The Beginning

Murphy arrived in a big crate on a breath-stealing, bitter cold afternoon, somewhere towards the beginning of February 2008. It was a Saturday, and I remember leaving early in the morning, sometime between eight and nine, before I could throw on a second pot of coffee. Mom came with me, the experienced dog owner, and the two of us spent hours making excited, nervous pit-stops at Petsmart and Petco and Starbucks. By the time we finally pointed ourselves in the direction of Dulles Airport, the temperature had dropped, and I ached all over.

I was sick again, bundled to my ears in home knit scarves and mittens that were two sizes too big. A potent combination of allergies and chronic sinusitis stripped the familiar comforts of living; among many things, the old family dog, Sandy, was suddenly out of reach. Her fur was the only reminder of stormy nights at the foot of my bed, and the amber-white strands were everywhere; embedded into the fibers of my carpet and comforter, stuck to the tissue box and television screen, and I responded to her tiny forget-me-nots with watery eyes and marathon rounds of sneezing. For the first time in my life, I was allergic to the dog. I was allergic to dogs.

There was no way I could ever own a Golden Retriever.

I could, however, have part of one. I wasn't seriously looking for a puppy when I stumbled across Murphy's picture on a Goldendoodle website, one evening at school. Three quarters Poodle, a quarter Golden, and one-hundred percent hypoallergenic, he was everything I ever wanted: big and floppy, allergen free, and an absolute heart-breaker. I contacted his breeder the next day and somehow, Murphy was suddenly and unexpectedly mine.

Two weeks later, I walked into Dulles entirely unprepared. The puppy didn't have a name. I had forgotten to bring food and water and poop bags. The Red Sox collar still hadn't arrived and I really needed to call the vet. And the groomer. And a dog trainer. In the blur of passing time, there were so many things I'd forgotten to get or do; the only real thing I had with me, besides my mother and a bag full of dog toys, was a jumble of nerves and the cautious beginning of a hopeful love.

It was enough.

Murphy rolled off of the plane and into my life, scared and fluffy and small, and food and vets and baseball collars ceased to matter. In that moment, all Murphy needed was me. It's taken a long time to realize that, in those first few moments, I needed him, too.