Can you love your dog too much? Kibble treasure hunts? Doggy daycare? In a Valentine’s ode to her dog, senior editor Leslie Smith admits there’s no one she’d rather spend time with. Is that so wrong?
I used to hate getting on a plane without my husband. In addition to making me queasy, flying triggers my fear of dying. And if I was going to perish prematurely in a giant ball of flames, well, I wanted Mike right there with me.
I don’t feel that way any longer. Now if the plane goes down, I want one of us to survive to take care of our pup.
My name is Leslie Smith, and I think I might be addicted to my dog.
I don’t have a drinking problem, never smoked, and I can’t see the appeal of gambling. So I certainly didn’t anticipate the aching, unshakeable anxiety that comes over me when I’m away from my dog.
It’s not a feeling I understand, honestly, and its raw power can be unsettling. After all, this special someone in my life is mesmerized by houseflies and loves rolling in bird poop. I try to keep this mind ... most of the time.
Absolutely no doggy birthday parties
Though we decided years ago not to have children, Mike and I had always talked about getting a dog. We saved and saved before we could finally afford a place that allowed pets, and moving in marked an important milestone: We were turning from a couple into a family, and we wanted to do it right.
That meant a little differently from friends who’d devolved from articulate professionals into baby-talking, milkbone-dispensing, dog people. Instead of joining us for cocktails or concerts, we lost one set of friends when they began declining dinner invitations unless their Labradoodle was included.
Mike and I were determined to hold onto our independence, and ragged semblance of normalcy, so we put into place what we thought were adequate safety measures:
1. No birthday parties for our dog.
2. No Christmas cards with our dog dressed up as Rudolph.
3. One photo preferred—two photos max—of our dog at the office.
And perhaps most important:
4. No calling each other Mommy and Daddy.
We would love our dog, we agreed, but we would not parade him around in tight sweaters or instruct people to, “leave a message for [insert dog’s name]” on our answering machine. If either of us noticed our friends rolling their eyes in response to something we said or did, we were to quietly alert the other one we’d gone too far. This dog would be our dog, not our child.
Yet with even these rigid parameters established, my unraveling was nearly immediate.
Finding the One
When we arrived at the shelter, we immediately sought out the dog I’d scouted online. He was smaller than I’d imagined but just as somber. Unlike the other pups we’d met during our search, there was no unbridled jumping or excited peeing. For a ten-month-old, he seemed serious, even knowing. And a little sad.
I was smitten.
The drive home from the shelter was what I imagine it feels like leaving the hospital with a new baby. I had this overwhelming instinct to protect the bewildered, vulnerable being now in our care. With Mike driving, I crouched next to our new charge in the back of the VW bug, his big soulful eyes at once trusting and ringed with fear.
We named him Uno, because he is our first dog together. Right away, I learned to adore the way he smells—the pads of his paws like pizza, his ears like homemade artichoke dip. A whiff of his snout—I kid you not—suggests that grilled cheese sandwiches are frying nearby. And behind those wide-set imploring eyes, beneath that luscious cocoa fur, is the most gentle, sensitive little soul ever to draw a breath.
