Mori would not be a terrible name for a dog. It’s short, it’s kind of cute, so long as you are able to get past the inevitable “No, not like [Maury] Povich.” It’s not the name of our dog, we got a puppy this past Sunday. I didn’t have naming rights—it’s especially Abby’s dog. She’s wanted, and probably needed, a pet for a while. We were reluctant for a little bit. A cat would have been easier, and a natural fit as well, but that Abby and I are both allergic. This doesn’t stop her from using my parents’ Maine Coons as pillows (well, the mellow one, at least).
So Abby named her Galaxy. I seem to remember this being the name of a dog in one of the books we read this past year, but I can’t for the life of me place which book it was. Timmy was relatively uninterested at the prospect of getting a dog. A few weeks before the day came, we asked him if he was excited to get a puppy. He said, in his rather matter-of-fact tone, “Yeah, kinda. But when I grow up I’m getting a cat.” Whether this is because he really wanted a cat or it’s his plan to keep me or Abby away I’m not entirely sure.
I was a hold out on getting a dog for a while. Certainly before we established that both Abby and I were allergic to cats. I had been willing to consider getting shots or whatever, but Jamie wouldn’t allow it. I had a dog when I was a kid, not as young as Abby or Timmy. We actually had two dogs before him, both short stays at our house. First was Gracie, and then Murphy; both cocker spaniels or some other kind of spaniel mix. One of them was deaf, the other I vaguely remember as just being dumb. One may or may not have gone to live on a farm after. But for my tenth birthday we went to the Lynchburg city pound and I picked out a dog.
Charlie (short for Charlie Brown) was, okay, also probably not terribly bright, but he was a good dog. He matched my own demeanor, and he was always there. When I went off to college and then moved out to Virginia he stayed with my folks, and helped to keep the cat company. He lived until I was 26, so he was somewhere north of 16 when his time finally came. I remember going with him and my dad to the vet, but I couldn’t be there for the very end. It hurt a lot and that, more than the work it took to keep and train and love a dog, was what made me hesitant. I knew getting a dog would mean the good times, but also the last time.
Not long after we got her, Abby asked some questions about Charlie. Was he a good dog? What was he like? How old was he? She wanted to know why dogs lived so much shorter lives than people. Only answer I had was that that was how God made it. He could have made it otherwise, I suppose. Tortoises and parrots live such long lives, and they are considerably less worthy as pets. But I do think that their short time is intentional. We remember these attachments we have here won’t last forever, and their mortality point us to our own. Memento mori, carpe diem, and give boops.