Every child needs a dog.
When I was a boy growing up in London, my parents bought a German shepherd puppy. I was 8 at the time, and 50 years later, I still remember sitting at my school desk, literally aching to be home with “Timber,” our 2-month-old pup.
The need is greater now. The other day, after a downpour, I spotted a rainbow arcing across the sky — the whole thing, uninterrupted.
“Boys, look! Isn’t that incredible?” I called out to Lucca, 14, and Matteo, 8, in the backseat of our car. They raised their heads for a split second, utterly unfazed, and then returned to their screens.
We limit screen time — we really do — but sometimes it feels like nothing, not a swooping hawk, the Hancock Tower cloaked in mist or even Mother Nature’s most vivid color palette can compete with the digital fireworks crackling on the screens in my children’s hands.
Which, in large part, is how we found ourselves driving on the Fourth of July to a Labrador breeder in Bourbon, a tiny town about an hour southwest of St. Louis, and just north of the Mark Twain National Forest.
I know, there are hundreds of homeless dogs in Chicago right now, all yelping to be adopted. In my defense, all of our previous pets have come from shelters.
But I’m stubborn.
I wanted to recreate my childhood experience for my boys. My parents drove about an hour southwest of London to a breeder in Guilford, England. In those days, many people in Britain still called the German shepherd breed “Alsatian,” because of a lingering anti-German sentiment.
I didn’t care about any of that. The breeder’s home was pure puppy pandemonium: dogs hanging out of windows, dogs lying on sofas, dogs tearing up what few tufts of grass remained in the front yard. And then there was Timber, the sweetest little bundle of black-and-tan fluff you have ever seen. The breeder handed him over, and my mother held him against her chest for the entire ride back home to London.
I wanted a German shepherd this time, but my wife and children overruled me. Sorry, Dad, my kids said, we’re getting a black Lab. I found a breeder, Amy O’Dell, in Missouri, who seemed thoughtful, kind and with reasonably priced puppies. She also gives a $300 discount for teachers, of which my wife is one.
We reached Bourbon about lunchtime July 5. With the excitement building, we stopped for lunch, knowing we’d soon have our hands full. Bourbon Saloon on Pine Street feels like something out of a movie (think “Steel Magnolias” or “Fried Green Tomatoes”). It is jammed floor to ceiling with quirky country knickknacks, multiple cardboard cutouts of Dolly Parton and even a guy in a Stetson strumming a guitar.
I dialed Amy, stepping outside to make myself heard over the din of chatting customers.
“I’m sorry, but we’re running a bit late. We’ve stopped off at Bourbon Saloon,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” Amy said. “I know the place. I’ll bring the puppy to you there.”
Not 10 minutes later, a middle-aged blonde woman arrived cradling a chubby and trembling black lab puppy. My children — even Lucca, my 14-year-old, who on principle refuses to smile or to allow me to hug him in public — dissolved into fits of giggles and gushing baby talk over this tiny, helpless creature.
“He’s adorable — and very chubby,” Lucca said. “He’s almost as big as Matteo!”
A Saloon customer approached and asked if she could hold the puppy. Of course, we said. As she snuggled with our newest family member, she asked if we’d picked a name. Not yet, we said.
“How about Bourbon, after the town where you bought him?” she suggested.
And before we could raise an objection, she tickled the puppy’s chin, cooing: “Hello Bourbon, what a sweet puppy you are.”
Fortunately, my family was on board.
A few minutes later, we climbed into our mini-SUV, with my wife, Tracy, holding Bourbon against her chest as we began the six-hour drive back to Chicago. And there were my children, begging — yes, begging — not for their electronic devices but to be the first to play with this face-licking, tail-wagging, shoe-gnawing, utterly irresistible puppy.