In November 2020, I got a two-month-old Pembroke Welsh Corgi puppy. I named her Eleanor after the 1967 Shelby Mustang GT featured in the 2000 movie “Gone in 60 Seconds”. She is my unicorn, that which I had always believed was unattainable.

I have loved Corgis for a very long time. Having been a lifelong admirer of Queen Elizabeth II of Britain (God, rest her soul), I watched with great interest her wiggle of adorable pups change throughout the years, and how they dedicatedly followed her wherever she went.

I didn’t want a dog, for reasons of practicality. In fact, I’d spent my entire adult life without a pet, though I often thought it would be nice to have one. But I didn’t want to be constantly cleaning up dog hair left behind in every crevice of the house. I didn’t want to have to pay for dog food, toys, shots, grooming, or boarding if we chose to vacation somewhere for an extended period of time.

Being married to a pedantic, OCD, singularly-focused man changed all of that. My husband lives to surf online, a constant habit that drives me nuts.

He got it into his head that searching online for a Corgi would be a good idea, a dedicated effort that he would not relent until he found a Corgi farm offering pups for a reasonable price.

Purebred Corgis can be expensive, ranging in price from $1500 to tens of thousands of dollars for their pedigree…another reason I couldn’t justify getting one. And purebred Corgis are not animals that you’d just stop by and pick up at the local animal rescue.

Going to an animal shelter for a rescue dog was a possibility that I considered. But it always came back to the type of dog that I had always wished for being a Corgi.

After identifying and researching with great diligence the Corgi breeder, putting down the required deposit, and keeping constant communication with our contact there to minimize the chance of us being scammed kept us consumed for months.

But the breeder was kind and communicative, even sending pictures of Eleanor as she grew and became mature enough for her new home.

One picture of the dog showed little more than her ginormous pointed ears.

“We’re getting a bat”, I chuffed to my husband with my eyebrow raised.

After picking a date after sufficient Corgi maturity time, we loaded the car with brand new doggy toys and snacks, and drove three and a half hours to pick up our new puppy.

The excitement leading up to that date was palpable. To reserve a Corgi requires saving a spot on a waiting list, then waiting for at least eight weeks until the puppy has matured enough to be weaned from its mother.

That meant months of anticipation, selecting potential names, stocking up on doggy necessities, and arguing incessantly about WHOSE puppy she would be.

She’d be mine, of course. In my mind, there was never any question of puppy ownership.

My husband believed differently.

Arriving at the Corgi farm, we were permitted to wander outside of the pens that were wide open and brimming with dozens and dozens of Corgis. I was in my glory. I don’t think that, up until that day, I had actually even seen a Corgi in real life. I just wanted to jump into their play areas and roll around with them for days to come.

But, alas, there was a task at hand: collecting our precious cargo and beginning our hours-long trek back home to settle her in to her new digs.

As the breeder stepped into the rear of her small office and into what I can only assume was a holding area, the concept of becoming a pet owner became all too real. Moreover, the unknown of raising a puppy from two months became ever more daunting.

Can I really do this? Do I really want to do this?

As she stepped back into the room holding this tiny little ball of fur, all of those questions and doubts melted away.

I demanded to hold her first and, as it came to be known as a gesture of canine happiness and satisfaction, Eleanor dropped back her ears to the top of her head.

I knew that she was mine from that very second.

Not knowing how a baby puppy would take to riding in a car, we fed her a small dose of a tummy relaxer…and boy, did it relax her tummy.

And her bowels.

It was late afternoon and none of us on that trip had eaten yet that day. The logical thing was to stop at a fast-food restaurant and grab something to eat for the ride home.

As I waited out in the truck with our newly-acquired pet, my husband and son went in to the restaurant to grab our late lunch, during which time our little dog pooped all over the backseat of the vehicle.

Trying to keep her to one place, keeping her from leaping out of the truck, unrolling the paper towel, and monitoring the traffic around me all at the same time proved a challenge.

“Tuck in, Kane”, I thought to myself. “This will be your life as you now know it”.

If I’d only had any idea…

Sharing my harrowing dung experience with the rest of my family as they jumped in the truck, I got into the passenger seat and managed to strap on my seatbelt with the fuzzy baby on my lap…only to have her release her next load right on me and the seatbelt.

Have you ever heard that sick old joke: “I licked it – it’s mine”? Yeah, that is still the running gag in our household to this day.

The bitch shit on me to claim me as her territory.

Like any baby of any breed or species, Eleanor was nothing but ears and paws. Her fur originally grew in as brownish-gray and slowly changed into the beautiful ginger sable and snow white that will be her permanent coloring.

The first few months were a challenge, in large part because I found that the agreement made with my husband when getting a dog had been first discussed had evaporated. The “everyone in the house taking care of the dog” turned into me being her sole caregiver.

That meant comforting her and easing her whining in her first few days in her new home. Cleaning up the frequent messes and potty training her outside also fell on me, usually at 2 or 3 a.m.

Feeding her, bathing her, grooming her, walking her, and keeping track of her all fell onto me and are still my responsibilities.

But that also permitted me to bond with her unlike anyone else in our family. I took the time to teach her tricks and she understands sign language, commands she obeys only when I signal.

I marvel at her intelligence. She can read my face, pick up on definitions of words immediately (French fries and cake will perk her ears up in a nanosecond), imitate my actions, and even pull back a curtain with her teeth when it serves her to get out to the backyard.

Yet, there are also times when she seems like to the stupidest animal on the planet when a deer in our back yard can walk right up to her without her even noticing. Or a face-plant on a step while she’s running up the stairs.

Still, she’s even convinced that she can drive.

