Mandible's puppies have, thankfully, been going like hotcakes; if you have ever been awakened by needle-sharp puppy teeth on bare feet on a cold morning, you understand my gratitude.

The problem was coordinating with this young master's family; like everyone else these days, even little kids are overscheduled. The choices were getting down to the wire, and we only had two uncommitted bullhounds left when his mom and I finally found a mutually agreeable meeting place and time.

Miss Rhonda and I messed with the puppies for a few minutes before departure time, trying to determine which one was the most likely candidate for a little boy. This decision was a heady responsibility, since choosing the right dog is one of life's most important choices (in some cases, moreso than declaring a college major, choosing a spouse, or buying a home).

Caroline and Charlotte, being at that blissfully unaware stage of darling puppy stupidity, didn't make matters easier. They are both mainly white puppies, each with a "Petey" ring around one eye. Caroline has an extra patch on her tail, and Charlotte has a darker ring around her Petey ring, making her look like a prizefighter with a slow reaction time.

Both love attention, and both love picking on their brother (further evidence of my past declarations that girls, especially sisters, can be mean). Their brother is a classic Carolina yellow hound named Digger. He is promised, by the way.

For some reason, Caroline seemed to be the best candidate for a little boy.

Her new buddy was waiting when we arrived; his sister, too, was there, asking a zillion questions and talking a mile a minute, like sisters do sometimes.

Caroline wasn't sure about the whole thing at first, but between head rubs and pats her little tail gave way to her indomitable happiness and began wagging happily.

When her new buddy asked, politely, if he could hold her, I knew they were meant for each other. I'm suspicious of kids who reach out and grab a puppy or kitten on the first meeting.

Caroline sat in his lap, front paws outstretched to his neck, while I spoke to his mother for a moment. I assured her, as we always do, that if there was a problem, Caroline could come home, no questions asked. We have always re-adopted or in some cases, repossessed puppies when they and their owners couldn't get along.

But watching Caroline lick her new buddy's face, tail wagging, I didn't see this as a possibility.

As they drove away, I thought of Dudley, my first dog. We had dogs before Dudley, of course-Shep, who was murdered, and George, who was too much dog to live in town, stand out the most in my mind.

Charlie Brown was really my brother's dog, although we got along famously. Scooter, bless him, never liked anyone after his hip surgery.

Dudley came along well after that.

He was a half-Lab, half Golden Retriever, and from the beginning, he was my dog.

We learned to ride a bike together, with him running flat-out alongside. Dudley never really enjoyed playing ball, but at those games where neither parents nor brother could attend, I always had a fan. He would wait at the end of the dugout, watching and occasionally wagging his tail. I finally had to start tying him to the bench when he began following me into the outfield.

He didn't want to chase the rare ball that came my way-he just wanted to be with his human.

I never figured out why he hated swimming; with his parentage, it seemed odd, but he was a grand dog to have on fishing trips. He would let the world know if there was a snake nearby, but you never had to worry about him diving in and scaring the fish.

Dudley and I were much more than master and dog; we were buddies, and friends. We looked after one another.

When a dog down the street attacked me on my way to deliver papers, Dudley roared out of nowhere and sent him packing, although the other dog was much, much larger.

When an evil boy in our town half-blinded Dudley with a BB gun, and parents on both sides of the issue did nothing but talk, it was an angry boy who loved his dog who settled the issues with 12-year-old fists.

But most importantly, it was Dudley who kept me warm on cold nights beside the river; it was Dudley who sneaked his way into the bed often enough that Mother always made sure we were both covered when the big old house had no oil and ice was sheeting the windows. It was Dudley who walked with me to the bus stop, then made his way home every day, stopping occasionally to beg treats from soft-hearted little old ladies and the men at the barber shop.

Unless he was locked in the house, he would walk to the bus stop with me, regardless of the weather, until the town adopted a leash law and he a had to stay home. Even then, though, he would be waiting for me on the porch when I walked through the hedge screening our house from the street, his tail thumping against the porch and a smile on his face.

It was Dudley who ran a thousand miles beside his boy's bicycle, rode in the front seat of a smoky old pickup truck, and was always there when a heart was broken worse than any boy's ever could be.

I hope the young man from the other day has a lot of happy years with Caroline; he adopted so much more than a new puppy who will need a second worming, vaccinations, playtime, and a warm, safe place to sleep.

He has a new best friend, a companion, a buddy, and a partner for all the adventures that come with being a little kid.

In other words, regardless of the number of family pets in his home, he has his very first dog, and nothing can ever replace that.



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