Boxers Are the Best

Newton, age 2, and Dexter, 6.

Two boxers live in our house. Dexter I inherited from my brother who died. Dexter barks at the mailman and is blind in one eye. He’s named after the street in Seattle that my grandparents used to live on (I would love to buy that house and move in, but that’s another post). Dexter sleeps with his tongue sticking out. He once chewed the arm off of a leather couch, which was perplexing until the couch went in for repair and the repairman found a tennis ball stuck inside. Dexter came from Santa Barbara, California, and we sometimes joke that we took him away from life as a movie star’s dog, complete with his own nanny and custom doggy swimming pool.

We liked Dexter so much we got him a doppelganger. Newton’s actually smaller than Dexter, so we call him the three-quarters boxer. He came from the rough side of our Colorado town and he’s got a wee bit of a temper. He’s bonded to my husband beyond belief. He chews up my shoes as protest when I leave town; last week he got two of them. He’s also the sweetest, lickiest, happiest dog I know.

Boxers.

Happy sigh.

Life’s so much better with dogs.