Several dogs and I have had relationships over the years. But only twice with a “Duke.”

The earliest one I can recall was a Pekingese with one eye, Pokey. He wasn’t that friendly.

Along came Midnight, a coal-black, long-haired fellow with a big personality who was very active for five-year-old me.

Susie was a Chihuahua. Mother loved that breed. Susie calmed my anxiety when I had asthma rather severely in the 1950s.

Old Blue was my blue tick coon hound for six months during high school.

In my practice marriage of the seventies, there were two rescues: Happy, a border collie who herded the kids to the school bus in the mornings and their homes in the evenings. And Puji.

Puji was a friend’s dog, who allegedly “hated” men. She had bitten more than one man in her day.

However, she and I bonded, and she regularly rode with me when I took the top off my Porsche 914 during the seventies and opened the ride up on the parkway—her flowing long hair breezing.

Later, my father and Mom would rehome Happy and Puji during his cancer treatments and my divorce.

There was Stimpy, the dog that saved me from me; Little Bit, the happiest water dog on Lake Barkley; Max, the big, lovable malamute who gently relocated voles and moles; and Louie, the 100^th dog trained by the women inmates of Eddyville.

And today, lying next to my desk and snoozing, is Calista, a black and graying poodle-terrier mix who adores her Dad and has PTSD as bad, if not worse, than his.

Only twice in my 74 years have I temporarily had a relationship with a “Duke.”

I always thought Duke was the name of every dog I should share life with.

Duke, just like John Wayne. A big dog with a calm personality. A dog among dogs. A dog who commands attention by just being there. A big dog. A service dog. A dog who knows every command and complies.

Interestingly, the first Duke came to me when my wife, Kay, and I were honeymooning at Pawley’s Island in October 1994.

A big yellow lab sashayed up to our rental and hung out most of the day. We watered and treated him. No collar. Friendly as can be.

Of course, I immediately named him Duke.

However, it was not to be. The owner came down the beach and called him by a name other than Duke, and with a look over his shoulder off, he went.

Then, one day,  my neighbor next to FArmstrong got arrested. His dog, or at least the one who lived there, the second Duke, entered my life for a temporary stay.

A lab, Great Pyrenees, a mix of some kind. An older, sweet dog with a winning personality. He had resided down the road for years.

We had seen him on our trail cams. One day, he walked by Brother Matt’s stand with a coyote in its mouth. A protector. A dog that, when he sat beside me, had a head above my waist.

He strolled up. We fed and treated him. We dosed him with flea and tick meds. He made his rounds. He wandered here and there. Far and wide. Food and water always greeted him at FArmstrong.

Even when Calista, the protector-service dog of small stature, ran him off, he returned.

Then, one day, Duke wasn’t to be seen for weeks. Concerned, sad, and chagrined I was. Until finally, the reveal. Duke found his forever home miles up the road from me.

And his choice couldn’t be better—a comfortable couch with an adoring mom. Duke, the monster-sized grinning and goofy dog, was now a lap dog, especially when the thunder booms.

Duke is happy. I am happy. And Calista, who still sleeps beside my chair as I write, is thrilled.

After all, if she weren’t already named Calista, “most beautiful and fairest” of the little black bitches, I would surely try to get her accustomed to the name Duke.

My time for such an adventure with a Duke grows shorter.