The reactions varied from amused to horrified when I informed people I was getting a puppy.
“A puppy? What kind of puppy” they’d either demand suspiciously or squeal excitedly, depending on how they took the news.
“A Doberman puppy! 7 months old!” I’d exclaim, exclamatory, hoping to assuage their fears and stoke their excitement. At this point Carly almost always felt obligated to step in with a “But really the term ‘puppy’ is kind of misleading. She comes up to here.” Holding a hand flat near waist-level.
“Well yeah” I’d concede, “I mean sure. Mila weighs like 65 pounds. But she’s the sweetest little thing!”
Several years ago I reached the conclusion I wasn’t really a “Dog Person”. Hold the horrified gasps and let me state for the record: I love dogs. Hell, until I was twelve I wanted to be a dog. I’d lumber around the house on hands and knees, diligently sniffing every houseplant and burying the remote control under couch pillows.
I spent hours memorizing dog breed encyclopedias, fantasizing about Rover’s Rescue Resort: a giant parcel of land where I would grant society’s outcast dogs a second chance. I imagined dogs lifted from hopeless and meaningless existences transformed into doting canine companions under my stern but gentle leadership. I figured thirty dogs was a good place to start, after that I might need to hire help.
I grew up with dogs. Big dogs. Rottweilers and Labradors with their blocky heads, guileless slobbering smiles, and boundless energy. When I left my parents’ house for college I longed for nights curled up by the woodstove with the dog and a book. I missed long, rambling walks with nowhere to be but everything to discover.
Then I worked in a Doggie Daycare. Every day I was surrounded by dogs. Herding dogs, hunting dogs, companion dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, and everything in between. Barking dogs, humping dogs. Dogs that ate poop, and dogs that ate puke. To say nothing of the dogs that puked up the poop that they’d eaten. There were dogs obsessed with tennis balls, and dogs obsessed with dogs-obsessed-with-tennis-balls. Now, I loved my job 90% of the time. But there was always immense satisfaction in closing up shop, biking the five miles home, and spending a quiet evening with my cat.
(Sidenote: or not spending a quiet evening with my cat! Turns out that’s the great thing about cats. If the food bowl is full and the litter box clean, they frankly don’t give much of a damn what you do after work. Try explaining that to a dog. “I’m sorry I delayed coming home to dote on you, I just wanted to grab a quick drink! You know, unwind with coworkers!” and his unconditional love and forgiveness will burn a hole in your guilty, booze-sodden soul.)
This peculiar tension between being a Dog Lover, but not quite a Dog Person culminated in what I call the “Deejo Incident”.
Deejo was a regular daycare attendee, a 4 yeard old Australian Shepherd/Pug X who vaguely resembled the lovechild of a mastiff and a baby seal. His owner was in the process of relocating from Missoula to L.A., where she intended to pursue a career as a singer/songwriter. She mentioned her intention to rehome him one afternoon, while Deejo trotted happily around the room inspecting every dusty corner for biscuit crumbs.
“”Poor little fella” I thought, “being uprooted and sent to live with strangers.”
In what I considered a magnanimous display of generosity, I offered to adopt him. I’d recently moved into a house that allowed dogs. I’d also recently taken to having organic vegetables delivered to my doorstep, and re-paying my student loans. With these steps in the general direction of adulthood, I was hungry for more. A lingering part of me suspected dog ownership was nearing the pinnacle of Responsibility. Likely in the realm of marriage, and childbirth.
Fast forward six months: sunrise on a weekday. I’m lying in bed, staring hard at the ceiling while Deejo burns guilty holes into my booze-sodden soul with his unconditional love and admiration. The second I woke up I could feel his eyes peering over the edge of the bed, begging me to love him. This had become a point of contention between us, his need to constantly gaze at me. For months I’d been shifting my knee, or book, or laptop to break the direct line-of-sight. And for months he’d been subtly, creepily shifting his body weight to reestablish it. That morning, waking up to his horrible, penetrating gaze the thought crossed my mind: I’d rather kill myself than deal with you right now.
