There was nothing about the little black puppy to suggest what kind of a dog she would grow into, or what her future would be like. Elizabeth had found the puppy on the website of a rescue organization halfway across the state, and I offered to go take a look before my friend adopted a puppy that might be sick or emotionally damaged.

To tell the truth, I didn’t expect much. The puppy rescue was poorly funded and located in a small town in eastern Washington where the Columbia River snakes thru the sagebrush-strewn desert. Many of the dogs in this rural area live on the fringes of farms or migrant laborer camps, and healthcare for pets is a foreign luxury.

When Elizabeth and I reached the meeting spot, a member of the adoption group pulled a box of nondescript puppies from the back of a well-worn pickup truck. For a moment, I thought we had stumbled into a country song. But as soon as the woman from the puppy rescue started to tell us about the litter it was clear that she was experienced and conscientious. She had started fostering the mother dog when her puppies were only five weeks old. At six weeks the puppies had their first vaccinations and a dose of worming medication. At seven weeks, the puppies were ready to leave their mother and find new homes.

Upon examining the black female puppy (all of the other pups had already been spoken for), my first thought was how appealing all puppies are at this age. I lifted the canine cutie to my eye level to see how she responded, and she just relaxed and looked at me quizzically. As I ran my hands over her, she had enough flesh on her bones to confirm that the mother had fed her pups well. Despite her dubious background, she appeared to be a very healthy puppy.

Once Elizabeth had finished the adoption paperwork, she took the puppy in her arms and decided that she looked like a “Charlie”, despite being a female. During the three-hour ride home, Charlie just curled up on Elizabeth’s lap while I drove. A new adventure was starting for all of us.

A happy childhood, whether real or imagined, is one of life’s greatest gifts. As children our needs are taken care of, surrounded by a loving family. Every day is filled with play and new discoveries. Our memories are fresh, each moment captured in glowing amber to be savored in later years when our lives seem burdensome by comparison. A happy childhood fills both the youthful present and the aging future with rich experience and emotion.

Of course, we also blame childhood trauma and neglect for our anxieties and the dysfunctions of our adult lives. Even though the “blame it on my childhood” excuse is a psychoanalytical cliché, it may very well be accurate. Consider the following research from a few of the