Puppy car rides became an event that warrant racing for the door, even if it means shaking like a paint mixer the entire way to the veterinarian for shots. And no window is safe from puppy nose slobbers.

Her goofy doggy behavior has earned her a variety of nicknames – so many so that I have no doubt poor Eleanor wonders which one of them actually happens to be her name. Doofus, Fuckhead, Dogbert, Monstrous Maximus, Chicken Butt are but a few of the names that Eleanor will actually answer to.

And of course no day in the life of a dog is complete without naps.

Eleanor began her life with naps wherever there happened to be a flat surface…or not. She would fall asleep with her head in a slipper, draped across a pillow, buried under a couch, or wrapped like a mummy in her own little puppy blanket.

Eleanor is a big fan of puppy blankets.

She does not, however, happen to be very fond of cute little costumes.

Yes. It’s true. I’ve fallen into that weird person pattern of dressing my little doggy in cute little shirts, holiday outfits, and bizarre hats.

I have found it enormously entertaining, even to have gone so far as to dress both the dog and me in matching polka dot outfits for an outing at an afternoon high tea.

The look on her face says it all. She absolutely hates it when I dress her up.

There is simply no getting around the fact that Eleanor is one of the most beautiful dogs on the planet. She exudes personality and I look at her often, wishing that she could actually speak to me.

I have no doubt the conversation would be an absolute riot.

In her own ways, we are always conversing and I speak to her as though she were a human, though she’s able to respond only in her puppy way.

Smaller than a typical Corgi, I long lamented that she was not what I was originally expecting in the ubiquitous barrel-chested, fuzzy-tummy, heart-shaped-butt that Corgis are known and loved for. Eleanor is slight in build with shorter hair and a slimmer face.

Now being a Corgi owner, I understand that smaller Corgis don’t necessarily have to be the runt of the litter; that smaller Corgis like Eleanor tend to be more active and mischievous. She most certainly lives up to that standard.

About one year ago, we decided to add to our brood.

My husband took a new job that temporarily separated us; me with Eleanor and him thousands of miles away. As he became homesick and lonely, he learned that one of his coworkers’ wives breeds Corgis…

…and we brought another one into the family at no charge.

Dolly could not be more opposite from Eleanor. Being Corgis is about the only thing they have in common.

More than two years in age separate the two purebreds. Dolly is that standard Corgi I’d expected Eleanor to grow up as, and she has more than 16 pounds on Eleanor.

We call her “Carpet” because she doesn’t like to rough house, fetch toys, chase, or snuggle much – all of those things that Eleanor simply grew up doing with us.

Dolly wants to sit and be petted. Having littered more than 40 puppies, she is nurturing by nature and she is a consummate herder, as Corgis are normally bred to be.

Slowly but surely, Dolly is loosening up to our enjoyment of playing, though the competition for attention between the two dogs is rife.

Having the two together is like chasing around twin children. They argue and pout, they go off in their own directions and have to be rounded back up. They have to be fed, cleaned, and attended to – work that becomes tiresome on days.

But they are remarkably self-sufficient in that they have their set bedtime and know when they want to lay down for the evening. They know when their snack times should be and they seek attention when they feel they’ve not gotten enough during the day, though that is rare. I love having them by my side and even Eleanor will help me work at my desk.

Eleanor has also become engaged in the same TV shows.

We take occasional trips to our favorite frozen custard place where the workers at the drive-up window ooo and ahh at the adorable dogs in the back seat of the car. They know full well what means “ice cream” and they always look forward to the outing.

Unfortunately, very much like humans, Corgis are probably even more seceptible to really bad habits than humans.

Like most men in their own settings, my husband is prone to hock up a goober and spit it into the yard. Gross as it is and as much as I discourage him doing it, it has now become a game with Eleanor. Jumping, begging, and whining at the simple sound of a cough she will bound into the yard barking and race back for more.

The worst part of that is that I’ve now become the target of the same game when I merely want to brush my teeth. I have scars all over me from having been bitten by Eleanor wanting to chase snot.

I’ve learned to lock the bathroom door now, only to spend the time brushing my teeth with a barking, jumping, wound-up Corgi on the other side of it.

Yet, one of the more enjoyable habits or routines, as it is, that Eleanor and I have fallen into is when we sit to dry her off from a romp after a fresh rain or from the early morning dew.

Eleanor, being only about 20 pounds, is light to wrap in the towel and for me to lift to my lap. She waits patiently when I say that she is a Soggy Doggy and needs to towel.

I lean her back into me to wipe her feet and she intentionally moves to snug her head into the crook of my right elbow. After drying her off, I take the edge of the towel and stroke the side of her face, a caress that she sits patiently to enjoy every time. She’ll sink into my lap and close her eyes in comfort as I pet her snout and nuzzle her long pointed ears and rock her back and forth.

And at the end of the day, I cannot remember my life before getting Eleanor. She is my constant companion, my friend, and my baby whose presence is the air that I breathe.

At night when we all pile into the bed together, I am flanked by two warm and fuzzy pets and all is right in the world.

I will sit for hours when all is quiet and I’m the only one awake in the house, stroking the soft fur of my two dogs. On occasion, I will very carefully squeeze out from under one or both of them to step outside and have a smoke.

When I’ve returned, they have shifted to take over my spot and my pillows that they’ve assumed are theirs all along. Eleanor will be lying on her side and she’ll watch me as I lean over to snuggle and kiss her.

She’ll close her eyes, feeling safe and confident now that mommy is back in the room with her; inhaling a big puppy sigh of relief that all now is right in her world, too. And she returns to her little puppy snores and barking in her dreams.

There is little greater to me in this world than standing in silence and hearing the sigh of a vulnerable being – animal or human – as indication that relief and peace lie simply in the love they feel you give.