planning a drive to New England for a summer vacation with the kids and Buddy, Jane enlisted my help in a plot to kidnap Peaches. That afternoon, while the boyfriend was still at work, we pulled up to his house in my creaky green minivan. Jane was so tiny that she had no trouble sneaking into the house through the dog door. In a flash, she emerged through the front door with Peaches, who clambered into the minivan next to Buddy as I stepped on the gas and we sped away.
Now, as part of a relentless campaign to lift my spirits, Jane sent me pictures of a pair of elderly basset hound sisters who needed a home. She suggested that
we each take one, but I put her off, arguing that these good old girls should not be torn asunder. Cornelia weighed in by announcing that we should think about names for a new dog, and she regularly e-mailed me with ideas such as Cosmo, Sugar, and Pamplona. Will, not to be outdone, sent me links to impossibly cute pups on Petfinder.com .
But I remained unmoved. No, I said—no new puppy.
In the summer of 2008, Henry decided to take matters into his own hands. Despite my resistance, he was quietly adamant that it was time to get a new dog. And he wanted a bigger dog this time—“while we can still handle it,” he explained—but one that would calm down over time. When we took our beach walks in Connecticut after Buddy died, Henry looked longingly at big dogs that fetched and swam. And he preferred a female on the theory that they are easier to manage.
Unbeknownst to me, Henry had fallen in love with a gentle golden retriever who belongs to two close friends of ours in Connecticut, an older couple named Marian and Howard Spiro. Henry particularly admired the perfect manners that the Spiros’ dog—named Cyon,
after Procyon, the brightest star in the constellation Canis Minor—exhibited in company.
Henry had become smitten during the ritual Sunday morning lawn bowling games when they were hosted by Dr. Spiro. (Most of the competitors were octogenarians, but Henry played to win and often did so.) During the games, Cyon would observe the bowlers placidly, never barking or chasing the ball. That September, at the Spiros’ traditional Labor Day party, Cyon never once overtly begged, jumped up to catch a piece of stray cheese, or knocked over a gin and tonic.
Cyon, who is certified as a hospital therapy dog, has a regal stance and is an unusual, almost white color. From the Spiros we learned that she is a special type of golden retriever bred along British standards. Goldens are the second most popular breed in the United States, but until meeting Cyon we hadn’t realized that they come in several hues, from deep red to the more common honey color, and finally to Cyon’s platinum. By early fall 2008, Henry had become all but fixated on the notion that we should get an English golden retriever puppy, and he then began a gently insistent effort to persuade me to agree to this plan. My heart still ached for Buddy and I still wasn’t sure I was ready for a new dog, but finally I consented.
After getting a referral from Marian Spiro, Henry contacted Donna Cutler, a breeder of English golden retrievers near Boston. Donna told him that she expected a new litter the following spring, and in December 2008, with my wary consent, he sent for an application and put down a deposit toward the price of one of the yet-unborn puppies.
Cyon on the beach in Connecticut
I felt guilty. With millions of dogs in shelters across the country waiting to be adopted, and with local animal rescue groups actively looking for new homes for goldens who were given up or mistreated, I was aware that it would make more sense for us to adopt a dog rather than purchase a purebred puppy. Though far fewer dogs are euthanized in shelters than in past decades, about three to four million unwanted dogs are put down each year, according to the ASPCA. How could we justify getting a new puppy?
But Henry had his heart set. A
Now, as part of a relentless campaign to lift my spirits, Jane sent me pictures of a pair of elderly basset hound sisters who needed a home. She suggested that
we each take one, but I put her off, arguing that these good old girls should not be torn asunder. Cornelia weighed in by announcing that we should think about names for a new dog, and she regularly e-mailed me with ideas such as Cosmo, Sugar, and Pamplona. Will, not to be outdone, sent me links to impossibly cute pups on Petfinder.com .
But I remained unmoved. No, I said—no new puppy.
In the summer of 2008, Henry decided to take matters into his own hands. Despite my resistance, he was quietly adamant that it was time to get a new dog. And he wanted a bigger dog this time—“while we can still handle it,” he explained—but one that would calm down over time. When we took our beach walks in Connecticut after Buddy died, Henry looked longingly at big dogs that fetched and swam. And he preferred a female on the theory that they are easier to manage.
Unbeknownst to me, Henry had fallen in love with a gentle golden retriever who belongs to two close friends of ours in Connecticut, an older couple named Marian and Howard Spiro. Henry particularly admired the perfect manners that the Spiros’ dog—named Cyon,
after Procyon, the brightest star in the constellation Canis Minor—exhibited in company.
Henry had become smitten during the ritual Sunday morning lawn bowling games when they were hosted by Dr. Spiro. (Most of the competitors were octogenarians, but Henry played to win and often did so.) During the games, Cyon would observe the bowlers placidly, never barking or chasing the ball. That September, at the Spiros’ traditional Labor Day party, Cyon never once overtly begged, jumped up to catch a piece of stray cheese, or knocked over a gin and tonic.
Cyon, who is certified as a hospital therapy dog, has a regal stance and is an unusual, almost white color. From the Spiros we learned that she is a special type of golden retriever bred along British standards. Goldens are the second most popular breed in the United States, but until meeting Cyon we hadn’t realized that they come in several hues, from deep red to the more common honey color, and finally to Cyon’s platinum. By early fall 2008, Henry had become all but fixated on the notion that we should get an English golden retriever puppy, and he then began a gently insistent effort to persuade me to agree to this plan. My heart still ached for Buddy and I still wasn’t sure I was ready for a new dog, but finally I consented.
After getting a referral from Marian Spiro, Henry contacted Donna Cutler, a breeder of English golden retrievers near Boston. Donna told him that she expected a new litter the following spring, and in December 2008, with my wary consent, he sent for an application and put down a deposit toward the price of one of the yet-unborn puppies.
Cyon on the beach in Connecticut
I felt guilty. With millions of dogs in shelters across the country waiting to be adopted, and with local animal rescue groups actively looking for new homes for goldens who were given up or mistreated, I was aware that it would make more sense for us to adopt a dog rather than purchase a purebred puppy. Though far fewer dogs are euthanized in shelters than in past decades, about three to four million unwanted dogs are put down each year, according to the ASPCA. How could we justify getting a new puppy?
But Henry had his heart set. A
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