I grew up in an apartment in Flushing, a part of New York City.  We were not allowed to have a dog or cat.  So my first pet was a turtle named Chopper because he ate chopped hamburger meat.  When he died, the funeral consisted of being placed in my father’s Parliament cigarette box and being unceremoniously thrown down the incinerator chute.  I screamed, so my father lit another cigarette. Aside from my first dog, Winston, my dogs have all been from Humane Societies and rescue groups.  Molly, my ten-year old Newfoundland was given away in the wake of the Gulf Coast Hurricanes.  Dog evacuees faced bureaucratic hoops, too. Continental Airlines would give ...