“I want a puppy!” They scream as they walk over the big, old black Lab unconscious on the carpet.

“We have a dog,” I reply, placing a mirror under her nose to confirm she’s still breathing.

“Noooo, a puppy. Something that moves,” the kids explain.

“Oh, come on, Cricket still moves….Go get Mommy the defibrillator.”

And so it goes. Our family conversation about getting another dog.

This 14 year-old Labrador has been by my side for most of my adult life. “Cricket,” looks little like her cute little insect namesake these days; rather she resembles a pigmy wooly mammoth. Born before the Ice Age. With a goiter. And she smells like a nursing home. A nursing home that treats goiters. But in a cute way.

And while I don’t consider her like one of my children—I have an adequate offspring repertoire without that furry branch to the family tree--she does have a face only a mother could love. So when talk turns to puppy love, I remind the children that in some strange way, she is a member of this family. And just because she has the smallest, mismatched stocking for Christmas and she’s not allowed to go with us to Disney World, she is neither a step child nor Cousin Oliver coming for a visit.

You really can’t compare her to a spouse, either—she doesn’t have opposable thumbs to torture me with the remote control nor does she leave her socks in the middle of the floor. And she’s slightly more communicative. But I do feel like I’m committed to her until death do us part. (Which, by the looks of her, could be sooner than later.) We’ve been together in sickness and in health. Who could forget the emergency vet visits after ingesting 1000 tablets of Advil? Our “better” were days swimming in the pool, our “worse” was when she chewed up the padding from underneath the brand new carpet. But after a night in the doghouse, I forgave her and we stuck together. So when talk turns to trading her in for a newer model, I can’t help but think maybe we just need counseling or something. I can’t even look into her good eye without feeling like I’m committing some sort of act of canine adultery.

I know the kids must look at her like some crotchety old aunt that they have put up with and occasionally rub her feet when her bursitis acts up. They tire of the glory stories I tell—every dog has her day—and can’t believe that the thing snoring in the corner that hasn’t moved in 4 days once chased a Frisbee. They see their friends’ dogs on leashes going for this thing called a “walk” instead of a pulley system and a really short drag leaking embalming fluid. A few weeks ago, a neighbor put up signs for their lost dog, and my children were confused that the canine species was capable of eluding anything swifter than a three-legged turtle or an IRS refund check.

After fourteen years, I’m still not sure where exactly she fits into our family, but I do know that she’s earned the right to be the only one for a little while longer. Even in her prime she was far from a top show dog, but for now, we’re not in the market for a trophy pup either.

©2006 Tracey Henry