Things I’ll
Never be When I Grow Up:
A dog owner,
probably.
I’ve always considered myself an animal lover. I grew up
with a veritable menagerie of critters. My childhood was populated with cats,
dogs, horses, chickens, ferrets, rats, fish, and one temperamental cockatiel (who
we found scattered across the front lawn after she “got out of her cage” following a particularly
hostile encounter with my father).
I volunteered at the Humane Society. I watched hours of
Animal Planet, convinced I would grow up to be an emergency vet. I frequently
imagined living on a vast tract of land with my 30+ rescue dogs. We would take
long walks, and spend evenings sprawled across various pieces of furniture, basking
in the rosy glow of companionship and unconditional love.
As an adult, I have been responsible for the physical and
emotional well-being of exactly two dogs. Kenzii, a 45 pound ball of neurosis and skin allergies lives in Colorado with my ex-girlfriend. I follow her on
facebook and send tennis balls for Christmas. Deejo now lives with a nice family on
a farm [Note: this is not code for
euthanasia, he really does live just outside of Hamilton, Montana!].
Deejo came into my life at a strange junction. I had
recently graduated college, lived in my first dog-friendly house, and worked at
a doggy daycare. I’d managed to keep That Cat alive for over a year, and felt
like dog ownership was the next step in my development as an Adult Human. I
knew Deejo through the daycare, and when I heard he needed a new home it felt
like the stars were aligning. It was fate! Adopting him was the only logical
thing to do.
I realized my mistake almost immediately.
First of all, Deejo and That Cat couldn’t be left alone together. Nor could Deejo really be left alone at all. Every time I left the room his hellish wailing would follow me. He’d mastered a particularly heart-wrenching, high pitched death knell. Something akin to a baby seal that has just been bludgeoned. Our second problem: Deejo loved me. Unconditionally. Endlessly and obsessively. This proved to be our undoing.
I hit my breaking point five months in. Waking up before my
alarm one morning I could feel Deejo’s adoring gaze boring into me over the
edge of the bed. He’d been watching me sleep. He wanted to be
the only thing I saw when I opened my eyes. Staring at the ceiling, my first
cognizant thought of the day was I would
rather kill myself than deal with you right now. Second thought: Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? I can’t
do this anymore.
It took a lot to swallow my pride and admit I wasn’t cut out
for dog ownership. But re-homing Deejo was one of the more responsible choices I’ve
made in my adult life. Someday I may have the emotional capacity to
unconditionally love and be loved by another living thing. Until then That Cat
and I will continue peripherally respecting each other.
A sea otter, a lemur,
or any other carefree, non-human critter.
This notion sneaks up on me with surprising frequency.
Throughout middle school my sister and I spent summers visiting
my grandmother in Gilroy, California. Annual traditions included the classic
car show, rollercoasters at the Santa Cruz boardwalk, and a day at the Monterey
Bay Aquarium. I was infatuated by the sea otters. Otters spend the majority of
their day sleeping, grooming themselves, and eating. They hold hands while they
sleep to keep themselves anchored. If I were an otter I’d have to eat 35-40
pounds of food per day to maintain my body weight. As a bottomless pit, this fact
is the most convincing argument for otter-dom anybody could ever present me.
I unearthed my previously hidden desire to be a lemur fairly
recently. While scrolling through Tumblr I stumbled across a
photoset of these big-eyed, arboreal freaks bounding through the treetops,
chowing down on fresh fruit, and sleepily sunbathing the day away. I was distraught
enough to text a friend. I’m not sure how I would go about comforting an adult
friend after receiving this text on a Tuesday afternoon: “I’ll never be a lemur
:(“ Should the opportunity present itself, I hope I handle it with even a fraction
of her poise and compassion.
I’ll never leap majestically from tree to tree in the
rainforests of Madagascar. I’ll never float languidly in a sheltered ocean harbor,
eating shellfish freshly harvested from the ocean floor. I just won’t.
These realizations are predictable, and perfectly
devastating.
A former child star.
 |
| Source: http://wildlife.ucsc.edu/ |
I am frequently baffled by the concept
that I am a full-grown, adult human being. I work as an administrative
professional. I own a car, and pay its registration and insurance. I’ve kept a
plant alive for over five years. I have friends with spouses, children, and
retirement plans. This probably signifies some sort of accomplishment; the business
of keeping myself alive. 25 years and still going strong!
It also means I’ve successfully managed to dodge certain
bullets. For example, I’ll never be a former child star. I’ll never be on a “WhereAre They Now?” top 40 list.
Nobody will mindlessly flip through my Before/After pictures wondering what
went wrong. They won’t shake their heads and mourn my lost innocence. If I end
up in rehab, it will be the regular kind. My recovery won’t be exploited for
public consumption.
I’ll also never be a prepubescent millionaire ala Macaulay
Culkin… I guess you win some, you lose some.
-b
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