Happy birthday, Edith!

Edith Wharton, one of my favorite authors, was born today in 1862. In searching for a photo to post, I was delighted to find this image from a New Yorker piece published last year (although I strongly disagree with its title).

I use Wharton's quote as this blog's tagline, "My little dog—a heartbeat at my feet," and I vaguely remember visiting her pet cemetery at The Mount on a trip I took nearly 20 years ago. But for all my interest in Wharton, I never realized she was such a dog lover (much less a founding member of the ASPCA). This thoughtful post from Flavorwire confirms it:

But Edith Wharton’s love of her dogs really eclipses all others. Her passionless marriage to her husband, Teddy Wharton, may have had something to do with the fact that Wharton’s dogs served as both her companions and her children—but her love for her canine friends went deeper, even, than that.

It's a bit thrilling and yet comical to relate to a mega literary idol in such a personal way. When she finished her work for the day, did Edith take a nap snuggled up with Mimi, her chihuahua? Did she twirl the soft fur behind her dogs' ears when struggling with writer's block? As I type, my left elbow rests on the curve of Chewie's warm back, silently supporting me, always. I like imagining a similar scenario at the Mount. 

Happy birthday, Edith. I endeavor to keep the literary dog tradition alive and well.