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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Mom spam
The cyber-scourge of families everywhere.
By Phaedra Hise
[12/20/99]

Foreskin and several years from now
My husband has dedicated himself to the proposition that he can form a more perfect penis.
By Kim Lane
[12/17/99]

O Tin-nenbaum
This year, we welded our holiday totem; maybe next year we'll get it chromed.
By Gayle Brandeis
[12/16/99]

Die Santa! Die!
As I see it, lying about Santa is like covering for a friend who's having an affair with a jerk.
By Elizabeth Bobrick
[12/16/99]

A swine in Harvard Yard
David Mamet's children's book puts Ivy League angst in the heads of babes.
By Alexandra Jacobs
[12/15/99]

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"Oh God," groaned my husband, Chris. "What do we do with it this year?"

The addressee was not the Jane Russell, but a comely tan-and-white Jack Russell terrier we had rescued two years earlier from a pathologically negligent owner I'll call Lulu. Born of championship stock, Jane had been won by Lulu as a raffle prize at a Virginia steeplechase.

While Lulu enjoyed the hunt-country cachet that Jane bestowed on her, she was less enthusiastic about the quotidian duties of dog ownership. She left Jane for days, even weeks, at a time with a bin of dry dog food and newspapers on the floor.

For 10 years, Jane begged care off a kind-hearted neighbor -- a close friend of our family's -- who finally succeeded in persuading Lulu to let us adopt Jane. Now Lulu was sending presents, acting the part of doting mom instead of Mommy Dearest.

Chris and I had accepted the offer of Jane immediately. She seemed like the perfect "starter dog" for our young sons, Tommy and Nicholas. Our only reservation was that Jane was already an old lady. We knew she would soon be beset by flatulence, incontinence and tooth decay. But who were we to deny a sweet old dog a few happy twilight years? Within the week, she was ours.

Docile yet determined, Jane immediately set about arranging her new life. Six hours of inconsolable crying the first night was all it took to get her bed moved from the back porch to the master bedroom. The next night, a long, soulful look gained her a cozy spot under the covers with Tommy. Ever fearful of abandonment, she kept me in her sight at all times, even when I went to the bathroom (as if I might climb out the window and never return).

Jane won the affection of everyone she met. Even our friend Peter, a reserved and dog-averse college professor who did his best to resist her imperious demands, eventually succumbed to her charms.

Jane worked particular magic with 7-year-old Tommy. For him, hugs and kisses had always been torture, but his nightly snuggles with Jane brought out his softer side. He invented a dog-voice for Jane, and through him she weighed in on a variety of subjects, including her favorite places to pee and which team she picked to win the Super Bowl. On the rare occasions when we traveled without her, we had daily communications with her via Tommy's "Jane-o-phone."

Nicholas, at age 4, greeted Jane with the ambivalence of an older sibling welcoming a new baby into the family. He was loath to yield his position as the smallest and cutest member of the family. But unlike a helpless newborn, Jane was quick to let him know that a stranglehold was not an acceptable gesture of affection. It wasn't long before she became a dowager aunt to him rather than a baby sister.

Last spring, less than two years after her arrival, we began to see signs that Jane was slowing down. She no longer chased squirrels or jumped into the car as if propelled by springs. By August, she could no longer even manage the two steps into our house. She tested positive for a bizarre array of diseases, including Rocky Mountain spotted tick fever, but failed to respond to any medication.

One afternoon I found her lying quietly under the bushes by the garage, as if she were preparing to meet her maker. I knew it was time for desperate measures, and off we sped to the Tufts Veterinary Hospital, over an hour away. I was crying so hard I could barely make out the road, or the map I had propped against Jane's rump.

Next page | I couldn't believe I'd never again stroke her velvety brown ears