I don’t think this will become a dog blog.

But I’m leaving a big, fat caveat nailed to the door.

As with many things in life, the acquisition of a dog was not planned. Curse those shelters that set up near a farmers market. You’re strolling along on a Sunday afternoon, after a luxurious sleep-in (good bye), your basket on your arm, ready to feel virtuous about buying local and organic. You’re with your mate and your step-daughter, and it’s unseasonably warm for December, and you’re wearing really cute red flats.

You breeze past the crates of kittens – good god, you already have two geriatric felines barfing with semi-regularity – and sail into tables of tomatoes and fresh pretzel bread and eggs that come from a chicken who received petting and lots of validation.

It’s only after that, with the glow of other people’s handmade jewelry still blushing, that you spot the puppies all piled on each other, about 15.3 steps away. You have an intense, internal battle for about two seconds, and then you walk over.

Because you’ve resisted before. You’ve done the masochistic Let’s-visit-a-shelter-and-slowly-die-of-heartache and it’s really. Not. Fun.

But the sun has warmed the resolve right out of you. So when you see a scruffy, muppet-like face among the relatively large shepherd haunches, something inside you goes Well. Well, then.

In retrospect, C played it brilliantly. He watched me and C jr begin to gush over the puppy, then he promptly sat down a delicate distance away. Don’t you want to pet him? I yodeled. He just smiled and shook his head. I’m good over here.


I fully acknowledge that if C had gotten all puppified, I would have been like, No, not right now. We’re about to go out of town for the holidays. And we’re moving. And you’re going to Broadway for six months. It’s obviously not the best time.

But with that simple act of subtraction, C allowed my own insanity to come blaring, Ethel Merman-like, to the front of the stage. O, Puppy! I honked! O, Puppy! C jr cried! We groveled at him for a bit, and then asked to hold him.


And still, C remained seated. So we trudged over with an armful of scruff, and placed him on C’s lap.

Arlo Zincoff (per C jr) has been part of the family for 15 days.

Well, then.