My Papa Bear
Growing up in the Bronx was not a luxurious living with backyard swings and bike rides with the family around the neighborhood but what we always had was companions. When my parents brought a pet home it was given to us by a friend whose dog had puppies, simply needed a home or, one summer in Puerto Rico we got the runt of the liter. Visiting a family’s place, I saw her, she ran to me and the rest was history. I adored her until her last day. All unconventional animals, never purchased at a pet shop like all the books I read as a kid, but all loved. Oddly enough my parents always managed to get female dogs, so of course I wanted to have a male dog of my own. A Yorkie to be exact, not teacup, just a regular sized Yorkshire Terrier. A little guy to dress up in hoodies and denim jackets, cuddle with and take him everywhere I went. My mother even promised to get me one if I graduated college. Neither happened so here I was an adult now with a child of my own and a partner to grow old with but still no Yorkie.
