One time I started to write a book I called “Animal Passion,” a history of my marriage in pets. The first chapter, about an extraordinary collie/German shepherd mix we’d adopted during our student days on a cattle farm in Virginia, appeared in the Oxford American, for which I was most grateful.
Somewhere in Chapter Four, however, given our half-century of marriage and the number of animals we’d owned — dogs, cats, eventually horses and cows — it became clear that the fool thing would end up longer than “Don Quixote,” and I abandoned the project.
