Four years ago, just before Christmas in Ninilchik, Alaska, my wife and I awaited the arrival of my daughter and son-in-law who were driving south from that deep-freeze of the Interior called Fairbanks. They were both going to college at the time and now returning home for the holidays with a new German shorthair puppy that they had ordered and purchased from a kennel in Minnesota. The puppy they named “Sage” was arriving at the Ted Stevens International Airport in Anchorage.

Michelle and Reed were to pick up their new pup and continue on down the Seward and then Sterling Highways to Ninilchik, where Shirley and I waited to see the pointing dog breed that I had no previous experience with and had only read about in magazines like Gun Dog. We smiled and cooed over this cutest of puppies with the shortest of hair and an abundance of ticking as Michelle and Reed showed him off in our living room near the Christmas tree.

After hugs and kisses and the initial family welcomes were over, my son-in-law mentioned that he had left the dog dish and food on the front seat of the pickup, which was parked outside under a cold Alaskan sky dominated by the sparkle of the Big Dipper.

“Could you go out and get that for me, Dad?” he asked.

I headed outside without a coat, wearing only a pair of deck slippers, to make a quick grab. I opened the black Ford’s driver door and suddenly focused on a little black and white fur ball curled up on the cream colored chamois covering the seat. Though it barely raised its head and its eyes were half closed as it expelled a little yawn, I immediately recognized it as an English springer spaniel. Although a total surprise, I knew without a doubt that this little black and white bundle, colored more like a Holstein cow calf with oversized ears, was meant for me.

For a nanosecond I hesitated. My conscience struggled with some important soul searching questions. What about my older springer, Teddy, who was in the house being terrorized by the new little shorthair demon? Was I betraying him? What about my age (51)? Was I ready for a new dog? Did I have time to devote to training it? Did I really want another springer spaniel?

My son and I had discussed getting another dog, even possibly a German shorthair, when Reed and Michelle began their puppy search. John and I had even discussed names and came up with “Covey” and “Roxy” as our favorites, but ultimately decided against getting another dog. But I hesitated only for that nanosecond and then scooped the pup up in my arms and headed for the warmth of the woodstove inside. After two steps, his name was Covey and before I got to the door he was all mine.

I showed him off to the waiting, smiling family crowd in the Chihuly house and after he yelped and cried incessantly in his kennel for two hours, he spent the rest of the night curled up in bed with me. I’m really not a “touchy-feely” kind of guy and I have never believed in letting a dog sleep with me, let alone in the house, but that night we somehow formed a bond that has remained strong, loyal, and unwavering since his puppyhood. I didn’t plan it that way. It just happened and he has been one in a million.