On Dogs

Every family has its own calendar of commemorative dates, recalled for events both good and bad. Exciting and dispiriting. Happy and sad. For my family, we have quite a few marks and annotations on the yearly calendar: anniversaries, holidays, birthdays. You name it, it’s on there. 

 

Perhaps the one closest to my heart is May 5. Not for the reason you may think . . . I don’t have any cultural or personal connection to Cinco de Mayo, as much as I might like to. No, May 5 was the day that my brother was born. I was five years old at the time, and I couldn’t wait to have something else—something new!—in my life. Up until that point, it had just been my parents and me. And, well, that was fine. It was nice! After all, I was five. What did I really need anyway?

 

But on May 5, 2003 a promise was being fulfilled. I had held up my end of the bargain, so I sternly looked at my parents and they responded in kind. They gave me a baby brother, their end of the bargain. Since he came close enough after my birthday, I like to claim him as my fifth birthday gift, too. The birthday gift that would immeasurably change my life for years to come.

 

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I’ve heard many a story of a young boy being upset by the arrival of a new baby into the family. He is distraught. How could Mom and Dad bring this—this thing!—into the house? It will almost assuredly divert their attention away from me, he postulates. It’s perfectly cinematic. But my experience was quite different. This arrival was something I’d been looking forward to ever since I became aware of it being a possibility.

 

I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania—apart from all of family members who were primarily based in Rochester, New York. My parents were brought to the city because of the University’s Medical Center. My Dad was an orthopedic surgeon, and my Mom was a nurse practitioner. Yes, they both met at the hospital. A cute story, but for another time.

 

My memory is foggy and fairly incomplete when it comes to this time in my life. But, what I do remember includes the conversations had around moving. Although, I should note that at the time I suppose I viewed them more as deliberations. Carefully and intently setting the terms of an agreement, if you will.

 

“Nickus,” my parents said, warmly. “We’re thinking about moving back up to Rochester. What do you think?” 

 

An interesting proposition—and one for which they were soliciting my feedback!

 

I quietly contemplated. It appeared as if nothing was wrong, per se. I suppose they felt as if it would be a welcome opportunity to move closer to family and switch hospitals. And, to be fair, it seemed like a good deal for me. I could see my cousins more often, and it wasn’t as if I would be leaving behind dear friends. After all, I was five. But, as any five-year-old is wont to do, I figured I could negotiate. Never let a serious crisis go to waste, as they say.

 

I neatly folded my hands together, resting them on the kitchen countertop in front of them. I meant business, and needed them to know just that. 

 

“I will move . . . if, and only if, when we arrive, we can get a dog.” I delivered it crisply, without a hint of trepidation in my voice. Nailed it.

 

My parents looked at each other and smiled. Perhaps they, too, were excited by the idea. Or, maybe they were just intrigued by the brazen child they’d raised, sitting in front of them like that. Whatever the case may have been, their smiles quickly turned into head nods.

 

“Verbal agreement!” I pleaded.

 

“Yes, you have a deal.”

 

“Alright, let’s go then” I said. “What are we waiting for?”

 

 

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