I woke up with Moe on the mind.

My dog Moe, was not the first Moe in my life. The Three Stooges notwithstanding, the only other Moe I ever knew was my father’s law partner, who unknowingly was instrumental in my lifelong love affair with dogs, beginning when I was 6 years old.

I’m certain that if not for that Moe, there might not have been this Moe cuddling next to me.

In the fall of 1961, just as our country was embarking on an exciting new frontier with the election of our new president, John Kennedy, my own family stepped boldly into the unknown with the acquisition of our very first dog.

Or more aptly, we got wangled into taking home a little short-haired dachshund that leapt not only onto our furniture but right into our hearts.

Eventually.

Moe Foyer and my father shared an office in industrial Long Island City, not far from my grandfather’s Pawnshop. Long before this place got taken over by a thicket of glass condo towers, it was a mostly grimy industrial area.

Moe was a beefy Queens native, a local glad-handling, well-connected politician, who used his formidable political skills to convince my very reluctant father that our family needed a dog.

A dachshund, to be precise.

Hot Diggety Dog

This 9-month-old wiener dog with the noble name of Prince belonged to his adult daughter, Sherrie. A budding career gal who lived at home with Moe and his wife, she was taking the big step of moving into the city. With an English Lit degree from Barnard and excellent typing skills, she had scored a plumb job as secretary at Doubleday. Because the new apartment building on the Upper East Side had a strict no-pet policy, the dog had to go.

Moe had a firm idea where the dog should end up.

With the tenacity of a terrier, Moe chewed off my father’s ear, convincing him that a pet dog was just what my nuclear family was missing, and invited us to take a look. To get Moe off his back, Dad reluctantly agreed to meet the dog.

My parents made it clear to my brother and me that no real decision had been made regarding this life-altering addition to our family.

This was strictly a look-see.

Queens Bound in Pursuit of a Prince

On a brisk November evening, we drove to their home in Jamaica Estates.  Though now the neighborhood is best known as the birthplace of Donald Trump, whose childhood Tudor Style home was less than a mile from Moes, I will always associate it with Prince.

“Just looking,” my mother cheerfully made clear. But with the skill of a seasoned litigator, before we knew it, Moe had handed us not only a yapping dog on a leash, but Prince’s metal feeding bowls, a stash of pedigree papers, and a rubber Snoopy chew toy.

Shell-shocked, we piled back into our large Plymouth and drove home with the rambunctious dog wriggling between my brother and me in the backseat.  I was equal parts overjoyed and frightened by this high-energy pup.

Once home, the short-legged dog maniacally raced laps around the house nonstop as though it was the Indy Five Hundred. Frightened, we all safely sequestered ourselves into our bedrooms. Behind closed doors, my mother was not shy about letting her feelings be known to my father. The not-so-muffled sound of my mother’s displeasure at the swiftness of this decision could be heard over the barking of the dog.

But for whatever reason, the dog was allowed to stay.

Keeping the dog was possibly the best decision ever made in my childhood. Prince became the center of our lives, as all my future dogs would become.

Thoroughly besotted, I learned early on from Prince the pure goodness of a dog, their unflinching, unconditional love. The companionship a furry friend provided to a shy, often scared little girl was lifesaving. In a house where there was often disruption and betrayal, the loyalty and steadiness of a dog were incalculable.

Prince became an emotional support dog long before that term became fashionable.

We may not have been initially prepared for Prince, but Prince prepared me for a lifelong love from God’s most amazing creatures.