Having given birth to my daughter at 37—referred to as “a geriatric pregnancy”—with my daughter following the same pattern, I am not a young grandmother. But I bask in the feeling that comes over me as I hold this infant. It reminds me of holding my own babies—a daughter followed by identical twin sons—and the profound sense of being settled, at peace, with a baby or two nuzzling against my chest.

I don’t sleep well this night; the mattress is unforgiving and my hips begin to ache. But I must have managed to fall asleep because, near dawn, I awake from a startling dream. In it, a puppy is sitting on my chest staring at me. He is light brown with curly hair, wearing a red-checked bandana. Bandanas on dogs are not my style—but here he is, and I ask myself, “Is this what I want for my birthday?” My body responds with a resounding “Yes,” every cell resonating with the idea.

My partner for the past twenty years is a planner, someone who thinks ahead, and although my 75th birthday is still four months away, he has already asked me what I want. I have no answer. I already have all the material goods I need, and I have no use for a new sweater or another piece of jewelry. But there it is—in a waking dream—I want a puppy.

This will not go over well; Michael is a creature of habit, and he will see a puppy as a disrupter of our ordered life. During the pandemic, we developed a rhythm, enjoying home-cooked meals, taking long walks in a nearby forested park, watching endless series and occasional movies on TV, and joining frequent zooms with friends and family. He had no desire to make any changes in our post-pandemic life.

I drive home later that day to tell him about my birthday wish. As expected, he cannot imagine anything worse, and he finds it hard to accept that I am serious. We table this issue as I, too, am surprised by my strong desire. A puppy will require time and effort as well as expense: housebreaking, walking, finding a trainer (my previous dogs were unruly and I am determined to do it differently this time around). I agree to let it go and see if the desire diminishes. It doesn’t. It returns with an insistence that draws me to the internet to search for dogs recommended for seniors—dogs who don’t bark much, who are smart, easily trained, and good with families. Doodles—the designer dogs now so popular—keep appearing. And then I see him: the dog who visited me in my dream is a Cavapoo, a mix of a Cavalier King Charles spaniel and a miniature poodle. In a few of the photos, he is even wearing a bandana.

Michael and I, both divorced from long-term marriages, have avoided many battles by creating a policy: Whoever wants something the most should, when possible, have it. Arguing over desires is not productive, and if it’s within reason, the one who is less desirous, totally disinterested, or even actively opposed should simply give in.

He does.

As I wrestle with the question of why at seventy-five I want a dog, I come to see that the desire is based on wanting to care for a new life, in wanting the last chapter of my life to include an alive, eager, sustaining presence. I cannot expect my granddaughter to fulfill that desire. She is wonderful, and being with her is deeply satisfying, but she has her own parents and will have her own life. A dog, however, can. He or she can accompany us, get us outside, curl up on the couch and watch movies or binge on series with us, and, if we are lucky, even grow old with us.

I have lived for three-quarters of a century. Three chapters lived fully and well. If I have one more remaining, I know what I want in it.

One year later….

Sasha, our year-old puppy, has taken to heading up to bed before we do. Often, after dinner, while we are reading or watching TV, he jumps off the couch and trots up to the bedroom. He stretches out his body, long and languorous, on top of the bedcovers, as if he is basking in the sun. But it’s nighttime, it’s dark outside; the only light comes from the bedside lamp bathing the room in a yellowish glow. Underneath the lamp on my night table are all those common items one needs as one ages: a water bottle, cream to be applied to sore muscles, evening meds, a cell phone, a box of tissues.

But he is oblivious. His curly auburn hair, recently shaved, is beginning to grow back. We suspect that his long floppy ears and his wavy coat come from his mother, the Cavalier King Charles spaniel, his intelligence from his father, the miniature poodle. His chest has a white streak that matches his small white beard, almost a goatee—he’s really rather distinguished.

I lean over, press my face into his neck and whisper, “You are such a sweet boy. You are my best boy. I love you, I do.” I inhale deeply, allowing his musky scent to fill my nostrils, to invade my body. He opens his eyes, looks directly at me and rolls over onto his back, raising his front legs next to his head and bending his paws at the wrist as if in supplication, as if begging for a belly rub. I comply, massaging his chest. His hind legs are splayed out on both sides, exposing his penis; having been neutered, it’s flaccid, no sexual arousal possible. But to me this is an intimate moment. I run my hands along his lower body, the soft fur on the inner part of his hind legs. He lies there so calm and trusting. His posture is so vulnerable that my heart breaks. In the world of humans, I wonder, who knows such trust? Who can be so completely open?

On the night table are all those objects meant to soothe, to provide sustenance for thirst, for bodily aches and pain, for warding off illness, for contact with the world. But this puppy, this sweet trusting animal, offers so much more.

Psychic Ancestry: A Magical Link to the Past Using Unconventional Methods

by Terri Blair

  A uniquely thrilling, first-person account of what happens when traditional ancestry research and psychic skills merge. It begins with a whisper from Terri’s long dead great-grandmother, as she steps into a labyrinth on a hot summer day: “You must write our stories.” It makes her wonder, who was her great-grandmother? And who were her ancestors? Terri’s troubled childhood left her disinterested in her family history. But with this beckoning from beyond, she decides to investigate. As research into her heritage deepens and conventional methods fail to provide all the answers, she begins to see a way to use her psychic skills to connect directly with those who came before her. A cast of characters emerges. From servants, inventors, psychics, sea captains, and whiskey barrel makers to enslavers and Freemasons, her ancestors step forward. They all have stories to tell. Terri's psychic skills push the boundaries of what is possible in ancestry research. Misconceptions about the paranormal and psychic mediums are explored and explained in a practical manner. Honest, heartfelt, and inspiring, this tale may spark your interest in discovering your roots and exploring your own psychic potential. “I loved the interplay between traditional genealogical research and the author’s own psychic discoveries. Terri Blair weaves together the present with the past in this beautiful story of her own family’s history. I recommend this book for a dreamy walk through life and the afterlife.” — Amazon Reviewer Available from Amazon, Bookshop, Barnes and Noble, and your local independent bookseller.

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