When you’re a grandparent, you want only the best for the newest addition to the family. That’s why my wife, Sue, and I went shopping in anticipation of baby’s first visit and came home with everything the little one needs, including a bowl for food, one for water, a stick for teething, a bag of treats for snacks, toys for playing, a leash for walking and, for cleanup duty, a pooper scooper.

As you can tell, we would spare no expense for our beautiful, loving and exuberant granddog, Opal.

She’s a rescue, a tan-and-white dynamo, a Chihuahua who is about 7 months old, tips the scales at 9 pounds and has brightened the lives of our younger daughter, our son-in-law and two of our granddaughters, who have fallen under the spell of puppy love and readily acknowledge that Opal is almost as much fun as their grandfather.

The main difference is that it took me a lot longer to be housebroken.

Opal is the third pooch our daughter has brought into the family.

The first was Lizzie, who came into our lives when our daughter, who was then 12, brought home a little black-and-white puppy that a friend’s neighbor had given to her. The woman told our daughter that if we didn’t want the dog, she would take her back. Otherwise, she was ours.

We fell in love with the pup, took her to the vet for an exam and adopted her.

Two weeks later, the woman called to say she wanted the dog back. Our daughter was in tears. I got on the phone. Words were exchanged. Threats were made. A custody battle ensued.

Finally, in an effort to be fair, and mature, and reasonable, I told the woman I had veto power.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“If you don’t let us keep the dog,” I replied very calmly, “I am going to call my Uncle Vito.”

And that is how Lizzie became a beloved member of our family.

She also was this man’s best friend. Our adventures were legendary.

Lizzie, a mix of Lab, border collie and terrier, first gained fame as the winner of the Pooch Who Can Smooch contest at Puttin’ on the Dog, the annual fundraiser for Adopt-a-Dog in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Then there was the time I had to brush Lizzie’s teeth. (Her breath smelled like a bean supper with the windows closed.) And the time, after reading about Sonya Fitzpatrick, TV’s “Pet Psychic,” I tried to determine if Lizzie had extrasensory powers. (Sue thought I was “The Pet Psycho.”) And the time Lizzie actually beat me in a blackjack tournament. (I’m not playing with a full deck.) And the time I took her to New York City to meet Lassie. (The canine superstars got along famously.)

Lizzie, who lived to be almost 15, proved that the best things in life are free.

After she got her own place, our daughter adopted our first granddog, a puppy rescue she named Maggie, a black-and-white whippet mix who was energetic, affectionate and hungry. Always, always hungry. She wolfed down food (dog and human) faster than any wolf, but she kept, for the most part, her girlish figure.

When our daughter’s first baby was born, Maggie took on the role of proud big sister. She also was very protective. God help any repair person who came over. I should mention that Maggie was loud, too.

If any dog had a literal appetite for life, it was Maggie, who, like Lizzie, was deeply loved and lived to be a canine senior citizen.

Now there’s Opal, a youngster who is sweet, smart and another beloved member of the family.

One of these days, when we’re out for a walk, I’ll tell her all about Uncle Vito.

©2025 Tribune Content Agency, LLC