The honeymoon was definitely over. Although Larry and I had been married less than a year, we were headed for disaster. My expectations of marriage were high—probably too high. My parents’ relationship had been happy, loving, full of laughter and mutual respect. Larry didn’t come to the marriage with the same kind of dreams, and he felt pressured by my needs. Our home was not a happy one, with tensions, resentment and hurt feelings seething just below the surface. We just couldn’t communicate.


During this rocky time, I had the idea to get a dog. Larry and I talked about it, and he said a dog would be fine, as long as it wasn’t a “yappy little thing.” He had grown up with German shepherds and liked them. I called the local pound and asked if they had a German shepherd who needed a home. It just so happened that they had a white German shepherd mix, so I went right over to see the dog.

At the pound, I made my way to the white dog’s cage. She was part shepherd all right, but the other part must have been Mexican jumping bean. She moved like she had springs on the bottoms of her four paws, continuously jumping five feet in the air and barking enthusiastically—just the way a kid waves his arms and yells, “Pick me! Pick me! Me! Me! Me!” when captains are choosing their teams. I took her out of the run and she tore around the room, stopping only to jump up on me and try to lick my face as she streaked by. I was impressed by her vibrant personality.

I brought Larry to see her a few hours later, and he liked her well enough for us to walk out with her. She strained on her leash, obviously eager to leave the pound behind.

We named her Lucy, and she and I became best friends. I loved getting up in the early morning and walking her when the streets were quiet. A long walk in the park every afternoon became another wonderful part of our daily routine. She liked to be wherever I was, watching me or snoozing in the sun as I went about my housework and gardening. I took her in the car when I went into town to do errands, and she sat in the backseat, her nose stuck out of the window to sniff the wind. I found her company entertaining and comforting. Larry seemed to like her, too.

As the weeks went by, I felt happier and more settled. I have to admit that I talked to Lucy when we were alone together during the day. I even made up silly songs and sang them to her when we were out driving. She seemed to like the sound of my voice, and she wagged her tail and always looked right at me when I told her things. I relished my position at the center of her universe.

One evening, I was showing Larry a silly game that Lucy and I played—I would stand in front of Lucy and poke her with my right hand a few times, then when she was expecting a poke from the right, I’d poke her from the left. Then a poke from the top, and then from the bottom. She seemed to love trying to figure out where my hand would come from next. We were playing this game when Larry came up behind me and started playing, too. I leaned back into the warm bulk of Larry’s chest, and his arms closed around me. We stood like that for a moment, before I turned around and held him tight. We hadn’t done that for a long time.

Things began to fall into place after that. All that canine companionship had enabled me to stop demanding love and attention from Larry—and as I felt happier, I was able to be more loving and certainly more fun to be around. Our wounds began to heal, and our marriage blossomed.

We’ve been married for over ten years now. When people ask me the secret of our happy partnership, I always tell them, “It’s simple. If you want dog-like devotion . . . get a dog!”

Good story.