Both Adam and I come from large families—he has three siblings and I have four. I’ve always liked the noise that brothers and sisters provide, not to mention all the scapegoating possibilities. There was no question that we’d have a brother or sister for Lucy.

Dogs, though, are a different matter.

One would be enough, I thought. It always had been enough before.

When I was pregnant with Alice, I lost my beloved dog to cancer. It was excruciating. I’ll never forget staying up with her on her last night, stroking her damp fur as she gasped for air and looked at me with pleading eyes. She died the next day in my arms. For weeks afterward, I kept reaching out to scratch her behind the ears, finding only emptiness in the spot where she always lay.

I thought we’d maybe never have another dog. They live such short lives, relatively speaking. And the holes they leave behind are huge. You don’t know quiet in a house until you stop hearing a collar jingle or a tail softly thump the ground as you pass.

But then a friend who breeds golden retrievers called. Would we like a puppy? She gave me the date a new litter would be ready to join a family. It was six months to the day that my dog had died. I took that as a sign, a sign that could not be ignored.

Now, I recognize it was a sign of insanity, because the date was also my due date with Alice.

“How hard could it be having a newborn and a puppy?” I said. “I’ll already be waking up in the middle of the night for Alice. Might as well get it all over with at once.”

For the record, it is very hard, indeed, having a six-week-old puppy when you have a five-week-old baby (Alice arrived a little late).

And, in fact, puppies are even harder than babies. Though newborns of all species eat, sleep and relieve themselves pretty much around the clock. But human newborns keep their dirty bits covered in diapers. Human newborns also do not chew the couch, slip through the fence, and take themselves on adventure walks to the coffee shop down the street.

I have very little recollection of those months of my life. It’s like a gaping hole in time and as much as I look back, I remember nothing of it beyond how cute Alice looked when she smiled, and how cute Rosie looked when she bounded through our just-planted garden, tearing out the new trees and shaking them like weasels. She was like a dandelion puff, only with sharp teeth.

Rosie and Alice are now both five years old. Rosie no longer destroys shoes, plants or furniture. She’s sweet and fun with the kids. But unlike my last dog, who had no interest in others of her species, and really considered herself to be a shorter, hairier human, Rosie loves other dogs. Loves them.

When I take her for walks and she sees other dogs across the street, she leans her whole body toward them. She assumes the play position when we’re lucky enough to pass a potential dog-friend on our sidewalk. She could spend hours wrestling with the dogs at my parents’ house.

I have started to feel an enormous burden of guilt that she spends most of her life separated from her own kind.

Other things counter this, of course. Rosie has been a bit of a disaster dog. She once ate a bee, which stung the inside of her mouth. Her cheek swelled to the size of a large steak. This summer, she ate some crab shells at the beach and needed emergency veterinary care. Shortly after that she was treated for a case of Giardia she picked up somewhere in the neighborhood (apparently a lot of dogs had it).

Without being indelicate, I can reveal I came thisclose to having to replace the carpet in my office in the aftermath. A few weeks later, she did something to the bottom of her foot that resulted in a temporary cast, antibiotics and a plastic cone of shame. (The vet also threw in drops for her Rosie’s bilateral ear infections.)

In short, she is a handful. Only a lunatic would think of adding another dog to the mix, knowing all that we have going on with our jobs and with two kids in school and assorted activities.

And yet. And yet...

When I watch her look out the window and wag her tail at the dogs that pass by, when I think about how happy she would be to have another dog to curl up with at night, I think it’s just a matter of time before I ignore the wise angel sitting on my shoulder and instead listen to the naughtier one in my heart, the one who thinks happiness for everyone in the house—dogs included—is more important than a clean floor and manageable vet bills.

Apparently the bad economy has created a glut of grownup golden retrievers in need of rescue. I think it’s just a matter of time before one finds her way into our home.

Wish me luck.

--Martha Brockenbrough