A Breed is Born

People admire my dog, which makes me happy. Then they ask what she is--by which they mean what her breed is. The correct answer is, "We're not really sure." Perhaps followed by, "We think there's some pointer, maybe some dalmatian, and perhaps some kangaroo." You can tell who's listening by who raises an eyebrow at that last--unless they've seen Emily levitate effortlessly over another dog in the middle of a scrum. Why does everyone need to classify my perfectly amiable mutt?

So the other day I told the woman who asked that Emily is a Moldavian Jumping Dog. "Ah!" She nodded sagely. "Wonderful." I am wondering if, six years from now, someone in the park will say of the Em-dog, "is she part Moldavian Jumping Dog?"

She's the first of her breed. And given that she was spade before we got her, she is also the last. The one and only.