Growing up, I always had a dog. My parents had a St. Bernard when I was born, and then I received Samson, my sweet Old English Sheepdog, as an Easter present when I was four. Sammy died of cancer when I was sixteen, and since then, my parents have only had cats.

When we moved into our house, we noticed that the people in the purple house across the street have a big, fluffy...Old English Sheepdog. Although he's more grey than Sammy was, seeing him reminds me of what a great pet, friend and companion he was.

Then, we got tenants.

Our tenants are a very nice young couple, who happen to have two puppies. I was really none too thrilled about having puppies living right next door for a variety of reasons (barking, peeing, the whole nine yards) but after some discussion with Dave and with the owners, we have a pretty high comfort level that it's all going to work out very well. I haven't heard a peep out of the dogs since they moved in over the weekend, and frankly, they're so freaking cute that I don't think I could be mad at them anyway. It's funny; I'm more in love with the Shiba (he's the black and tan variety) because he looks like a little tiny German Shepherd (my paternal grandmother had a German Shepherd, Greta, who was the gentlest dog I've ever known), while Dave loves the Jack Russell, mostly, I think, because he grew up with a wirehaired fox terrier.