A previous ramble through old family photos turned up a random but almost invariable inclusion of a rooster. My latest tour through the yellowing files shows that dogs might be even more prevalent.

There is my grandfather, Homer W. Robertson, relaxing with the famous Jan, who I never met but whose name I heard often enough that I remember it even today.

There is my great-grandmother with child and dog in tow.

Poor Aunt Barbara Carol Robertson never was able to speak but it made no difference to her friends.

And the only photograph I have my father, Bob Robertson, and stepmother Pat from their dogless Peace Corps days, shows that with the help of their assistant, Aydín, they found a friend somewhere in a dusty province of western Turkey.

And then, after retirement to Santa Fe, there was Mus, short for Mustafa, walking with Dad and Pat down the Rito Valdez toward Mora Flats in the Pecos Wilderness.





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