In the midst of change and uncertainty, kindness of both the human and the canine varieties gets us through.

I am not a dog person.  Or a cat person.  Pets: I’m just not that into them.  (There. I’ve said it.)  Friends, please don’t be insulted - I think your pet is adorable and charming, and it makes me so very happy to see the joy they bring you, but I’ve never really longed for one in my life.  

The same, however, cannot be said for my son.  Samuel wanted a dog of his own as soon as he could say the word, and clearly not because of me. I credit my dad for my boy’s intense love of all things canine.  Or maybe it’s his fault.  Either way, it all goes back to a Great Dane named Eric. And Ringo Starr the cat. And a guinea pig. Or two.  But I digress…..  

My dad’s father died when my dad was just 8, leaving my grandmother to care for six kids on her own.  And, at some point, Eric the Great Dane.  Also Laurie the English spaniel. Those six kids had some great childhood adventures despite the inherent difficulties, and the dogs figured large.  (Literally.)  I think my dad wanted the same idyll for our family.

And so a string of pets entered our lives, too. When I was a very fearful five year old, the trauma that was Puppy the Long-Haired Dachshund came to us. In hindsight, somebody might have prepared me a little bit better by explaining that running away from dogs makes dogs run after the runner. I was sure my brief life was coming to a close as round the dining room table we went - such tables are quite large when you’re just five, and so are dachshunds. Nothing about this experiment got any better as time went on; I refused to walk the dog, I could’ve cared less when he ran away, which he did every chance he got - an oblong dachshund-colored blur racing down the lawn and gone before you could say “close the screen door!”  My siblings loved him but weren’t any better at caring for him; by the time my brother came on the scene, Puppy was set in his untrained rascally ways. The last time Puppy escaped he got into the neighbor’s trash, as he was wont to do despite his small stature, and chomped some chicken bones, which rapidly led to the poor guy’s demise. I did feel remorseful that I hadn’t been a better big sister to him, but I’d held onto some anger since the dining room incident.

Not to be cowed, my dad said yes to the request for guinea pigs. There were two: Jessica belonged to my sister, who had nightmares about a possible cage escape, and my brother had Annabelle, whose very sharp bucked teeth found their way into his arm more than a few times. Annabelle the Angry screamed herself to death - we will never know what took her, but it was loud.

Then there were the cats.  My sister, recovered from her pig nightmares, saved a scrawny baby kitten from a litter belonging to my aunt and called her Runt. (Puppy, Runt. Sometimes you just name them like you see them.)  This cat was truly Bill The Cat from Doonesbury come to life - she said “ack” a lot and lived in the basement crawlspace, coming out for feedings and to remind us that she was weird.  Sis also brought Ringo Starr into our family.  He was probably the most normal pet in the Derry zoo - pretty, sleek, cat-behaved, great name.

But the idea of the family dog still loomed large: shortly after I left for college, Dad showed up with a beautiful springer spaniel puppy and named her Abigail, for Abigail Adams, the strong and stoic wife of our second President.  She was, however, completely unlike her namesake.  Our Abby was disorganized, disobedient, and really kind of dumb; the delight she took in chocolate as a food group was pretty disconcerting, and she was never deterred by training.  It was only later that I understood Abby’s real purpose in life.  You see, when my son was born, my dad finally got a dog-lover in the family. Oh, Abby was adored by my siblings of course.  She slept in my brother’s room, and even made an appearance on my sister’s homecoming float (it was built in the backyard and Abby kept getting in the way - this was how she stayed out of trouble).  My dad did his best thinking (and cigarette-sneaking) as Abby kept him company on long neighborhood walks. But my son Sam and Abigail were seriously tight.  There are a bazillion pictures of the two of them hanging out - Abigail helping him walk, cuddling (illegally) on Sam's play mat, reading books together, even potty training.

And as soon as he could say the word “dog,” Sam started lobbying for one of his own. It was kind of all I could do to keep my stage career intact while also trying to raise a small boy; I had to tell him no all the time, and it was just so hard. How my grandmother raised six kids and a Great Dane I will never understand; I couldn’t figure it out with one. And every family in Brooklyn had a dog, it seemed, but us. He was six when Abby died, and of course he was heartbroken. While he understood nothing could replace her or bring her back, the Abby-sized hole in his heart would not heal and his grief was palpable. The dog-campaign only gained in intensity - Sam went so far as to make a “Dogumentary” with his best friend Graham (yes, they rhyme!), interviewing local dogs and their owners about how great life together was. I promised him that one day I would make it possible for him to have a dog of his own.

