Olive's Mother

Olive’s family tree, emblazoned with an Official American Kennel Club seal, traces her ancestry back four generations. It hangs in the hallway on the Benjamin Moore Aura paint-colored wall aptly called… “Weimaraner.” It is surrounded by frames documenting her extended human family. A collection of sepia-toned and black and white photos of my grandparents, great grandparents, parents and cousins and color photos of younger generations, my brothers and sister, my nephews and my niece. Mostly Italians with a few Germans infiltrating the family ancestry.

While Olive’s family tree does not include photos, it is populated by dozens of evocative names. “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door. Legacy. Main Attraction. Moonlite Becomes You. Simply The Best. Go For The Gold. La Femme Nikita. Star Attraction. Just Do It.” And “Happily Ever After.” Quite a contrast to some of the names on my tree: “Narno. Donato. Grazia. Rosangela. Yolanda. John. Clara. Josephine. Andrew.” I wonder what my AKC name would be if I were a dog.  Possibly something that suggested equal measures intelligence and goofiness. “Einstein’s Clown?” “Bozo’s Philosopher?”

One thing is clear. Olive has good genes. Yesterday, we were stopped on our walk four times by passersby (and driversby). They all said the same thing. “Beautiful dog.” True, you don’t see Weims that often. But Olive is a beauty. She has clean lines, a gorgeous face, a just-right tail that proudly impersonates an exclamation point, and genetically perfect feet; like they could be the slender feet of a hand carved mahogany table. Which is why I can’t understand why she sometimes lays on my bed, stares at herself in the mirror and barks and growls at herself.  She’s probably bemoaning what she perceives as her imperfections. Or, it’s a coincidence and she’s just got gas.