Since I cannot seem to write this entry in one sitting, here's the first part.

When we came back from vacation it was clear that our dear dog, Roxy the Chow-Chow we had adopted from the SPCA only fourteen months ago, was in severely failing health. She was a senior dog when we adopted her (the vet estimated her age as anywhere from 8-12), and had suffered from chronic Lyme disease. Despite multiple courses of antibiotics, her hips were so arthritic that she could no longer walk, and the disease had started to attack her heart and kidneys. Although we could have tried heroic measures, it was clear that her quality of life would have been poor even if she had survived all the invasive treatments that would have been needed. We decided to have her put to sleep, despite the heart-wrenching nature of the decision, and we all surrounded her in her final quiet moments. She was a wonderful dog and apparently an exception to the poor reputation Chows have as aggressive, nasty dogs.

In the aftermath it became clear that we all wanted another dog to share our home. Unfortunately, each of us had a different idea of what that next dog should be. There was a vote for another Chow (banking on the miracle of finding a second one with a sweet temperament), one for a Chihuahua puppy (or two, considering that the owner was willing to give us a discount), another for a large Lab/Shepherd mix, and my own choice of an invisible, imaginary dog that would not shed, slobber, poop, need to be walked or fed or taken to the vet. The advantage with mine was that every family member could imagine their own perfect breed, and name the dog whatever they wanted. I was voted down. And told that Prozac might be helpful.

We stopped at the SPCA over the weekend and found that the big, hulking German Shepherd mix had just been adopted (what a shame, said with only the faintest tinge of sarcasm). There were pit bulls galore, about 50 cats, several rabbits, and a guinea pig. There was also a pair of dogs that had been brought in together as strays. There was no way to tell if the dogs had lived together or just become companions on the road, but they had clearly bonded. Caitlin decided that these were the dogs for her and, after a visit with each member of the family, we were able to adopt “Simon and Garfunkel”, as they had been known at the shelter.

Naming was the next area of contention. Caitlin claimed the right to name them because she was going to take full responsibility for them (yeah, right). Her choices were Berrigan and Zinn (for activitists Daniel and Philip Berrigan and Howard Zinn). Rebecca objected to Zinn because she felt it was an inappropriate name for a young, bouncy dog. We settled on Berrigan and Buster, although no one (except Caitlin) can remember Berrigan, so he has thus far been called Beelzebub, Bennigan, Brautigan, Brautwurst and Bumpkin. Additionally, because both names begin with the same letter, they will never learn their own names and will forever respond to anything that begins with a B.