Please say hi to Allison Lynnette — you can call her Alli.

This little ball of fur and fury turned six months old this month. She’s been part of our fur family now for four of those six months. This selfie was taken in the car after she and I went for a hike at Crane Creek park in Rohnert Park. This picture on the right? Yeah, that’s her on the trail. She looks so cute and calm – tired, maybe? Not even a little. Let me say this: this wasn’t a great walk. What it did, though, is show how far she’s come and how far we have to go.

First, though, how did we get here?

You may remember the Reflection I wrote for Winston after he died. That was a year and a half ago and I’ve missed him every day. I figured I’d get another dog… someday. I had a load of good excuses, but ultimately, I think it all came down to the fact that no dog could live up to Winston. He was that kind of a dog.

When my friend Kirk’s dog, Mishka, went into heat he made the appointment to get her fixed. But that was a week away, and she had already, shall we say, gotten the attention of the neighborhood dogs. One in particular broke out of his house up the street and hid out in the bushes overnight. The next morning when Kirk sent Mishka out to go potty… well, you get it.

Nine puppies survived a rather harrowing birthing. When the runt came out Kirk noted she wasn’t breathing. But there were complications with other puppies and Kirk didn’t have time to work on the apparent still-born. But when he came back a bit later she wasn’t dead, she was nursing. He worked with a service to find homes for all but two. He was going to keep one – a boy puppy he named Ernie. But the runt didn’t have a home.

He’d been sending me pictures since shortly after the puppies were born. They were adorable, of course, but I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready…

I can’t tell you exactly what changed. Akilah blames it on the copious rye whiskey David Erik and I imbibed on his porch in late November. I’ll admit two things: one, it was a lot of rye. Two, I did text Kirk that night saying I’d take the runt. But I do know I’d already decided it was time.

It was time.

The next Saturday we drove up to Redding to Kirk’s house and picked her up.

What in the hell had we gotten ourselves into?

I don’t remember much of Winston’s puppy time. Maybe that’s nature repressing those memories? Alli has been… well, she’s not nicknamed “Alligator” for nothing…

Earlier this month she went in to get fixed (or broken) herself. The vet sent her home with a sedative so she wouldn’t get too excited and inadvertently tear a stitch in exuberance. The directions said she could have half or a whole pill every 12 hours. I need to explain that when Alli isn’t sleeping, she’s generally running at 10 out of 10. Full tilt. Ball of fury. Alligator. So we started in on a whole pill. That took from a 10 to… maybe an eight…. Possibly nine.

This one will not be slowed.

She did manage to heal just fine. We’ve had some little walks, and she’s back to playing with her friends. Today was her first hike since surgery. We’ve got a lot work to do…

I’m not a parent, but I imagine a parent can’t help but compare one child to another, even if it’s not something they’d ever speak aloud. Alli is not Winston. Part of that, of course, is comparing a puppy to a 12-year-old dog, but Winston was just a different soul. I get glimpses of what Alli will grow into, and I think she’s going to be a wonderful companion. Not Winston, though.

And that’s okay. The truth is when we picked Alli up, I wasn’t over Winston. But her crazy licking attacks, her adorable pterodactyl-like yawns, the way she talks back when she doesn’t get her way, how she cants her big old floppy ears this way and that… I’m not going to say she has mended a broken heart. That’s trite and overly simplistic. But for all her puppy faults, for all her wackiness, she acts as a contrast to Winston. In the space in my heart reserved for dogs Winston has made space for Alli to come inside and cuddle up; there’s space enough for both of them — the big gentle black lab with some dalmatian spots, and the young tawny puppy with floppy ears and a black nose. Both tails are wagging. Vigorously.