When a new dog arrived, cocker spaniel Heidi seemed to lose more than her familiar status.
He arrived at our house with only one agenda in mind.
He would stake out his claim of dominance. And he knew how to do it. It started with raising one little brown leg on every floor-length drapery in both the living room and the dining room. That done, he took on the rest of his agenda.
Now let me explain first, he was a very small (in physical size) miniature dachshund named Baron, who initially came to visit us for two weeks. (His family first asked if they could give him to us, and I explained that we had another dog but would take him while they went on vacation. I should tell you right now and get it over with – and with some reluctance and admission of weakness – that he never left our household.)
Back to his agenda. The whole second part of that agenda can be defined in one brief sentence.
He was charming.
He was the Errol Flynn, Cary Grant, George Clooney of his breed. There was never one doubt in his mind of how disarming he was and that it must be understood by all that he was master of his new kingdom. And all capitulated. The children loved to play with him, and, I admit, so did my husband and I. So the agenda was fulfilled: He staked out his territory with the draperies, and he mesmerized the family with his charm. Done.
But there was another factor in this picture. We already had Heidi, a black-and-white cocker spaniel who had lived with us and been cherished by us for many years. And I mean truly cherished.
Now Heidi was a different dog all together. She was quiet, peaceful, and warmly affectionate. She knew her place in our family. And probably without even thinking about it, she knew that place was unequivocally hers.