My husband has been politicking for a dog almost daily for the past eight years. My excuses and attempts at a dog-free life have been varied and successful: we live in an apartment; let’s wait until the cat dies (he still hasn’t); I’m pregnant; the kids are too little; we just moved into a new house; I sort of want a third baby.
My son will be four in September and has been recruited by my husband to help chip away at what’s left of my patience and resolve:
“Can we get a dog? Can we get a dog? Mommy, can we get a dog?
”
I have no more excuses. We decided on sticking with the two kids we have and not adding a third to the mix. We own our home; the backyard is fenced. The kids aren’t babies anymore, the cat is going to be nineteen this summer. So last week we “shopped” for dogs at the humane society.
Inside the shelter was echo-y loud with sharp barks, heavy with the scent of wet fur and kibble. Every dog stood up as we passed, like they were selling themselves. I was secretly glad when, on each kennel, there was a little sticker telling us this particular dog was unsuitable for families with small children. Awesome. I made the effort to adopt a dog, I was off the hook for a few more years.
It’s not that I don’t like dogs. I just have two super high-energy kids, the oldest still refusing to poop in the potty. So now I get to clean up steaming turds from three bodies, three to six times a day? No thanks. We have two cats, one who vomits daily, usually on my shoes or my side of the bed. I can’t go to the bathroom without an audience and I’m lucky if I get a daytime shower. I just need a little breathing room.
Two days later my son asked if we could go to the “dog store” again. One of the volunteers asked, “Are we looking for a new addition?” I answered with fake regret that yes, we were, but unfortunately all the dogs aren’t good with small kids. She then led me over to their newest addition, a medium-sized, strawberry blonde German Shepherd/Labrador mix named Cully.
The next day I brought my husband back to meet Cully and within a few hours, we welcomed our third child, a three-year-old boy, into our home. I took almost as many pictures of him that first day as I did when my two children were born. He whimpered and whined most of that first night; I went downstairs and slept next to him. I bought nitrate-free hot dogs and hand-fed him (my) grilled chicken and topped it with Swiss cheese. Sucker.
Two of my girlfriends, Laurie and Robyn, are crazy about their dogs. These dogs are featured in the family Christmas photo card. My daughter’s first birthday card read, “Dear Kylie: Happy Birthday! Love Laurie, Joe, Cecily and Bailey. Arf! Arf!” My friends have beagle calendars and enter them in doggie daycare beauty contests. I used to think they were on the sunny side of psycho. I thought for sure, once they each began their “real” families, with actual babies, the dogs would be put on the back burner just like my cats were the second I brought Dane home from the hospital. It never happened. Each friend now has a child and each dog is still center stage.
I’m starting to understand. Our dog appreciates every meal I put out for him. He wags his tail and shows his belly just because I mix wet food into his kibble. He listens, doesn’t throw tantrums because I tell him to get out of the garbage can. Yesterday I took all three kids to a nature preserve, hoping to go for a little hike. I got annoyed and huffy when I saw the “No Dogs Allowed” sign. A week ago, I would have been relieved to enjoy nature without having to step over dog crap. As I write, he is napping at my feet. Quiet, unassuming, happy to be alive and with a family. I thought for sure I wouldn’t become one of “those” dog people, but I’m pretty sure I’m already there.