And then one day it all came to pass.  Our boy had to wait until he was 15 and we had moved briefly to Florida for us to make good on that promise - a house with a yard was key.  Off we went to the kennel and we spotted “Johnny,” the dog to end all dogs. He  was beautiful, tawny-golden, sleek, with huge brown eyes staring up at you saying here I am saying “well, Mr. Snow, here I am.”  Sam took him to the yard so they could try each other on for size; he ran like a thoroughbred (Puppy, eat your heart out); he was kind to the other dogs, never aggressive, and it was clear that Sam had made an impression on him too. You could just tell, and we were all in. The only issue was the name - my husband is already John. Sam was in a Shakespeare phase; naming the dog Will or Benedict or the like seemed a bit obvious, so he went with Marlowe, for Christopher Marlowe, Shakespeare’s contemporary and possible nemesis, as a tribute to both. Perfect.

Your own dog is different from your grandparents’ dog, however, and Sam learned the hard way a few times about how best to care for Marlowe; lucky for him, my husband is a terrific dog owner with lots of experience, and he helped Sam really understand the importance of consistency and attention. Marlowe was characteristically patient - learning you are, Jedi, he seemed to say - and rewarded those consistent walk times and feedings with gentleness and affection. He strolled with us on the golf course in our neighborhood every morning, and ran alongside Sam on his bike after school. He was kind and energetic and so loving.

There was something about this dog that just engendered good will. His gentle demeanor and constantly calm state drew you to him. He moved back to Maryland happily; he loved to sit under the piano while I taught voice lessons and was a balm for many a stressed-out student; my dad walked him when one of us couldn’t with obvious grand-dog-parent pride, and he had lots of sleepovers at my mom’s house. My nephews agreed he was special; neighbors actually asked to dog-sit him. My husband wore his Marlowe socks with panache. Marlowe was especially thrilled when life took us to Brooklyn, because Prospect Park is dog heaven. The niecelet couldn’t keep her hands off him (or her fingers out of orifices - that might have been the only time I saw him flustered, but he loved her and her sister just the same). And dear reader, I confess that I too fell head over heels for Marlowe.

Dad and Marlowe; Marlowe socks; hiding from the Niecelet.

When he left home for Asheville, NC to help run his father’s shop, Blunt Pretzels, Sam chose not to take the dog with him right away. Marlowe stayed with us until such time as Sam was ready for him, and while he waited he seemed a little lost, as did Sam. Adulting is hard, it takes the time it takes and it’s not without bumps and bruises. Like buying your own health insurance and paying taxes, being ready to take the dog was a triumph for him and a relief for his stepdad and I. You never really let go as a mother (understatement of my life), but you have to learn to live with your shifting role as your child grows. Marlowe’s presence in his life would require Sam to be equally as present for him - the dog would care for his owner, just as he’d be cared for, and my gratitude to Marlowe for this is unbounded.

It’s what my dad was after for us all those years: learning to care for one another, the work of care, is the work of our lives. Five siblings and two dogs wasn’t easy for their mother or perfect for them but they cared and still do, quite fiercely. They had one another’s backs as they made their way and made their memories. And we three Derry’s may not have been champion pet owners but we are tight, we have each other and the Annabelle teeth marks to remind us. And all of those people whose paths crossed Marlowe’s are a kind of extra-extended family for Sam - all because a boy wanted a dog, and learned what it is to truly care.

I’m sure you already know where I’m going. Marlowe aged gracefully, but Sam called me last week and his voice broke as he told me the time had come. Their fierce devotion to each other allowed Sam to be clear-eyed in the knowledge that to let his dog go rather than keep him in the world would be the greater kindness. I couldn’t be prouder, or sadder.

The night that I got this phone call was also the night my dad went into the hospital with chest pains. He’s reading this as he recovers from triple bypass surgery (what a couple of weeks we had…), hopefully basking in the knowledge that not all dog relationships are dachshund-flavored, and that the great tradition of naming pets after historical figures pays off. And that we’ve figured out that it’s a privilege to be entrusted to care, for dogs, for kids, and even for him. In the midst of change and uncertainty, kindness of both the human and the canine varieties gets us through.

We all - and there are an awful lot of alls - have Marlowe-sized holes in our hearts. Thanks, Sammy.

Some of the "alls."