Bachernalia
Pets were just an optional burden for me as a widow and the mother of two strong-willed daughters. My husband had tragically died when the girls were very young, and I had the staggering role of being both mother and father for many years. Other considerations against pets were the allergies my younger daughter and I both suffered due to cat dander and, to some degree, dog dander as well.
When my older daughter, April, grew up and got her own apartment in North Carolina, the first thing she brought to her home was a dog. Within a couple of years she had acquired two miniature schnauzer-mix puppies. April and her pups came to visit me in Florida, and I was hooked. Massive puppy withdrawal set in after April went back to North Carolina, and I craved a schnauzer!
Searching the newspaper in Orlando, I located a breeder in Lakeland. For my September birthday, my younger daughter, Dixie, and I drove down to procure not one but two male puppies from the same litter. Dixie helped name them. They became Bach and Mozart. We surmised that since schnauzers were a German breed, it was only logical to give them German-sounding names.
The first professional haircut the two received made an astonishing overhaul in their appearance. Before the transformation, Bach and Mozart had been little silver-and-white puff balls. Afterward they really looked like schnauzers. Boy, were they cute! On their first New Year’s Eve, Dixie and I each had a little gray dancing partner as we ate snacks and welcomed the New Year.
I never realized how much paraphernalia is required to own dogs, since these were my first pets as an adult. There was the special puppy chow, the dog dishes for food and water, the dog crates, the endless rugs that had to be washed from wet puppy paws at the back door, the shots and trips to the vet, the collars, the leads, and the bath soap. Last but not least, a fence was eventually needed to keep them home.
Bach and Mozart were hardwired to roam every chance they got. Unfortunately, after about a dozen adventures, Mozart didn’t return one day. Poor Bach’s heart was so broken he had to be hand-fed for two weeks. We never did find Mozart.
After about two years, I moved from Florida to South Carolina. I took my Bach to a fenced yard that was three times bigger than the one he had in Florida. He loved it, but after a few months I could tell he was lonely while I was away. So the next Bach paraphernalia—or rather, Bachernalia—became a friend to play with: Sparks.
This time I wasn’t taking the expensive route. Sparks was a rescued dog and cost very little to purchase. He turned out to be quite grateful and loyal for being rescued. He also wasted no time in letting Bach know he was no interloper but the number-one dog in the backyard. Sparks was basset hound from his neck to his tail, and had a terrier’s head and stubbornness. Bach did not object at all to being second on the doggy totem pole. Thank goodness for an easy-to-please schnauzer.
After another year of being a two-dog family and an empty nest as far as children were concerned, my dogs became my children. The next step was teaching them manners. All went well until Christmas, when I had the brilliant idea to have a Santa picture of the three of us made at the local dog shelter.
Just out of curiosity, after our photo shoot I asked to see the dogs that were available for adoption. I had no intention of adding to the Bachernalia collection. Oh, but there was a two-year-old, short-haired, chocolate-brown, bat-eared little whippet I just had to play with. He jumped up in my lap, licked my earlobe, and my resolve melted into mush. Batman was ours!
I rationalized Batman as a special Christmas present just for Bach and Sparks. Batman, though small, tried to win alpha dog status against Sparks, but he didn’t take the throne away. He did, however, succeed in being the most afflicted dog I ever owned. The little critter was in the vet’s office twice as much as Bach and Sparks combined within six months of his arrival.
Despite all the trouble, what’s a mother to do when she just loves having little four-legged critters meet her with cheerful faces and wagging tails? Each time I come home I think, This welcoming committee certainly tops a silent, dark house with no life. These three amigos are now my “kids.” I love them because they show me affectionate, unconditional love.
Even though all the Bachernalia has certainly put a hole in my pocketbook over these seven years, there’s a moral to this story. You just can’t have too much love or too many smiles to go around when you have dogs in your home. They make life interesting. You’re always their best friend, every day.
Which often leads me to wonder: do I own them or do they own me?