It is an almost universal truth, at least in my family, that all pets upon dying acquire an almost saintlike reputation. Forgiven are the times they peed in the house, destroyed the furniture, or obliterated the houseplants more effectively than napalm. Death bestows a luster to the personality that was, sometimes sorely, lacking in life. It happens for humans too. I think that’s why alcohol flows freely at wakes, we need something to smooth the dear departed’s transition from faulty s.o.b to quaint and colorful character.
Anyway, when M and I first met she had a seven pound maltese-poodle mix named Tiamo.

I know, it sounds so sweet it makes my fillings ache. But love me, love my dog was clearly the rule for the day. Luckily, it wasn’t hard because Tiamo was the perfect dog. Perfect for me anyway. Tiamo thought she was a cat. Or, rather, she acted as if she were a cat. She abhorred going on walks. She loved napping in my lap while I read or watched television. And with a few rare exceptions, she hated or feared other dogs. To the point that on our one and only excursion to an Austin dog-park, she actually climbed M like she was a tree to escape the attentions of a pair of rowdy (and totally adorable) schnauzer puppies. Life with Tiamo was easy. It was so easy, that if I believed in that sort of thing, I would think the gods were setting me up for the current canine chaos that reigns, hell it practically pours, at my house.