Morning Pages and Poodles.

Shadow, bodyguard, confidant, comforter, comedian, guide, distraction, diversion, entertainer, pain-reliever, mentor, messenger, therapist, beggar, giver, taste-tester, superfan, friend, child, security system, cookie-grabber, leader, henchman, house-warmer, bed-hogger, rule-follower, rule-breaker, moment-maker, time-taker, and infinite wellspring of affection. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to love a dog.

My two poodles, with each their distinct personality, keep our family going in ways they likely do not know. Or maybe they do. I’ve always believed our girls are smart enough to solve crises and calculations if we could only communicate. Sure, we have tapped all the typical and basic needs for survival and mutual reliance. But how does one explain the uncanny accuracy of a snout in your face at the exact dinner time or the ability to know your anxiety level from another room that sends them running? More predictable than my alarm clock and loyal to a fault, our canines are a simple and wondrous constant in a world that produces long bouts of neither one.

I often introduce our four-year-old apricot, “Taffy,” with human-like qualities. It’s easy for me to see her as a chain-smoking barmaid in Southie who runs a bookie operation in the back that attracts mongrels from the alleys and lap up Irish whiskey-flavored biscuits. Taffy leads with tenacity and watches over us to ensure she is fed with exactitude and scraps. No need to remember when she was let out last; she will remind you with manipulative kisses and a persuasive paw to your gut. A fur-lined hooligan with a liver-colored nose for everybody’s business, she is always reliable in doing hers. “Taffy for President,” I’ve prattled more than once about her doggie diplomacy that is more forthright than most of our politicians. The way she advocates for her elder cohort and barks loudly at wrongdoing, Taffy is a female boss and an excellent judge of character who loves every race and religion.?

The perfect foil to our dog family is “Licorice.”?She stands tall and black with fifty pounds of coarse, puppy-cut hypo-allergenic ringlets. Bigger than her “sister” but not as strong, Licorice is sweeter than even her name implies. While we adopted both poodles from different homes, “Licky,” as she is and does, was trained early on as a therapy dog. Docile and appeasing, she is my healer and has got me through many long nights. Her presence can be felt from feet away, and you could prescribe the potency of her snuggles. Sure, if you give her a leaf, she’ll take a whole yard – to sniff. Her gait has slowed from nearly twelve years of frolic, and she always gets the last word – when she and Taffy are out marking territories. I raised Licorice like a baby and still remember our daughter’s girl scout daisy troop fawning over the tiny fuzzball when Isabel and Licorice were seven years and months respectively. She was carried and coddled and spoiled but not ruined (the dog, not the child). I taught her to navigate stairs in no time, although potty training seemed to take forever (the dog and the child). Licorice has lived in three homes and with two dogs, and I often wonder about the extent of her memory.?

The two together create an alchemy that can spark joy in any ambiance. A tail wag is all the gratification I need to get by when humans let me down. They were named by our child, and rightly so, as sweets that raise our dopamine. Every day is good with a dog. If I am ever granted three wishes, my first would be that Licorice and Taffy could talk.?