I’ve had dogs my whole life. (And yes, those are my fabulous dogs in the pics.) My ownership has evolved somewhat — from a revolving cast of outside dogs who were lucky to get a rabies shot and ate our leftover dinner every night — to the pampered purebreds that sleep in my bed and have more medical care than I do.

I grew up in the country. We did not seek dogs. They just kind of happened to us or showed up. My mom had a little country store so we were a popular location to dump cats and dogs. These were hardy mutts, who did not get regular baths and more often than not had ticks and fleas unless we made it our business to get a Hartz collar (if ever there was a cancer-causing item, I am sure this one was).

They were all friendly but woe to the unfortunate person/animal/ghost who thought he/she could approach our home in the dark. They would, as they say in East Tennessee, “set to” barking and soon it would be a whole chain of barking dogs along our little valley. Barking is kind of like smoke signals. Dogs pass it on to each other.

When my brother and I played outside or explored our neighborhood, there was almost always a dog by our side. When we would ride in our dad’s mechanic truck to our other piece of property, “the farm,” a dog would perch high up in all the stuff piled in the back. Dogs did not come in the house. Ever.

I was taught by my mother and grandmother to let a dog lick any cuts or scrapes I would get because it would “help it heal faster.” As a grown-up, I have friends who cringe when I say that but I’m pretty sure those rough tongues got…