New Tricks

A couple we recently met seemed inordinately self-satisfied with their approaching 30th wedding anniversary. I was unimpressed. "Don't tell me anniversaries," I growled. "Tell me how many dogs you've had." For me, there is a marital corollary to the formula for dog years: One year of dog-couple cohabitation equals seven years of a dogless relationship.

Dogs add new dynamics. They provoke heated fights over muddy paw prints; they can cool an argument by pointedly leaving the room when the yelling gets too loud. Dogs provide a test bed for child-rearing theories and insight into how a couple will work as parents. And, in the end, dogs offer hard but important lessons about how the two of you will share grief.

Our first dog was Homer, an Airedale puppy my in-laws gave us on our first anniversary. The cute plush toy grew too fast into a 75-pound brute so willful that he never graduated from obedience school.

We still have the bill of particulars my wife taped to a kitchen cabinet after he whittled down a leg on the dining room table. "I'm putting my foot down," it began, then presented a rap sheet of Homer's crimes. Ruined carpets. Tooth marks on door frames. Rampages through the neighborhood. Homer never met a human he didn't like, but he tended to display affection by running full tilt at you. Often the first signal that he had tunneled out of the yard again was the distant sound of little voices shrieking, "Run! It's Homer!"

So, my wife said, it was time for limits. He was to be confined to the kitchen. I reluctantly agreed. Yet the very next night I came home to find them sprawled on the couch, the dog on her lap, chewing a soggy rawhide toy my wife was holding. The scene offered some hope that whatever bad thing I might do, my exile in the kitchen could be as brief.

Homer lived to 15. He had been there at the start of our marriage, there when we brought our daughter home from the hospital, there, patient and uncomplaining, when she grabbed handfuls of his fur to pull herself up for her first steps.

Then came Gracie, another Airedale, with a gentler disposition and a larcenous heart. She turned us into careful housekeepers. Anything left out - brownies, cellphones, eyeglasses - would disappear. Once a dozen bagels vanished; that night, we found them distributed under our bed pillows. She helped define the family's hierarchy. My wife, who got an extra bagel, holds the alpha place. Our daughter is Gracie's equal. I struggle to accept my last-place position in the pack.

Gracie also has become our social director. In earlier years, the parents of our daughter's playmates became our friends. Now our friends include the owners of the dogs Gracie runs with.

Last summer, we got the hard news: Gracie has cancer. The vet said we could hope for another 18 months. Together, we faced unavoidable issues of life and death. A cocktail of medications put her cancer into remission, but the side effects left her listless and crippled. An arthritis drug that could bring relief would clash with one of the pills, causing worse symptoms. The vet offered a choice, of sorts: Gracie would feel better on the arthritis medicine but could see an earlier return of the cancer. We opted for quality of life. Our agreement led to a new understanding about our own choices for the future. Facing Gracie's mortality helped us face our own.

We have no doubts about our decision. The side effects have faded; she has become annoying once again. We beam over her thievery. We celebrate her stubbornness. There is an added joy to a good day at the beach.

When we consider the inevitable, my wife becomes the hard guy again. "No more dogs," she says, listing the messes, responsibilities, and ultimate heartache she wants to avoid. And then, after a moment of silence, comes the softening I first saw with Homer. "Maybe it would be better if we got two next time," she says.

Fred Bayles teaches journalism at Boston University. E-mail comments to coupling@globe.com.