To share a dog

When I was growing up in the South, we always had dogs. They came from the pound, where they were called "mongrels." Our parents called them "mutts" and said they were healthier than pure breeds. They ran loose, came in for supper, slept on our beds and barked at the mailman. They had uninspired names like Lassie and Rover. When we went away, a neighbor looked out for them. A dog was a life staple. It ate what it was given, chased a ball, and offered comfort for the small heartbreaks of children. It was simple.

When our own children were growing up in Newton, MA not much had changed. Mutts had achieved the status of "mixed breed dogs." There were leash laws. But if our black dog-who-looked-like-a-lab took himself for a walk at night, he'd probably meet several very similar dogs, and no one bothered much about which family was flouting the law. Vacations had to be negotiated with a neighbor or a "dog sitter," but arrangements were easy. There were many 9-12 year old children who happily walked a dog for a dollar.

Names were becoming more imaginative. Our first rescued dog came from Angell Memorial in Boston. He was named Duke, but over time, he earned the exalted title of Mister Duke Firmly Jones. He was followed by Little Ms Muffett, a dumb blonde. And then came Miss Mamie, a chocolate lab who joined us on plunges into the Charles River. Dog days were good.

Our children grew up, moved away, had their own children, and got their own dogs. We were dogless for a time. We enjoyed the freedom to travel, but we missed our pups. When we considered getting a dog again, we found a changed world. Leash laws are strictly enforced by the righteous, both in law enforcement and in the neighborhood. No more unsupervised night strolls for nondescript canines. Someone is always watching, live or on camera. The neighborhood children who once walked our dogs are busy multi tasking. Fleets of professional walkers and doggie day care centers have replaced them. All pricey and inconvenient. We concluded sadly that our dog days were over.

Then we found a way. Modeling on the practice of job sharing, we decided to share a dog.

Carey and Bill live two doors away with their three young and inventive sons, aged 8 and under. The guys were enthusiastic about having a dog. Carey was cautious. Her plate is full. Her days do not include puppy training, leisurely walks, or trips to the vet.

I walk several miles most days. The vet's office is just across the field. Although our puppies were never well trained, I know the concepts.

We began tentative conversations. Bill did research on puppies. He promised to get up at night and be responsible for weekend puppy care. I agreed to vet trips and at least one serious walk a day. My husband agreed to fill in. The boys agreed to play. Carey said the dog could sleep at their house and spend our vacations there. We all said we'd pick up poop.

We agreed on a new mixed breed, a puggle. No longer considered a mutt, our Jimmi is a "designer dog." After extensive on-line interviews, a breeder who required serious reassurance about a two home family deemed us acceptable. Jimmi arrived via US AIR four months ago, has settled into his two homes and sports two phone numbers on his tags.

It's working out. Jimmi spends nights at their house. The boys drop him at our house on their way to school. He's been fed and taken out for morning necessities. He and I go for a long walk or play in the field with other dogs. Carey and I sort out schedules daily so that Jimmi gets outside. We all pick up poop. We remind each other that Jimmi is just a dog.

He now weighs in at 28.5 pounds, and we hope he is grown. We are all thriving. And we are convinced that dog sharing is an idea whose time has come!