The picture above is old. Maybe 29 years old. Something like that. It’s of me at maybe 22, and my dog Malcolm. I’m laying on a super-cheap couch Steve and I bought for our first home; an old two-story farmhouse belonging to the family my husband worked for as a hired hand.
Malcolm had quite the history in my family. He first belonged to my sister, Gwen and her husband John. I believe they owned him when they lived in St. Joseph Missouri. Then they had their first child, Jackie, and I think that was the reason behind Gwen and John bringing Malcolm to live at my parent’s farm… on which I was living too… at the time I was probably 14 years old.
Malcolm was a Labrador, and anyone who has had labs knows they have great personalities. That dog was like the cool guy at the party. He had all kinds of swagger and strut and I spent a lot of time hugging on that dog. He was an excellent listener. I completely trusted Malcolm.
Honestly, I don’t remember much about my teen years. I know Malcolm didn’t like every guy I dated. He barked at some and wouldn’t let others pet him. I remember saying I wouldn’t marry a guy unless Malcolm approved of him. Well, I held to my word. Along came Steve and lo and behold, Malcolm didn’t as much as bark at him. He loved Steve right from the beginning. So did my mom now that I think of it. I remember getting head to head with that dog. I said, “This one? Are you sure?” His tail wagged.
That dog did not steer me wrong. I haven’t always realized it, but Steve is just what the dogtor ordered… sorry, couldn’t resist the bad pun. My husband married me 31 years ago today. I’m lucky to have him. And I’m very glad I listened to my good old dog, Malcolm!