We always had six dogs growing up, and always inside unless they weren't already house-broken. Border collies, half-labs, a Pomeranian with epilepsy: out in the country, you can find every breed on the side of the road. We got a sheepdog puppy that was just sitting between two bags of trash. Neighbors would move, give us their pets, and it was known that we had a home for animals. My dad paid for food and flea baths--never the veterinarian--so there was a natural circulation to it. Old age and cars and other diseases would kill them off before more dogs showed up; it wasn't a perfect system, but I think there were nearly always six.
When I was little, when dogs felt like some admirable currency, I loved it. We took herds to the park. Our home was warm with living bodies. But I don't follow my parents' system anymore; I take strays to the pound. With so many, we never had a connection to our dogs. Some loved us. Some hid in the utility room when a door opened or lightning struck. Duke we had the longest, seven years, and he was wild. I think it was good what my parents did, but pets need something more than food and a peaceful home. Maybe not. Maybe I'm just greedy. I still hope I'm doing something beneficial for the world.
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