“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”

– Anatole France

I have always been a cat person.  Ever since my childhood, when our family cat, Beauty, would lie on her back across my lap and sleep peacefully, I’ve had a certain affinity for the independent and fickle energy of the feline.  I’ve always been able to approach the cat that “will not let you hold her” and soon have her purring in my arms.  Since discovering that two of my sons are quite allergic to cats, I have had to enjoy my friends’ pets and keep my own home fur free.

“Well, you could always have a dog.”  Dogs.  Those stinky, drooling, long-clawed, leg-scratching, sleep-on-my-feet-so-I-can’t-make-a-move animals.  I am not a dog person.  I’ve always felt somewhat un-American when I say that, because I know that dog lovers rank their canines right up there with motherhood and apple pie.  Ironically, it seems that whenever I enter a dog’s space I am immediately targeted as the one whose feet need guarding or whose face needs a good lick.  Once, at the home of my eldest son, his large dog sat down at my feet, rested his chin on my thigh, and fell asleep sitting up.  I’m sure he thought he was sitting on my lap, and I felt obligated to sit like a statue until he had finished his beauty sleep.

About a month ago, my youngest daughter Emily moved back home, and with her came her 7-month-old Cocker Spaniel, Patches.  Please don’t tell my jeering, dog-loving friends, but this naughty little dog has awakened that sleeping part of my soul.  I guess you could say it’s puppy love, but I’m finding that I’m turning into one of those doting people who brags about how smart my grand-puppy is and shows off his latest tricks.

Now that his tricks have moved beyond sneaking to a corner to relieve himself; now that he is learning to sit and wait when I ask him to; now that he has discovered my magnificence and lives only to please me (unless, of course, his mommy is at home), I find that I am totally sappy over that sweet little face with the expressive brown eyes — even when he finds a cardboard box and shreds it all over the living room.  I suppose you could say that he’s helping me to be more attentive to cleaning.  The wrap-up to his potty training days was a good steam-clean of the carpets, and his affinity for the toys I keep for my grandchildren has encouraged me to pare back my collection and keep it stashed away from a teething puppy.

What I like best, though, is the way he hops up next to me — on the towel that now adorns the middle cushion on the couch — and settles in next to me while I read.  He is kind enough to nuzzle my hand as a reminder that I am there to rub his ears or scratch his belly.  When he stretches out on his back and looks at me with those sweet puppy dog eyes, I sometimes think he may have some cat in his lineage.  Don’t tell my dog-loving sister.  She will never let me hear the end of this.