Jun 16, 2016 3 min read

When I think back on days and years in my family, there’s always a dog. Each framed memory has a pooch lurking somewhere – in the large wooded yard, on the family room sofa, under the piano, on a bed or two. The garage was where Daisy gave birth to a litter of five puppies. The wooded part of the yard is where Winston got in a tangle with a groundhog. The side yard was where Mugsy ran after a ball every time my dad would toss it for him until one of them got tired.

They go together, my dad and the dogs. Except for the short spells after a dog passed away, there has always been a dog. Sure, like many people, my dad and mom would say never again: It’s just too hard to lose them. But within a few months there would be another puppy to fill that space.

Puppies are diabolical tyrants. Their cuteness is nothing more than a deception to lure those who should know better. The first six weeks with a puppy will turn a home into a battlefield.

My dad and mom are better at that part of dog ownership than anyone I’ve known. It helps they are smart, disciplined people. They have never been more than 12 seconds late for any appointment or event, and 12 seconds with a puppy can mean the difference between getting him outside in the knick of time and, well, you know.

Those two just celebrated 60 years of marriage, years filled with kids and grandkids, a great-grandchild and dogs, dogs, dogs. It’s an apt cliché that dads don’t like the boys their teenage daughters bring around, and I think my dad was in cahoots with a boxer named Winston about that. When my sisters and I were starting to date and the boys would get a little too close on the sofa, Winston would climb up and wedge his large slobbery self between us. I’m pretty sure my dad told him to do that.

Dad is the dog whisperer. They recently took on a singularly peppy, teensy furball. Twinkie makes their other dog, a miniature Schnauzer, seem lazy by comparison. Under the steady and loving hands of mom and dear old dad, we have hope that Twinkie will someday act like a decent human being. That was what they expected of all of us.

And so Happy Father’s Day and Happy Anniversary to the dog whisperer and his sweetheart. They were a memorable 60 years. Best I can recall, none of us ever bit anyone, and that’s saying a lot.

Before I forget (not that any of us ever could), here you go, in the order in which they joined the family: Charlie, Roxie, Penny, Daisy, Mugsy, Toby, Sammy Jo, Heidi and Twinkie.

Oh, and Winston, the goofy boxer. We’re pretty sure he whispered back.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.