I didn't want a dog. It was understood in my house that there would be no dogs. Don't get me wrong, I love dogs. When I would walk down the streets of town I would talk to every dog I met, speaking to them as if they were babies, even dogs behind fences, who would bark madly as I walked by. Eventually I started packing dog treats with me and befriended them as well, calling them by name.

I once got in trouble with my wife because of a dog. Apparently I had been calling
"Margaret " in my sleep. When I awoke in the morning Jan wanted to know who Margaret was.

"Margaret? I don't know any Margaret." I said. "The only Margaret I know is Willie Grant's dog."

Disaster averted fortunately.

For thirty some years we did all the usual family things, dog less. It was fine. We didn't know any better. Then along came Rigby. One day my daughter came to visit with a little bundle of black, shiny, Dachshund cuteness in a carrier bag. The no dog rule went out the window.

My daughter left, and Rigby stayed. In order to train him to go outside and potty, we gave him a treat afterwards. When that got too spendy, we switched to baby carrots. In time we were buying two bags per week. Of course the more he ate the more he pooped. It was a catch 22 situation.

He eventually took over the house, including my easy chair, pushing with his legs against the side and crowding me into the space that was left. He was demanding, but we loved him dearly. When he died at thirteen years old, I cried like a baby. There will never be another Rigby.