You can usually tell that a man is good if he has a dog who loves him.
~W. Bruce Cameron, A Dog’s Journey

“If anything ever happened to your mom, I’d be devastated,” my dad confessed. “But if something ever happened to Sadie Mae, I don’t think I could survive.”

“Dad, never tell Mom that!” I shrieked.

Sadie Mae was his German Shorthaired Pointer. I grew up knowing that it was all about the dogs. There was Pixie, Chrissy, Seymour, Brandy, Charlie, and, of course, Sadie Mae.

And somewhere behind the list of dogs were the kids: Sherrie, Connie, and David. Dad could never remember our names, but why should he? He knew all the dogs’ names. We knew where we stood — our pedigrees couldn’t measure up to those of our housemates. Our human plans were often altered to accommodate the “doglings” because they always came first.

According to my father, kennels were no place for “human” dogs. And pet sitters never lasted very long because the dogs made sure they trashed the house to remind all of us who was really in charge.

I remember when my parents drove me to Whitworth University — my freshman year — and dropped me off at my dorm at 5:00 a.m. so Dad could get home to his dogs. I knew then I was not my dad’s favorite “child.” After taking a few psych classes, I understood that my family was a “little” crazy, particularly my dad.

I married and had children, and it wasn’t all about the dogs. In fact, we never had a dog while our two boys were growing up. They had our full and undivided attention. And they bemoaned the fact that all their friends had dogs and cats and other pets (hamsters, rabbits, and goldfish).

When our older son graduated from Donegal High School in Mount Joy, Pennsylvania, in the year 2000, we sent out save-the-date invitations to our entire family. Since we lived on the East Coast and everyone else lived on the West Coast, it took some planning. We rented a venue, had the event catered, and all the family from my husband’s side and my side planned on attending. I could hardly believe it when I heard that my mom and dad were coming and leaving Sadie Mae in a kennel.

Due to a scheduling conflict, we had to have the party the day before graduation. It was going to be a combined family reunion/high school graduation. Everything went as planned: The food was delicious and everyone raved about the leather photo album that I put together of Jeremy’s childhood through high school years.

The next day, we planned a lovely brunch before we headed to the graduation, where Jeremy was to receive a scholarship award. That morning, I received a call from my mom. She said, “Dad won’t be attending the graduation.”

“What?” I questioned. “Is Dad sick or something?”

“No, nothing like that,” Mom explained. “Your dad needs to fly home to be with his dog.”

“But you’ll be staying for graduation, won’t you?”

“No, dear. I’ll be flying home with your father. I hope you understand,” Mom said apologetically.

I hung up the phone and sobbed until I realized there was no reason to cry. It had always been about the dogs, so what was my problem? I had grown up with this.

We said our goodbyes, Mom and Dad got on the plane, and Jeremy graduated with honors. And we had a great time anyway.

There are things in every family that one has to either accept or reject. I chose to accept the fact that my dad would never change, and I had to make a decision to accept his behavior as crazy, but normal for him.

It’s been seventeen years since Jeremy’s graduation. We have another family reunion coming up and, again, it’s all about my father’s dog — Charlie — who doesn’t like children.

So we’ve arranged for my other son and his wife and toddler to stay at a nearby hotel. That way Dad won’t have to kennel his beloved “Charlie Girl.” At eighty-seven, that’s out of the question for him.

It will always be about the dogs.

~Connie K. Pombo