Paris, 1980s
One of my most vivid memories is the arrival of my dog in my life. I was 3 years old.
That day, I was wandering around the house, likely occupied with things that weren’t worth remembering. I only recall finding myself in our small entryway, which was actually a back door for me, as we usually entered and exited through the “office” on weekdays and during business hours. Anyway, I was there when I heard the keys and the sound of my father’s steps approaching the door—an event for a toddler! I stood there, rooted, on the black-and-white checkered tile floor, squeezed between the large, carved sideboard and the coats hanging on the wall.
The key slid into the lock and turned. The door opened, and there I saw not my father, but a small ball of soft fur topped with an excited little nose. Then my father appeared fully, so tall, holding in his arms a blue blanket that wrapped a German Shepherd puppy, already weaned and quite large for a puppy. I remember his bright eyes and the simple joy he exuded just by being there. He trembled with excitement, his whole body practically buzzing—a trait he would keep for life when overwhelmed by joy, often tinged with a touch of uncertainty.
I can still see myself, amazed and incredulous, saying:
“Mom! Dad brought home a dog!!”
Incredulous, my mother was too. Amazed, not so much. I can still see her wide eyes, her hand over her mouth:
“A dog… he brought a dog…”
Sam pooped in the blanket. My father handed the puppy to my mother so she could clean it up.
I don’t remember what happened immediately after that. I just know that it was one of the rare and wonderful surprises of my childhood.
Looking back, I realise my father brought a dog home without telling anyone, and certainly without my mother’s approval. That tells me a lot about their relationship and confirms my suspicion that my father probably never changed a single nappy in his life. Maybe they argued that evening—I don’t know.
Sam’s arrival was a pivotal moment in my life. In that home, which would turn out to be my prison and a place of daily suffering, Sam would become my best friend, my guardian, my anchor.
For years, shaped by the human speciesism instilled in children from an early age, I believed he was an angel sent to protect me and help me get through. Today, I understand that he was neither a messenger from the heavens nor a magical being, and even less that his life existed only for mine.
He lived his own life as a dog, with joys and sorrows, just like every other living being on this planet.
He wasn’t an angel, but almost : he was a true friend who loved me unconditionally.
