And Now You Are Twelve, Franklin

We are shocked in multiple directions

Franklin, age 12. Best hair in the family.

Our dog Franklin is telling us that fall is coming.

Every August around this time, the flooring of our home begins to resemble a field full of hay bales as he sheds clumps of his long, thick hair wherever he goes.

I understand the impulse to correct me by saying dogs have fur, not hair, but years ago a groomer explained that Franklin, our mixed breed rescue, has both. Fur to keep him warm or cool, depending on the season, topped with a layer of hair that flutters like feathers in the breeze. Our Breck girl.

Two years ago, I asked our veterinarian why Franklin starts shedding his summer coat so early, when it’s still hot outside. She explained that his body was responding to the shrinking amount of daylight as fall approaches. I was embarrassed that I hadn’t thought of that. I hate underestimating the talents of our very good boy.

Today Franklin turns 12. We find this shocking, in multiple directions. How could he already be 12 years old? How is it possible that he has been with us for only two-thirds of our marriage? He is ours and we are his.

I had planned to write this week about the first mugshot of a former U.S. president. A columnist’s habit, lunging for the obvious. But I woke up this morning and heard my husband playing the Beatle’s Birthday song for Franklin in the kitchen. I changed my mind. There is only one Franklin. There are at least 1200 written opinions already out there about Thursday’s Fulton County photo session, and countless more takes on what that photograph conveys. Is it rage? Is it defiance? Is it an alarming lack of fiber? You don’t need me to help you figure that out.

Since we’re sharing mugshots, though, this is Franklin’s brother, Walter, after we adopted him four years ago from the streets of Cleveland. Tell me our boy hadn’t already perfected that look.

Walter the street dog, age 1-ish

Franklin was nine weeks old when we adopted him in October 2011. Two months earlier, our beloved pug, Gracie, had died at age 14. Our home was sad. We knew we wanted a rescue, and I thought a young adult dog would be a good idea for a busy, middle-aged couple. But we soon became obsessed with a photo of 9-week-old Franklin, whose name was Bowser, briefly.

A puppy? Well, why not?

As Sherrod reminded me, he hadn’t had a puppy since he was 9 years old. And wouldn’t it be wonderful to adopt the little guy and name him after Franklin Delano Roosevelt?

Sure, honey.

What kind of wife denies her husband the joy of training a new puppy and bonding with him over long walks and frolics in piles of fallen leaves? A better question would have included something about how this husband would spend most of his weekdays in Washington, D.C., 369 miles away from FDR’s namesake.

Ah, well. We can’t schedule falling in love, can we?

Franklin on adoption day. He was 9 weeks old.

On our drive to meet Franklin, Sherrod rattled off his rules. “Number One,” he said, “he is not sleeping in our bed.”

I smiled.

“Number Two: You are not his mommy, and I am not his daddy.”

I may have laughed and then claimed I’d just seen an alpaca galloping between two pick-ups. (Like you’ve never lied to keep the peace.)

It’s a little unfair that I’ve never gotten a medal or even a certificate with calligraphy on it for keeping my mouth shut every time Sherrod has burst through the door and yelled “Franklin, Daddy’s home!” Four years ago, Daddy edited his greeting to include Walter—who was named by Sherrod for Walter Reuther.

I say nothing, even as we make little nests for them every night in the blankets on our bed.

Franklin is starting to show his age, probably in more ways than we are willing to acknowledge. He has a heart murmur, and in the words of our vet, we’re keeping an eye. He still runs, but in shorter bursts. He continues to attack every meal as if it were his last. When we smile, he does, too.

He isn’t always making it outside in time, and I’ve replaced our living room rug with one that is supposedly machine washable, if you own a washer the size of a Kia. We have carpet shampooers on the first and second floors. We tell Franklin we had to get them because of Walter, who couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of him.

One more thing about Franklin: He knows my heart. After my brother died by suicide in July 2019, Franklin would not leave my side. For weeks, I could feel the swish of his bushy tail against my calf wherever I walked. When I cried, he would lay his head on my lap and let out a long sigh. With every sigh, I heard, “I know, I know.”

How can our boy be 12 years old?

Our wish, of course, is that Franklin will live forever. Our hope is that he’ll continue to age slowly. We are altering our daily rhythm to keep pace with him, without a whisper of lament. He is the puppy who introduced me to the boy I married. He is the dog who helped me heal my broken heart.

He is ours and we are his.