The Pack

When I was born, my parents had two dogs: a standard poodle named Simon and a flat coat retriever mix named Crissy. Simon was delighted by my sudden, unexpected arrival and immediately claimed me as his baby. Crissy, who was completely and utterly devoted to my mother, took it upon herself to be my protector. No one was allowed to pick me up without Crissy’s say-so.

Simon was my near constant companion. I would lie on the floor between his legs as a tiny baby. I’d use him as a pillow when I got older. He’d hover around the high chair and steal my dirty diapers whenever he got the chance.

When I first learned to ski, my dad pulled me up a snow covered road in a sled and then put me on tiny skies and pushed me down the hill. I held onto Simon’s collar the whole way down.

Simon would let me get away with anything. I could dress him up, put hats on him, sit on him, lie on him, talk to him, play with him and he never lost his patience.

The same could not be said for Crissy. She was an old dog by the time I was born and the closer she came to death – the more in pain she was – the more she lost patience with me. I don’t remember her ever hurting me, but my mother says that Crissy did nip me on occasion to remind me of my place in the pack.

Our family has very much a pack dynamic. My mother is without a doubt the alpha, my father the beta. My brother is transitioning from puppy to an adult member of the pack. Our four dogs each hold a rung on the ladder, with Lucy at the top and Jack on the bottom. And I have alpha in me, but while I live in my parent’s house, I must suppress my dominant impulses and remain my mother’s lieutenant.  Because, while I may have been raised by dogs, it would not do at all to scramble for dominance with my mother.