It was love at first sight. Or at least first click.
A black-and-white beagle mix caught my eye on a dog rescue website. The caption read, “This medium-sized mutt thinks he’s a lap dog.” I applied to adopt him on the spot and decided my new pup needed a theme song.
The obvious choices didn’t work. Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog” wasn’t really about a dog. “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” made me cringe. And “Who Let the Dogs Out” offered plenty of barking but not much else.
So I turned to Google.
My search led me to a playlist on Chewy, an online pet-supply retailer, where I found a young Cat Stevens performing “I Love My Dog,” his first record.
I knew Cat Stevens from “Wild World,” “Peace Train,” and “Morning Has Broken.” Here he was barely out of his teens, singing earnestly over guitar, strings, and a gently bouncing rhythm. Human affection, he suggested, could change or disappear. A dog stayed true.
The dog came out ahead.
Dog lovers know why. Human affection can be fickle. A dog sees the same old you every day and still acts as if you’ve just walked through the door.
I met my new dog while my husband Fred was living in assisted living with frontotemporal dementia. Originally named Diesel, this mid-sized mutt sat quietly in his pen while dogs around him barked and howled. I sat on the floor. He crawled into my lap.
For a moment, I wasn’t thinking about dementia or what might happen next.
I told the shelter owner I wanted a calm, affectionate dog to bring on visits to Fred. She assured me Diesel fit the bill, then added, “There’s just this one thing.”
Uh-oh. We all know the sinking feeling when something positive is followed by talk about “just one thing.” I braced myself.
“Separation anxiety,” she said.
“I don’t plan to be separated from him much,” I replied. “The assisted living is dog-friendly.”
The next day, I brought him home. He seemed too sweet to be a Diesel, a name for something loud, powerful, and tough. Desi sounded close enough, and as an “I Love Lucy fan,” I liked naming him after Desi Arnaz.
I called him my Latin lover.
Unfortunately, Desi was so terrified of Fred’s assisted living facility that he shook like a washing machine on agitate. The place was dog-friendly, but Desi wasn’t assisted-living-friendly.
Leaving him home was worse. One day, he chewed through two couch cushions, scattering white stuffing across the floor, then escaped through the vinyl panel around the air conditioner. A neighborhood girl found my little Houdini.
I salvaged the couch by hiding the damage against the wall. Now I knew what separation anxiety really meant.
Meanwhile, Desi had heartworm and needed restricted exercise. I couldn’t put him in doggie daycare. I couldn’t take him to Fred. I couldn’t leave him alone. My mind kept repeating Too much! Too much! like a broken record.
Most of us know that moment. We’ve tried everything, and nothing works. It’s time to call for backup.
I’d heard of Northampton Neighbors, a new volunteer group, and called. By the time a woman answered, I was crying.
“I might not qualify,” I told her. “Fred doesn’t live in Northampton anymore.”
“But you do,” she said.
Three ordinary words. Yet for me, they shone like a lighthouse. My life had become one long storm of diagnoses, forms and rules. Suddenly, someone was showing me a way through.
The woman knew Fred. She found three volunteer dog-sitters who stayed with Desi while I visited him. They cared for my dog and for me, offering hugs and sympathetic ears. Once, I sobbed so hard that I slobbered on one sitter’s blouse.
She didn’t even mention the stain. Some volunteers go above and beyond the call of dog-sitting duty.
The woman who answered the phone was Diane Porcella. She now leads the organization.
Cat Stevens’s song from 1966 makes canine devotion sound simple. All you need is a home and a dog. Desi required food, affection, heartworm treatment, round-the-clock companionship, and a home without chewable emergency exits.
But the song was right about the important part. On my worst days, Desi didn’t need me to be brave or optimistic. He only wanted me nearby.
When I came home, Desi rolled onto his back, and I rubbed his belly. For that moment, all was right with the world.
The song promised that a dog would come through. What I hadn’t expected was how many pople would come through, too.
Joan Axelrod-Contrada is a writer who lives in Florence with her two dogs. Sign up for her free quarterly newsletter—complete with links to bonus content such as music videos and fun facts — by emailing her at joanaxelrodcontrada@gmail.com.