THE FAMILY HEARTH

The fire in his eyes clouded over,

the bound in his step sputtered.

The wag in his tail persisted.

How much time was left?

My body never made a child,

but circumstance made me a mother.

Blending families isn’t easy—

but a dog really helps.

A little hound with a knot on his head

caught the children’s eye in Old Town.

We left the city, pup in tow;

they named him for my childhood cat—

two opposite creatures, one identical role.

There’s something about a peculiar pet

that draws a family arm in arm.

Generations gather at a warm, breathing hearth,

laughing, snuggling—

sharing antics and remember-whens.

It was no different with our little hound,

except we needed him more.

His kids, her kids—two moms—

how would this work?

I got my first true assignment in the family:

walking the youngest to school each day.

The dog came too—like me,

he took his role seriously.

I’m not sure who loved it more.

A boy and his dog—

is there anything so guileless?

The kids grew. It went so fast.

The oldest took a girl on a perfect first date—

a walk with the dog.

I waved from the bay window,

our sweet boy did his work—

tail wagging, eyes bright.

He helped another family begin.

She was the one.

Another time, he surprised us all—

chasing our daughter’s suitor

across the cul-de-sac.

Dad only echoed what the dog had said:

You know he’s not boyfriend material, right?

She conceded. They were right.

The one for her came after the hound—

a special kind of loss, they never met.

But he came with his own sweet pit,

she sleeps in their bed now.

Our daughter accepts—

she’s bound to him for life.

Just like our hound, years now

across the rainbow bridge.

That peculiar little hearth

that drew our family together,

still warms our hearts—

and walks beside us yet.

© 2026 Carla Tanguay White