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From the time that I could speak, I begged for a dog. My parents denied me this privilege, assuming that I would tire of the novelty of dog-ownership. Regardless, I brought home countless strays, only to be told that I couldn't keep them. (I always managed to find them good homes - crying bitter tears upon their departure.) I sought solidarity with local dog-owners in order to socialize with their hounds. With my allowance, I purchased dog biscuits and distributed them en route to school.

This obsession waned during adolescence, but my love for canines prevailed.
The spring of my 21st year, I was dating a fellow named Steven whose father brought home a pudgy, black-and-copper colored puppy.
"My new watchdog," he announced, "Her name's Pepper' - she's a German Shepherd."
"She looks like a watermelon with legs!" I declared, lifting her.
She nipped at my hands, strenuously wriggling free.
Pepper was no German Shepherd. As it turns out, her name wasn't Pepper', either. Having been rescued from beneath a truck in the Bronx one stormy night, she was somber and far from affectionate. She loathed children - was wary of everyone. In all my canine experience, I'd never
encountered such a challenge. After several unsuccessful attempts at befriending her, I feigned indifference.
After work, I'd drop by Steven's. His family had a pool, and while taking a dip, I'd croon to
the puppy. She reservedly showed some interest.
One day while I swam, she stepped off the pool deck - plunging into the 4-foot water, sinking like a stone. I rescued her immediately, but she was panicked - sputtering and trembling in my arms. Thus began her life-long dread of water, which was to be her only true fear.
Before long, she seemed able to figure out my arrival time - standing at the gate, tail wagging. We began taking long walks. She followed me closely - I never used a leash. Journeying to quiet, wooded areas of the park, we'd settle under the trees and I'd fondle her velvety, russet ears. If anyone approached, she'd tense - growling menacingly. My protector! She would stretch out and sigh, and I chose these opportunities to lay beside her and rest my head on her hard barrel-chest. Her heart beat was loud enough for both of us. I gratefully reflected: Here is my rock. I felt honored to possess the devotion of this noble creature. She regarded me attentively as I praised her. ("Such a good girlie!" It became her name.)
"You're spoiling my watchdog rotten," Steven's father remarked.
"Who are you kidding?"

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