The past four years have been a stressful and chaotic time for nearly everyone I know at this stage of middle life. There have been personal and financial losses, career upheavals, and a general sense of angst and uncertainty.
My solution?
Get a dog. How much trouble could it be?
I have always loved Shetland Sheepdogs—I had one when I was a kid. His name was Robin, and he was a reject from the show ring. His lineage was right, but his temperament was wrong. He may have been too twitchy for Westminster, but he was perfect to me. He has always been the standard against which I measured all potential pets. None came close.
Three decades after he died, I got the opportunity to acquire another Sheltie, from the same breeder who had raised Robin. But this one wasn’t a puppy, or a show ring reject—she was a champion, now retired at age 6 after reaching the height of her profession and giving birth to puppies who would follow in her perfectly groomed pawsteps.
Meet Jada 
Jada, tiny and delicate, hated me when she first arrived. I took her from a world where she had lived happily in a climate-controlled barn with her pack of fancy friends to an empty house where she spent 12 hours a day alone, and another few hours with me—the stranger who had ruined her life. Jada ate reluctantly, and played not at all. Mostly she looked droopy and vaguely accusatory.
She needed a dog.
Meet Ozzie 
Ozzie is Jada’s nephew, also a retired champion. Ozzie is pretty big, very bold, and full of enthusiasm. He spends his days running, leaping, and twirling. Ozzie is a tiny bit insane. But his joyful temperament is irresistible, and his Aunt Jada became a very happy dog the minute he moved in.
thefoofoohounds 