I know it sounds dramatic, but it was a real turning point. Two weeks later, Deejo was uprooted and living with strangers. I mean, a nice family on a farm. Don’t worry! I didn’t kill my dog. There really is a nice family, and they really do live on a farm. A mastiff farm, where they bred giant working dogs. Deejo was the perfect fit: a miniature mastiff more easily coerced into a 4 year old daughter’s princess tutus and tea parties.
Three years since the “Deejo Incident”, the memory of his probing gaze and unwarranted affection still haunts me.
But when my Work Wife approached me with her dilemma, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to dip my toes into dog ownership. As a newly enlisted police cadet, she would be training in Salem for several months. Though her family supported the career change, they were less than ecstatic about the prospect of caring for her 6 year old child and a rambunctious 65 pound, 7 month old Doberman puppy.
The plan was simple. Sunday evening through Friday morning I’d be responsible for feeding, walking, and chauffering Mila to and from daycare. W.W. would foot the bills, purchase the kibble, and supply any tools deemed necessary (ex. treats, chew toys, and the despicable Gentle Leader that made walking Mila even remotely manageable). Friday night W.W. would pick Mila up from daycare, leaving my footloose and fancy-free social life unencumbered. Cadet training would end mid-February, and Mila would go back to her normal life. This timeline guaranteed I couldn’t slip into the helpless pit of depression evoked by the prospect of nursing Deejo into old age.
And really, maybe I’d enjoy dog ownership! Of course there would be hiccups. That Cat’s absolute hatred of dogs, for example. Or the fact that I habitually spent 3-4 nights per week at Carly’s house instead of my own. Perhaps the fact that I’d be juggling the stress of 50 hour work weeks, Sober October, and dog ownership simultaneously. But I wasn’t deterred.
The first week, Mila liberated me from the alarm clock. Who wants a shrill sound when you can have a giant, clumsy paw clobbering you in the head? Or, better yet, a cold damp nose somehow finding your exposed, sleeping flesh? My alarm served as a negligible afterthought. I never had to “set” the puppy. I could rest easily knowing she’d wake me up well before dawn.
The most interesting mornings were the mornings I forgot to drape clothes somewhere near the bed. Waking up I’d find 65 pounds of unrestrained joy standing between my naked body and sweatpants. Over the course of three weeks I perfected a lumbering stagger, something between a pirouette and an advanced martial arts feint. It’s a sport, really, keeping your bare ass out of reach while an inquisitive cold nose looms torpedo-esque in the dark.
And that nose. Never underestimate a Doberman’s nose. I swear she could stand with all four feet in the living room, and still rest her nose on my dinner plate in the kitchen.
I would like to see a study proving that dog-ownership hones humans’ perception skills. I can now easily discern the sounds of Mila sneaking from her bed into mine, or tip-toeing up to the cat food dispenser. From my second story loft I can differentiate between when she’s hurdling the couch, and when she’s simply using my roommate’s bed to come off the top rail on an unsuspecting roommate's dog. Walking into a room, I feel equipped to interpret each displaced crumb, unusual puddle, or kitty litter pebble like a seasoned detective evaluating a crime scene.
My foray into part-time dog ownership lasted two weeks, five days, and approximately 12 hours. And, surprisingly, I wasn’t the reason it ended. Mila upgraded. She traded in her 10 hour days of daycare for a 2-acre fenced yard and a stay-at-home girlfriend in Wilsonville. I can’t blame her. In all honesty, I’m a little jealous of her.
This experience has taught me two things. 1) You can simultaneously love something desperately, and still want to throw it out a window. 2) Responsibilities are better when you don’t have to shoulder them alone. I would have cried more than once without Carly patting my head while murmuring reassuring things like, “She’s just a puppy. It’s only going to get worse. Accept it.” And accepting it. Accepting that there’s only so much a human can control, and a puppy isn’t one of them 99.9% of the time.
All my love, darlings.
-b
