I recently got a dog. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I got tired of walking through my yard as if it wasn’t a German mine field circa 1944. Maybe I thought chewed up shoes were going en vogue. It’s possible I didn’t want to be the only one in the house leaving hair all over.
I considered getting a cat. I’m just more of a dog person. I don’t mean that literally—I’m not a hybrid of a human and a hound. You (probably) don’t have to worry about me sniffing your crotch or humping your leg should we ever meet. I simply mean I prefer dogs over cats.
I guess I need the reassurance. I yearn for somebody to run excitedly in circles every time I come home as though I just completed a tour of duty in ‘Nam.
After all, dog is man’s best friend. I don’t know who originally said this, but I know two things about this person. First, he was a lonely, lonely man. Second, he got his dog already potty trained, because it’s hard to maintain best friend status with somebody who takes a bowel movement on your living room floor. Not that I’d know for certain. I can’t just assume that’s why my childhood friend, Jimmy, stopped returning my calls.
I didn’t “rescue” my dog. I’m under no pretense I’m gonna save the world one homeless puppy at a time. Besides, “rescue” is a strong term. Let’s not pretend the Ayatollah of Iran took Phoebe hostage and you had to lead a team navy seals to rescue her. You paid for her shots and a microchip. Get over yourself.
Sure, I could have rescued my dog and spent the rest of its life patting myself on the back. But I wanted to know with reasonable certainty what characteristics and temperament my dog would have.
I guess you could say I took a similar approach with my children. I could have adopted and played genetic roulette. There are all kinds of kids in need of a home. But I decided it was better to burden my kids with the same issues I have—‘cause I’ll be damned if my kids are genetically predisposed to be more happy than I am.
I guess that’s where the similarities between my kids and my dog end. For example, I don’t reward my kids if they defecate on my neighbor’s lawn. Nor did I neuter my son, a decision I have since questioned now that he’s in high school. I probably won’t sell my kids’ progeny either, although I’d like to keep my options open. It’s also relatively unlikely I’ll have to euthanize one of my kids someday.
The only thing worse than the guy who constantly refers to his dog as a rescue are the people who call their dog their “fur baby.”
Ma’am, I wouldn’t describe this relationship as you having a fur baby; I reckon that fur baby has a skin bitch. I don’t see Princess following you around with a plastic baggy in tow.
I almost forgot to mention I named my dog Gus. I should have named him Peeve. My new pet, Peeve.
