When I think of the dogs I’ve had in my life — my boyhood pooch, Daisy; my adulthood companion, Lizzie; and my granddog, Maggie — the thing I remember best is they were always happy to see me. And they proved it by barking excitedly and slobbering all over my pants.
They were the world’s greatest greeters. If they had worked in a restaurant, in which case the joint would have closed the next day because they ate all the profits, they’d be called maitre dogs.
Now there’s another woofing welcomer in my life. His name is Bunker, and he’s a toy poodle who works at Bridge Lane Tasting Room, where my wife, Sue, and I are wine club members.
