Same hair; different dog. .
1966. Shortly after I recovered from a near-fatal viral pneumonia, my father brought home this ball of fluff. Binky.
Binky, who bit everyone in the household except for my mother.
Binky, who used to relieve himself on my father’s pillow every morning after he left for work.
He was a difficult dog, cranky, overbred, constitutionally pissed off. Upsides: he loved music. He adored Gaga, my grandmother, who fed him boiled chicken on Friday nights so he wouldn’t feel left out. Despite his irascible nature, I took great comfort in him for the short seven years we shared the world, and somehow, I think he might have felt the same way. Because no matter how crappy a day might be, dogs are ever hopeful. When the hope goes out of their eyes, that’s it. And I get that.
I am often asked what I inherited from my mother. Not her height. Not her build. Not her temperament. Not her lackluster cooking prowess. Maybe the music thing.
But for sure: what did I inherit.
This: love of dogs.
Little ones, big ones, drooling ones, rescues, purebreds, mixes. Even Binky. And maybe that’s enough. .
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