There’s a snapshot on my bulletin board of my youngest daughter, Rachel, just after she turned 11. Her long blond hair unbrushed after a day on the ski hill, she kneels beside a white whelping box, holding a three-day-old pup in her small hands. Her face shines with a big smile.

That was our introduction to Meggie, a golden retriever who — along with her brother Roch — has been part of our lives for the past 11 years. On that late December day, Rachel decided on contact that Meg should join our family.

That winter was a very special one in our neighbourhood. Our friend Loretta had a breeding female, Guinness, who gave birth to 10 puppies just after Christmas. The neighbourbood children — and their parents — took over Loretta’s small Cabbagetown rowhouse and the puppies were rarely without company. When their little legs could carry them, the puppies had children to climb over, shoe laces to tug and laps to sleep in.

I agreed willingly to bringing Meg home when she was old enough. At that point, we had an eight-year-old golden retriever, Max. I could see a point ahead at which Kate, our oldest daughter, would head for university and Max would die and the house would seem very empty. Rachel’s Meg would help fill the void.

What I didn’t bargain on was Roch. After five to six weeks of camping out at Loretta’s, we became attached to a second ball of fluff. So, when it came time for the puppies to go to their new homes, Roch came to ours.

Three dogs?

“Well,” said my husband, Norm, “if you are going to have two, what difference does it make if you have three?”

I could see the frailties of this argument, but, I must admit, I was pretty attached to Roch by this point, and the prospect of bringing Meg home and leaving him behind didn’t seem likely.

I came across another photo recently of Kate, then 15, and Rachel, puppies tucked into their ski team jackets, walking down the street bringing Meg and Roch home.

It was a lot of fun having two puppies. We have pictures of puppies playing, puppies sleeping, puppies hanging out with Max, puppies hanging out with various family members. (Did I mention my husband is a professional photographer?) Even when they reached their senior years, we called them “the puppies.”

But that era is coming to an end. Roch was diagnosed with bone cancer at Thanksgiving and died a few weeks ago. Easter weekend we found out that Meg, too, has bone cancer. Hopefully, she will be with us for a few months yet.

I must admit, I am thinking about a new puppy. After all, for the past 19 years, I have started most mornings with a long walk — at the park, in the Don River valley or at the beach — with at least one dog. Some days, my walk with the dogs was the only exercise and fresh air that I got.

And for the past 19 years, there has been at least one dog thrilled when I came home — even if I was a little late. Who will welcome me home with unbridled enthusiasm?

My husband, on the other hand, is determined that these are our last dogs. He seems to feel I have had my way for the past 20 years and that he should have his for the next 20. I am not sure I buy into that, but I haven’t come up with the winning argument for having another dog — yet, at least.

I guess I’ll have to get Norm up to go on those early morning walks with me. After a couple of months of that, he’ll be ready for a puppy.

—TESSA WILMOTT, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF