Lady Claire

She was the last of the litter, a delicately boned, fawn colored boxer puppy with floppy ears, enormous dark eyes and a massive red, ribboned bow around her neck. When Uncle Stan reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat and pulled her out, my mother went limp. Before anyone could protest, he settled her in my mother's lap and stepped back with a huge grin.

“Last of the litter,” he said proudly, “Six weeks today. Merry Christmas, Jan.”

“She's going to be small, we think,” Aunt Claire added, “Small but beautiful. We thought Fritz could use a friend.”

It was a rare thing to see my mother speechless, even more rare to see her eyes light up but at the first sight of the new pup, that was exactly what happened. I watched in amazement as she cradled the tiny animal in her arms and nuzzled it against her cheek, accepting puppy kisses as if it were the most natural thing in the world and returning them with a gentleness and an affection I had no idea she even possessed.

“She's been wormed and has had her first shots,” Aunt Claire was saying, “All she needs is a family to love her.”

It wasn't that simple, of course. There would be new vet bills to pay, another mouth to feed, a long process of housebreaking and socialization to be endured. It would take a combination of patience, persistance and kindness - qualities I'd never seen in my mother - but she took it all on without the first hesitation. From the beginning, the little boxer pup was unquestionably her

dog. It was a bond that would last for years.

“What about a name?” my daddy asked and my mother smiled.

“Her name is Lady,” my mother said instantly and firmly, “Lady Claire.”

This made my Aunt Claire smile.

“Well, now,” my daddy said gruffly, “If they're going to be living together, maybe Lady ought to meet Fritz.”

The grown dachshund and the new pup took to one another - as my grandmother said - like succotash, becoming inseparable from first sniff. They ate together, slept together and played together for the next 12 years. You almost never saw one without the other and on the truly terrible night Fritz died, Lady went into mourning and never really recovered. Not even my mother was able to comfort her and within a year of losing Fritz, she carried her beloved boxer, now thin from refusing to eat, depressed, and barely able to stand, to the vet and came home alone.

My mother buried my grand father without a trace of sadness or regret.

She was dry eyed and distant at my grandmother's death.

But she cried for Fritz and grieved for Lady for weeks. As high a price as it was to pay, the part of me that hated her celebrated her pain and was glad to see her suffer. The part that loved animals understood and mourned.