 Bebe,
My First Boxer
It was on mother's day, 1986, that I fell in love
with my first boxer. Mom had succumbed to lung cancer the summer before,
and, well, I suppose I headed down to the pet store for all the wrong
reasons that day - purely emotional ones. Mom had been quite the dog-lover,
an enduring affection that she passed on to Ed (my younger brother) and
me. Alan (my former husband) and I had just moved into the house, and
it had a huge backyard (almost a third of an acre), the kind that just
calls out for a dog. And after having lived in townhouses and apartments
for most of my early adulthood, it was a real treat to finally have the
space for a good-sized four-legged critter.
So Alan and I piled into the CJ-7 (our first "urban assault vehicle")
and headed to a pet store in Wheaton plaza, I believe. Five hundred dollars
later we emerged with Bebe: the world's most adorable brindle boxer, a
crate, and some puppy food.
 Life
with Bebe was quite the adventure. We took her just about everywhere,
even planning vacations around places that allowed dogs. That year we
planned to spend Christmas with my grandparents on Cape Cod, and I wanted
to bring Bebe with us. But when my grandmother was diagnosed with lung
cancer in the early weeks of December, we knew Bebe would have to stay
at home. Thus, with a heavy heart, we put her in a kennel for the holidays.
Upon our return it was clear that the kennel experience had not been
a good one. She was exceedingly nervous and had lost a lot of weight.
A few days later, still off-kilter from her days in the kennel, I let
her out front to pee. And in an uncharacteristic fit of independence,
she ran off. A thorough search of the neighborhood proved fruitless; she
was nowhere to be found.
That night, sleeping fitfully, I had a dream-vision of her soul rising
to heaven, something I wasn't ready to accept. I clung dearly to the hope
of finding her alive and well. It's hard to describe the sense of helplessness
and guilt... I knew I had let her down. And underneath the hope, I knew
she wasn't coming home.
The next morning our neighbors discovered her lying dead on the shoulder
of the main road outside our housing development. She had been hit by
a passing car - no doubt the driver never saw her dark outline against
the winter night sky. Alan and Ed buried her broken body in the woods
out back. And Alan returned with an awful case of poison ivy, a final
bitter reminder. Having learned a hard lesson, the following spring we
had the backyard fenced in.
Shortly after losing Bebe we began our search for another dog.
Jasmine, Our White Boxer Baby
After we lost Bebe we began perusing the Washington
Post pet classifieds for Boxer litters. Bebe's absence left a  canyon-sized
void in our home, and we were anxious to fill it. Having become aware
of the pitfalls and ethical quandaries of purchasing puppies through a
pet store, we decided that this time we would find a reputable breeder.
Thus the following days were spent visiting whelping pens in suburban
abodes across the Washington metropolitan area.
Breeders are particular people. We quickly discovered that most hold
high standards for the appearance and behavior of not only their respective
broods but of prospective buyers as well. After the ease with which we
bought Bebe (hand your credit card to the cashier and take your pooch,
no questions asked), going to a breeder was eye-opening. Buying from a
breeder was more like entering into an adoption process rather than a
business transaction. A good breeder will interview you to ensure you're
truly able to care for the dog.
To be continued... (rest of Jasmine's story, then Max & Tatiana's)
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