production and editorial staff, were always prompt and helpful, and I was so reassured to have such able colleagues at the other end of the line. Getting copyedited is an educational and humbling experience. I want to thank Suzanne Wolk for her care and diligence in making my prose as clear and lively as possible. It was a pleasure working with her. Editor-in-chief Kendra Boileau’s sense of humor and creativity in moving my manuscript toward approval and publication proved a powerful ally in helping me keep perspective, and I am grateful for her professionalism and humanity at every stage of the journey.
Officials at James Madison University provided subvention support, which I gratefully acknowledge: David Jeffrey, dean of the College of Arts and Letters; Ken Newbold, director of Research and Development; A. Jerry Benson, provost; and Mark Parker, chair of the Department of English.
As I was completing the manuscript, our family dog, Rascal, was suddenly taken ill. He was my daughter’s dog, a sweet-natured retriever-collie mix that she raised from puppyhood. She came home from college to be with him and us when we made the difficult decision to put him to sleep. I have not altered the textual references to him, however, wanting to keep him alive a little longer that way.
My husband, Todd Hedinger, managed to keep his composure when I kept buying pictures, and he was often the first admiring audience for a new find. He also endorsed my unexpected request to adopt two older dogs—dachshunds—after Rascal died. Now I wonder how we lived without Louie and Cobe. Todd, for your loving support of my creative bents, which certainly required an adventuresome spirit in our marriage, thank you!
Finally, I include a warm acknowledgment to Anneke Schroen, Carmel Nail, Christiana Brenin, and Amanda Lane at the University of Virginia’s Emily Couric Clinical Cancer Center. Their combined skills in 2004 and subsequent years made it possible for me to be writing these words.
INTRODUCTION
[Romancing the Dog]
I come from a family of picture takers and storytellers, and after a while it is difficult to tell the words from the pictures. The pictures begin with my Grandpa Morey, who wasn’t much for words but who had a mechanical and technological intelligence that was quick to recognize the potential of the camera. Like many people of their time, my grandparents were minimally educated but schooled for a lifetime of hard work, stemming from their rural upbringing. Both of my grandparents Morey were employed by the Agricultural and Industrial School in Industry, New York (near Rochester), a facility run by the New York State Department of Corrections that housed juvenile delinquents who served time in this benign “cottage system” for six months to a year. Alice Elizabeth (White) Morey was the housemother who cooked and cleaned for a dormitory of miscreants. Ibra Franklin Morey, a shop teacher at the facility, lived virtually in the shadow of Eastman Kodak, and had even worked as a machinist at Kodak before moving to Industry. Grandpa Ibra passed on his visual intelligence to his only son, my father, who has taken and developed pictures all his life. Dad works only in black and white, on the grounds that it is the true revelatory mode for photography.
Both of my parents are storytellers, however, so both have conspired to create memorable images whose genesis is neither picture nor text, but both. My mother is the daughter of a Free Methodist minister who traveled the coast from Florida to Georgia during the Depression, hauling his family from one poverty-stricken post to another. There are virtually no photographs of her childhood, which might explain the wealth of words at her disposal. Her stories are El Greco grotesques, embellished by her gimlet eye for detail, records of a South and a religious framework that have largely disappeared. A scientist by training, she has an acute sense of observation that extends from the human to the animal world, and because she loves animals, she naturally constructed memorable stories about the family pets along the way to preserving the larger moments of family history.
My dad has a gift for verbal snapshots, and he has created memorable images of my Canadian great-grandmother and the hardscrabble farm that was a summer home for him. In an unpublished memoir, he describes the scene in figure 3 as indicative of his grandmother’s ingenuity in finding things for him to do:
One of those jobs was that of “breaking” calves to a halter. At milking time I fed the calves, holding a bucket of separated milk under their noses while they drank, at which time they would frequently buck the pail and slop quantities of milk over me. Grandmother’s solution was to have me teach the calf to lead and to that end she had me tie a rope around the calf’s neck and the other end around the neck of our faithful dog Sailor. Of course this made for a totally unmanageable situation and I found I was neither strong nor heavy enough to counter the wildly bucking calf and the bewildered dog. Nevertheless I was quite serious about training the calf to walk on the end of a rope, for what good purpose it never occurred to me to ask.
Dad’s stories preserve a sense of a childhood at once rare (not many middle-class boys grow up with juvenile delinquents for playmates) and filled with longing for a childhood no longer possible, if it ever existed at all. Except that it does, now, because the pictures and the stories have made it so, and it took both words and images to make this happen.
As a child, I pored over the family photograph albums created by my young parents, who, like most parents, documented less and less as time went on. The pictures that fascinated me most were the ones of my beautiful young parents and their dogs. Probably the largest photo in our family album is of Lord Jim, a black and red dachshund out of CH Favorite von Marienlust from the Heying-Teckel kennels. He was purchased on Valentine’s Day 1947 and renamed Cupid, or Cupie. My parents were proud of his lineage, for Cupie’s sire was a world champion. Several years later, Cupie was joined by a peasant companion, a dowdy red female dachshund named Mitzi, whose biography included the romance of rescue from abuse. Although our extended family has owned several dachshunds, clever, good-looking Cupie (fig. 4) was the ur-dog, setting a narrative and visual standard for canine achievement that no other dog could approximate. Cupie did have a short-lived predecessor, however, who adds a significant visual to the family romance with dogs.
FIGURE 3
Don Morey and Sailor. Snapshot, 1929, 10 × 6.1 cm. Photograph by Ibra F. Morey. Harlowe, Ontario.
In figure 5, my parents are standing at the backdoor of Huron, one of the cottages on the grounds of Industry. It is September 1946, they are posing for my Grandpa Ibra, and they have been married just a few days. My mother is slim and proud in her elegant dressing gown and slippers, my dad resplendent in a satin-trimmed bathrobe and unscuffed slippers. The foliage behind them—cannas and morning glories—suggests a garden, and the embrace of mature trees as part of the frame indicates an unseen lawn. In the palm of my mother’s hand, sitting upright and begging for a treat, is their miniature dachshund, Buddy von Hixel. My mother and father are smiling at each other and the dog, and their hands are joined through the dog.
FIGURE 4
Cupie. Snapshot, 1950s, 14.4 × 17.2 cm. Photograph by Donald F. Morey. Los Angeles, California.
I never saw them this way; no child ever does. We catch up with our parents in the grueling middle, and sometimes the lost brightness is irrevocable. In that sense, this picture is like a glimpse of a lovely garden that has since been forfeited. To add to the poignancy of the moment, Buddy died months
