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frenzy, I could not be sure that he would still respond to my commands, and the consequences of him dashing into the kitchen and another collision with my mother were too dreadful to contemplate.
    I shouted, “Dennis, stop that!” but he only laughed and jumped up on the sofa while moving the light spot on the floor faster and faster. Tippy was becoming more and more excited, so I quickly closed the living room door to prevent him from charging down the hall. I called “Tippy, come!” No response.
    “Tippy, down!” No response.
    Accelerating, the little terrier made his dash for the door. Finding the door unexpectedly closed, he made a quick turn to avoid a collision, but lost his footing and slid a short distance on the bare wood floor only to bang against the rickety wooden pedestal table beside the sofa. Time slowed as I watched the table tilt and the red glass lamp tip over and crash to floor, breaking into several large pieces. The noise and the near miss from a large falling object brought Tippy to a halt long enough for me to grab him and clip the leash onto his collar.
    Dennis was still jumping up and down on the sofa, laughing and shouting, “Bad dog!” when I opened the living room door and raced down the hall dragging my dog. I had to get him away from this newest disaster. Suddenly I had a flash of inspiration. I shouted, “Mom! Dennis was jumping on the sofa and knocked over the lamp and it broke. I’m gonna take Tippy outside so that he doesn’t cut his feet on the glass. Dennis is still in there.”
    I felt no remorse. Dennis was ultimately responsible for this mess, and I doubted that he could shift the blame to Tippy, but I wanted my dog out of sight just in case. Perhaps my dog—my wonderfully trained dog—could avoid suffering the consequences of this latest lapse in control.
    I sat on the front steps of the house, my arms around my dog. The warm sunshine helped calm me and I stopped shaking. Tippy turned and gave my face a lick. I faintly heard my mother’s angry voice drift through the window and my brother’s insistent explanation of “Bad dog!” which did not seem to be carrying much weight today. I chuckled to myself and whispered in Tippy’s ear, “Good dog!”

C HAPTER 3
PENNY

    Many dogs would come to live under my parents’ roof, although not all at the same time. The array would ultimately include two schnauzers, an Irish setter, and two Cavalier King Charles spaniels. There would also be a cavalcade of cats including a sweet gray cat, a nasty purple Persian, and eventually four Siamese cats of differing shades and temperaments. The dogs belonged to us kids: me, Dennis, and eventually my youngest brother Arthur. When we boys no longer lived in the house, the dogs belonged to my father. The cats belonged to my mother.
    Every dog that touched our existence had its own character, with a variety of strengths and foibles. Each had a life story, and each added its experiences to our lives. During the years that I lived in my parents’ home, one special dog would set the stage for how I would think about dogs for the rest of my life. She was a boxer named Penny.
    Penny was there at times of great change and transition in my life—when I finished high school, when I began and later returned from my active military service, and through my undergraduatecollege years. Like all of my dogs, her job was to be my companion, but occasionally she was a therapist and teacher.

    I never understood how, or from where, my father got our dogs. Even though we had very little money, my father wanted a traditional household and didn’t want my mother to have to work, but circumstances were such that she always had at least a part-time job. By the middle of my high school years, however, our financial condition was better. My parents had their own house and enough income to meet the mortgage payments. Money was still a concern (so I worked part-time jobs to pay for textbooks, school fees, and