A family without pets is a sad family. A family with pets eventually learns sadness. That’s the way it is.
Two little dogs joined my family when it was just my mother, father, and Marijean. I don’t think anyone else in the family knew these dogs except by their rare photos and sad, short stories.
Jock was a Scottish terrier, as you can see, a breed popular in the 1930s when Franklin Roosevelt famously had Fala. My mother, always proud of her 100% Scottish heritage — she was the only child of two Scottish immigrants — gravitated naturally toward this breed, and she talked my father into getting one. It probably was their major expense of the year.
Jock was like all terriers. High energy, playful, needed lots and lots of play time. His favorite thing was to play in the snow, something he did one day till he had a total collapse, and died.
I think this is the sweetest photo of my sister! The little guy is Topsy, I think. I wasn’t coming around for at least eight more years, so this is just another ghost dog to me. I’m not sure I got its name right.
Topsy also lived a short life. As I understand it, he (or she?) died of distemper. There would be no more pets till my grandmother got Laddie in 1948.
Technically, Laddie wasn’t “our” dog, but Gram had no problem sharing him with us, as if any dog could be kept away from four young children!
Laddie took it on himself to be my personal body guard, letting no one get close to me except family until given the permission to let them by. Laddie used to eat at Gram’s, run up to our house and spend part of the day in hopes of someone spilling milk or dropping him a tasty treat off the table. He was a good boy, and he lived to old age.