Attachment

We bought our first house in September of 1990. Jeremy was just entering 2nd grade and we found a great fixer upper in a lovely neighborhood. About two weeks later, Don came home from work on a Saturday morning and Jeremy and I met him at the door. “Let’s go! Animal Rescue League!”

“Did we talk about this?”

“Absolutely. Remember? When we get a house, we’ll get a dog!”

And Phoebe entered our lives. She was 8 weeks old, a Pekingese Poodle — Peek-a-Poo — who grew over the next year from about 18 ounces into 11 pounds of pure whupass.

August of 1991, Dylan came along. Now our family included dad, mom, two boys and a dog.

Fast forward, October of 1992. We are out searching for pumpkins for Halloween. Jeremy, Dylan and I had a great idea.

“Let’s go to the Animal Rescue League!”

“Did we talk about this?”

“Well, no, but Phoebe is lonely and needs a companion.”

This was not completely truthful. Phoebe was really not that lonely but Phoebe was fairly terrible at kids. As an elite member of the Peek-a-Poo breed, she understood that her birth lent her royal status and her responsibilities primarily revolved around protecting her queen (i.e. me). Phoebe feared and respected Don as the leader of the pack, loved me, and sniffed and walked the other direction whenever a child called for her. Unless he had peanut butter. Dylan, at the age of one, was particularly disturbing to her delicate sensibilities since he had become extremely mobile and unpredictable. The boys deserved a DOG, not a crapload of attitude.

Elvis was perfect. He was a lab mix; just a little black velvet hound dog. Elvis was a DOG who was eventually 70 pounds with a tail that could cause major bruising and damage when it came into enthusiastic contact with human tissue. He fit the bill completely. He chased boys, he put up with a toddler crawling all over him and he sought out the company of the kids while Phoebe perched on my lap looking imperiously out over the scene.

No surprise, Phoebe was the alpha of the two. She liked having Elvis around since it provided her a minion. As the DIC (Dog In Charge), it was her job to direct the play, the barking attacks at the front door, the screaming at the darn squirrels out back that were just out of reach, etc. Elvis did an admirable job of taking direction from her unless distracted by an opportunity for petting, food, treats, toys, said squirrel, etc.

Now, with a family including dad, mom, two boys and two dogs, things could get fairly raucous around the castle. Phoebe may have been royalty but, just like Prince Harry, she had a lust for life with an active social schedule. Elvis and Phoebe used the living room as the main racetrack with Phoebe (remember, 11 pounds) chasing Elvis (70 pounds) up and over furniture, throughout the main floor into the dining room and solarium and back to the living room; banking off of the sofa for extra points as they completed the lap.

I’m writing this 25 years after we first brought them into our lives so you realize that Phoebe and Elvis aren’t with us anymore. I think of those puppies quite often, especially when our current canine family members play in that certain way or give me a goofy Elvis-like smile. When I think of sweet, sweet Elvis and feisty Phoebe, I laugh through my tears because of the specific visual memory that always shines through.

So, for context, the entire of Phoebe was about the same size of Elvis’s head. She was about 9 inches of Peek-a-Poo tall to his 3 foot stature. They wore collars with tags dangling from little wire rings that jingled and jangled as they chased throughout the house. Because they were dogs, much of their play involved mouthing each other with Phoebe grabbing Elvis’s ear or Elvis taking Phoebe’s entire head in his jaws. Their heads, and collars, were often in close contact. Did I mention how noisy this form of play could get? Growling, snarling, yapping; we got the whole cacophony of puppy play noises.

One night I was upstairs while the regular evening racetrack / mouthing games were happening off in an adjoining room. All of a sudden, the noises turned into super high pitched squealing and distressed doggy cries. As I looked up, they came barreling in to find me for help. The dogs were cheek to cheek with the little one prancing on back toes and the big one dragging ears down towards the ground. Phoebe and Elvis had managed to get their dog tags tangled together and were now attached at the collars. They were extremely uncomfortable and distressed. I’m a laugh-er but I quieted down after a few minutes to rescue the two. No damage done; I detached, cooed, petted and calmed a bit. Off they ran.

This occurred in a time before mobile phones recorded every dog shaming or adorable moment so I can’t share the picture with you but I get to hold that vivid image in my head of little Phoebe hanging off of Elvis’s neck. And it still makes me laugh every time I think of their attachment.