dogs in the country--was a drop-off.  A heeler bred to herd cows, he had to make do herding us humans.  Ivan was a wonderful dog who lived for nineteen years.  

Cookie and Pollo were also drop offs, almost identical white terriers who showed up years apart. When I come across a picture of one of them, I ask Will and Day, "Is that Cookie or Pollo?" 

Black was the happiest little guy of them all.  A Cocker Poodle mix, I spotted him in a pet shop for $15, a week before Day was born.  He wagged not just his tail but his whole curly body.

Sasha was also a pregnancy puppy. Just before Will was born, I got the breed I'd always wanted--a blue eyed Siberian Husky.  Unfortunately neither Black or Sasha made it from puppy to dog, both losing their exuberant lives to tires. 

There's nothing quite like a good dog--the way they intuit feelings and comfort you when you're sad, the ways they understand human language, and their uncanny ability to tell the good guys from the bad guys.  

Whenever a new dog or cat joined our tribe, big macho Tony would look at them as if they were not real dogs like himself.  He'd watch their antics and look at us as if to say, "What are we going to do with this stupid-acting excuse for a dog? Do we have to keep him?" 

Tony would have liked Ivan--but they missed each other by a decade or so.

Friends have wisely warned me not to get a puppy.  A puppy is so much work! You have to train them and get up at all hours, they chew up your stuff and pee all over the place. 

They're right.  Funny, though,  I can't remember those parts. 

Seems like in those days you just told 'em not to do the bad stuff and they didn't and we just went on down the road.