After that, the idea of ever getting another dog seemed out of the question. But in the fall of 2012, my significant other, Charlotte, with whom I'd lived for fifteen years, said that she wanted a dog. A few years earlier, we had talked about having a child and, for various reasons, it hadn't worked out. Now, our relationship was going through a difficult time, and in the way some couples look to a baby to save a faltering marriage, Charlotte and I each hoped that adopting a dog would draw us closer. And as soon as she texted me a picture from the North Shore Animal League of a tiny 12-week-old terrier mix—fluffy and white with brown and black markings, a black gum drop of a nose, and giant brown eyes—I instantly texted back: "Bring that dog home! Now!! I think her name is Quincy!"
When Charlotte arrived at our rented cottage on Eastern Long Island, carrying Quincy wrapped in a blanket, I felt a rush of love. As I watched her pad clumsily around the living room—sniffing the skirt of a couch here, mouthing a coffee table leg there—it seemed to me that this could be a new beginning. I vowed to myself that this time I would take good care of my dog. It would be my way of putting things right for abandoning Lou all those years ago.
For a while, Quincy seemed to be a dog designed more for looks than loyalty. (One night, as Quincy was snouting a tennis ball under a table rather than snuggling on the couch with us, Charlotte started crying and said, "I think there's something wrong with her.") But over time, as she saw that we understood and would meet her needs, a powerful bond developed between us and she lavished us with affection—all the sweeter because it felt earned, though she remained an independent little creature who lived and loved on her own peculiar terms.
We soon settled into a routine: Awakened by Quincy's melodic whine—we called it "warbling"—we would take her to the dog run when we were in the city, where we watched her go from a timid puppy cowering by our sides to a fearless scrapper, or to the beach when we were on Long Island, where she developed into a dazzlingly fast runner, obsessed with chasing down tennis balls and various creatures of the land and air. Quincy attracted attention wherever we went—women started smiling at me on the street when I was with her—and passersby routinely stopped to ask what kind of dog she was. I would proudly announce that she was a mutt; Charlotte told people that she was a "Tricolor Snowball," adding, "they're very hard to find."
I was besotted, and my Instagram feed became all-Quincy, all the time. I spent dozens of hours researching dog food on the internet, settling on a brand that consisted of raw, grass-fed meat and organic vegetables, a bloody mess that I delighted in watching Quincy devour. I even wrote a song about her, whose lyrics I will spare you.
As a writer who works at home, I had spent most of my adult life allowing my days to unspool as a series of jazz improvisations. During my unhappy young adulthood, Lou's routine was dictated by my vagaries, to both our detriments. Now, I was submitting to Quincy's rhythms, and she gave my days a structure and order that went beyond meeting her needs. Every morning after her walk, I began meditating for half an hour and sitting down at my desk to work by 9:00. I also started going to CrossFit five times a week and adopted a Paleo diet, which turned out to be much like Quincy's, though I preferred my meals cooked and free of offal. Getting a dog may not be a panacea for all human problems, but to take care of Quincy, I had to take care of myself, and that was a lot.
