Cynthia McIntire

I am currently in my spring semester of freshman year and I grew up like most other American middle class families. I have two parents, one sister, and a dog. Of all my family members, I would have to say my dog contributes the most to who I am today. His name is Clark, and he is a big question mark when it comes to talking about what breed he is. I first met my furry little friend in second grade when my parents were going through a divorce and we were going to be living with him. My mother isn’t a fan of animals, and since she was moving out, my sister and I saw their divorce as an opportunity to get a dog. So we struck a deal with my dad, and told him we would take care of him and I would even get allergy shots (because I’m allergic). So about a month after starting my shots, which were terribly painful, we got a call from my aunt. She told us about her friend who had a foster home for cats and dogs. The next thing I knew, we were on our way to a house in the middle of nowhere to adopt one of their dogs. One by one we looked at each of them until we came across the skinniest, ugliest dog of them all, Clark. He was fur and bone when we first got him and was the most timid and shy thing in the world, but after some coercion and treats he warmed up to us and let us pet him. It was something about the way his big brown eyes could peer into your soul and warm your heart. It was at that moment that we knew that we knew, he was the one. From hiding loafs of bread under our trampoline to resting his chin on my lap to beg for food, he is my best friend and I would not be who I am without him.