My friend Satchmo

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My family never had a pet. I remember asking for a puppy when I was 10 or 11 years old, but my parents quickly shot down that request. We were always too busy to give a dog the attention it deserved.

So instead, I embraced my role as “fun aunt Julie” to other people’s animals. I would play fetch with dogs whenever I visited their owners, maybe give them a special treat. But as soon as a dog started getting on my nerves, I would hand the leash back to its owner and make an escape.

This summer, I got a taste of what it might be like to have a dog full-time, no escape. About two weeks after I moved into her house, Victoria adopted Satchmo, a black Lab-Boxer mix as spunky as any puppy I’ve ever met. Satch and I had a rocky start. He was scared of me, and I was still trying to decide what to make of having a puppy around 24 hours a day. But we got used to each other and became friends.

We found different ways to bond. I would let him out of his cage to play. He would grab underwear out of my hamper and dart downstairs for a game of “how long until Satch lets go of Julie’s panties this time?” I would rub his belly. He would bite my shorts. I would let him hang with me when Victoria was gone. He would lick my glass of lemonade right on the rim where I was about to go for another sip.

I could tell stories about Satch for hours – about how he was afraid of doorways and couldn’t climb the steps when he first arrived in Cape Cod. Or about how when my parents came to visit, he left a hot, smelly surprise in their bedroom one night. (I was too disgusted to carry it outside, so I made my dad do the dirty work.)

But in all seriousness, after spending so much time with Satch, I understand now why people get so attached to their pets. I loved it when he would plop down on my feet when he needed a nap. Or when he would give me a high five.

And I always knew I would have one friend so excited to see me when I got home from work that he would pee a little when I walked in the door.

With the exception of a few days when Victoria was gone, she took care of the “messy” parts of dog-ownership while I got to be Satch’s fun “aunt Julie.” But I can appreciate why my parents never let me have a puppy – it is a huge responsibility. They’re just like babies – needy and whiny yet very loving and almost unbearably cute.

When it came time to say goodbye to Satch, he ran outside and hopped in my car packed full of boxes. He knew something wasn’t right, so naturally he bolted around manically and then jumped on me, leaving a nice big paw print on my white shirt. I like to think that he was trying to say “please don’t go,” and for me, the dirt was a reminder that at least for one summer, I got to be best buds with Satch the dog.

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