Of course we had lots of dogs—it was mandatory, out in the middle of nowhere—and I loved them all. But I don’t remember any of them being particularly devoted to me. I couldn’t even get them to fetch the sheriff when I was being kidnapped, or lead me to safety in a blinding blizzard, or warn me when the Indians were coming.

When I grew up and went off to college to study government (that’s right, government. ?!?!), I did not have a dog, I had a cat. And when I toddled off to Washington to work for the federal government, I had no time for a dog. I worked long hours because all the cute guys did, and I was really into the guy scene and dating as many of them as was humanly possible, a dog would seriously have cramped my style.

But then I grew up and settled down, and I wanted a steadfast companion and a good, obedient dog to fetch the morning paper from the yard. I got two fat Labradors named Hugo and Maude and discovered that paper-fetching was really outside their pea-brained mental capacity.

But that was okay, because they were such cute puppies, doing puppy things while I did people things. They barked at the sound of dogs barking on TV, but not the strange-looking dude at the front door. They would jump up and run frantically around the house if someone uttered cat. They were the most popular dogs at the dog park with a long line of canines wanting to sniff their butts. They ate chunks of concrete, shoes, a rubber hose, and the piece de resistance, a chicken bone, which sent Hugo to the doggie hospital because for some strange reason, he could digest concrete and cords of wood without problem, but a tiny chicken bone made him gravely ill.

In the meantime, I ended a long time relationship, went out with friends, traveled a good deal, and worked in government spending millions of tax dollars like I was on a big-time shopping spree.

But then I began to figure out that shopping for jails and courts was not really as much fun as shopping for shoes, and on top of that, there were those pesky constituents who acted as if they had a say in what I was doing. Public administration was not something I could see myself doing for the rest of my life—so I started writing.

Hugo and Maude started chewing on their legs. Allergies, the vet said. Expensive, I thought.

I was lucky enough to have my first book published, The Devil’s Love, in 1998. The dogs ate a hole in a cashmere sweater and two bedspreads as I put out five books in two years time. I met and married my husband. The dogs acted like he was their new god, come to lead them to the kingdom of dog treats. When the puppies turned into fatties, I had to put a halt to that. So they took naps and would raise their head on occasion to look at a squirrel or a cat prancing by.

I decided I wanted to try my hand at contemporary romantic comedy and sold Material Girl. Hugo and Maude decided that after several years, they wanted to bust out of the back yard fence and roam when I wasn’t there. They were frequent visitors to the neighbors koi ponds.

In 2002, I’d finally sold enough books to quit the day job. I left government work to the true public servants (as opposed to posers like me who spent most meetings working out a plot in my head). The dogs were ecstatic when I quit and happily became full-time indoor dogs.

My husband warned me that was a mistake. I rolled my eyes. What did he know about dogs?

We began a new routine: a breakfast of dog chow and Moist and Meaty at 6, then a walk—only I had to take two walks, as they had begun to age and didn’t want to go for long hikes. After the two walks, which was eating up a good chunk of the morning, we trotted to the office to write more books so that I might afford the medicines Hugo and Maude were beginning to need for ailments involving arthritis, liver, thyroid, more skin allergies, ugly but apparently very safe fatty tumors, and oh let us not forget the surgery to remove the tumor in the ear for which we had no insurance.

I gradually noticed that our routines had become one. Moist and Meaty was beginning to look pretty good to me. We scratched at the same time, had to go out in the yard at the same time. When I stood, they stood. When I sat, they sat. They learned to lie at my feet while I wrote, learned to spring to gleeful attention with me when the UPS man would come bearing packages that included the results of my best procrastination technique: on-line shopping.

My books began to appear bestseller lists like Barnes and Noble, Walden’s, Wal-Mart, and USA Today and, more recently, on the New York Times paperback fiction bestseller list. Hugo and Maude began to appear frantic when I wasn’t home to lead them through their very routine day. More opportunity for travel began to crop up.

More people declined to dog sit. “They’re just not very good when you’re not here,” they’d say. I began to shell out major scratch to board the darlings while I was away. They began to follow me at home, lying outside the bathroom or garage door until I emerged, at which point they would leap up and slam into me, tails beating holes in the wall and breaking anything that wasn’t concrete, excited and relieved that I had indeed returned.

I recognized that something was off. The balance of power had shifted, and it was all mine. The two fatties were entirely dependent on me for the physical and emotional well-being. “I told you so,” my husband said. “You better just be quiet and eat your chew stick, mister,” I retorted.

It has reached the point that now, in their geriatric years, the pups are disgruntled if I deviate from the routine. If I go out to lunch, they cast hurtful looks in my direction. If I begin working before our morning walk, I must endure a steady stream of head-butting until I get back on schedule. If I take a dip in the pool, they stand at the edge and bark, for that was never on the schedule as far as they are concerned. They have developed geriatric habits—frequent trips to the yard on a schedule I could set my watch by, feedings at the ungodly hour of dawn, and a maniacal eagerness to go outside in rain, sleet, hail, or blistering sun.

But when it comes to writing, they remain dutifully quiet while I work, as if they recognize that Moist and Meaty does not grow on trees. We’ve become a well-oiled machine. Me, followed by my ever vigilant escorts, Hugo and Maude, and then my husband, who is somewhere in the house, telling me that he think the dogs want out again. Of course they do. It’s time for yard break number twelve.

One day, it hit me—I am the alpha dog. I have worked hard to achieve that goal, have established our routine and determined when and where we might deviate from it. I have been vigilant in making sure that all of us are fed and watered, I take the best bed, and I alone dole out the tennis balls.

I am alpha.

I set the schedule. And I will keep writing for you and a couple of old stinky yellow dogs, because that is our routine and that’s the way we like it.

top