I wish that I could state that throughout my entire life I've felt a continuing, dominating passion for dogs. After all, that would make sense of the deep, boundless love I now have for my first dog, Auggie, who joined me just about 2 years ago, on the cusp of my fortieth birthday. But I've grown late into total dog devotion.

© Kathleen Vaughan, 1998

Memory suggests that as a child I was more moderate in my dog longings. Yes, I was fond of them. Yes, I went door-to-door in our Montreal community begging the neighbours to let me walk their family pets. Yes, I wanted one or more canine companions of my own. But I wanted them when I grew up, rather than NOW. In fact, it seems that when I was asked about age 12 what I hoped for my future, I wished for life on a farm with lots of dogs and cats. (My young friends had more practical ambitions: I remember Lesley stating her desire to marry a man with lots of money.)

My family never had a dog. Oh, we had successive minor flirtations with two schnauzer puppies, chosen - to their misfortune - to re-enact the mythically marvelous Rimbo, dog of my father's young manhood. Neither of our pups lived up to its much-vaunted predecessor. Both were very soon given away to other families. To my recollection, I never saw either again.

Given my absolute devotion to Auggie, I'm surprised that I wasn't more attached to those two schnauzers, that I didn't agitate to keep them. And I find it puzzling that I didn't mount a campaign to get a dog at any other time during my youth. It wasn't until I was in my mid-twenties that my dog desires deepened.

Then, I was working more than full-time in a highly demanding management job in telecommunications, on the fast track for bigger and better responsibilities and achievements. And yet, I had fantasies of quitting that job, getting a dog, getting a car, and setting out to see North America. (To think that I didn't even then know about John Steinbeck's book about his own with-dog peregrinations, Travels With Charley!) I now believe that mostly I wanted a life immersed in healthy pursuit of my own creative ambitions, a life with devoted and daring sidekicks, a life open to adventure. At the time, the life I lived didn't measure up.

And so I longed for a dog the way that a speed-loving sixteen-year-old yearns for a first car. Voraciously. Without reserve. With research. I checked out all the various dog 'models', imagining myself the proud owner of first one kind and then another. Having developed into an allergic kind of person, I knew I must choose a non-shedding variety. And so I mused. Would my furry friend be an insouciant, charming blonde, a wheaten? Perhaps I'd opt for a schnauzer and finally break the second-generation curse. I flirted with the idea of a Portuguese water dog, my neighbourhood's latest preferred non-shedder. Or I might decide for the noble intelligence of a poodle - and since I wanted a large dog, a standard (or in French, "caniche royal", a royal duck dog). The specifics seemed almost secondary: I knew that getting 'my' dog was only a matter of timing. Of time.

Time passed. I did in fact quit my job. And I did develop my own creative work, my visual arts practice, specifically. For that, I took up some specialized training, earning a diploma at the Ontario College of Art and then commuting to Montreal to do my Master of Fine Arts. Neither was a pooch-friendly pursuit. So my dog dreams remained unfulfilled, again pushed forward into a future when circumstances would allow.

Finally, about two years ago, D-day (yes, Dog-day!) approached. But just a sec: would I get my dog or would I get into the Banff Centre for Fine Arts' writing program on creative non-fiction? I knew I couldn't have a puppy and work in residence in Alberta for some weeks. I tossed the dice, applied to the program to let fate decide. But Banff's selection of participants was delayed. And then delayed again. I got to the point that I didn't want to delay any longer. I wanted to make the choice. I resolved to find 'my' dog.

About six months earlier I'd finally settled on getting a standard poodle. I'd gotten over my reservations about the breed: yes, the hyper-groomed stereotype had put me off. In fact, research confirmed that the breed is everything I desire: energetic outdoors, quiet indoors; not a barker, not a shedder, not a quitter; good with individuals of all ages and species. (And of course I could have my dog clipped however I wished.) A friend of my mother's had found a standard poodle her family adored through a breeder nearby. I called to discover that she had a litter of puppies ready to go in two weeks, with just one not spoken for. Obviously 'my' dog.

Now, I live in midtown Toronto with that dog, a beloved, high maintenance boy, Tudorose Augustus Vaughan Dog, "Auggie". He was two on May 12, 2000.

(And by the way, I never did get into the Banff program.)

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