Let's get something straight: I'm not a dog person. This is thanks to many traumatic moments as a child being chased by the evil Schnautzer across the street, and being terrorized by the Cocker Spaniel on my paper route, and especially thanks to the German Shepherd two doors down who wanted to kill me, and maybe even a little because of the wolf which the German Shepherd people had for less than a week, possibly, until the rumor went around that it had taken a bite out of a child. I was terrified of dogs. Especially big ones. Especially German Shepherds. Also, I am a germaphobe. Dogs are germ factories. This is not to say my family didn't have a dog of our own when I was growing up: a sweet-tempered little wiry-haired mixed-breed terrier born in the hollow at the base of our cherry tree when I was five. He lived under the plum trees near the garden and his name was Skippy. Don't make fun. We got it from those Dick and Jane readers (my brother was six and learning ...