I really wanted a dog. I mean, who doesn’t want a dog? Those big eyes and wet noses—humans can’t have those attributes and still seem cute. That’s why dogs are clearly superior. And I wanted one, wanted one like people want air. I’d watch the stray dogs wander the street with a hungry eye as I drove past, my feet hovering over the brake pedal. I wanted a dog so bad I could almost feel the stroke of their hair beneath my hands, the soft bristle. When my parents promised me their dog I was ecstatic. When they told me they weren’t going to give her away anymore, I was broken—damaged, no better off than a crumbled Oreo cookie. I needed a dog to complete me.
Part of it might have something to do with the fact that I grew up with dogs most of my life. My first dog was a terrier named Max. He was a demon, and I hated him. When had a mutual dislike for one another—he would bite me as often as he could to show it. When my parents told me he ran away I don’t remember being that disappointed. Time went on and new dogs showed up. I found out later in life that they had lied, that Max had been hit by a car and had to be put to sleep. I don’t know if it was the time distance that led to my apathy or the fact that I just never liked Max—who loved ripping my sheets more than he liked me—but finding out that he died left no traceable effect on me outside of finally knowing the truth. Perhaps I should have treated Max better. Or, perhaps, he shouldn’t have eaten my stuffed parrot. But Max was replaceable.
I’ve had a German Shepard, two Pittbulls, a Pomeranian and a Terrier-mix. There was even the brief stint with that braindead Chihuahua dog Sophie. But when my parents moved to Maryland and I moved to my dorm room, we were all finally dogless for the first time in years and somehow I felt empty. I pined over and over about a dog. When my parents returned and got a Shih Tzu I permeated obvious jealousy. I babysat dogs just to be around them. I needed a dog.
Perhaps that was why I was so excited when my coworker called me about the stray dog in the parking lot. I had just left work, tired, late, with arm loads of groceries. We made it home and emptied the car of bags. I was ready to rest when I got a phone call.
“Hey, there’s a dog up here. Do you want her?”
I don’t remember how I responded. I don’t even remember the drive, sitting in open anticipation, wondering what this dog looked like. I just remember pure, trembling bliss and a vocal prayer that, please, don’t let this dog be ugly. I wanted, so badly wanted, a dog of my own—one that would fit me and reflect me, complete me. I wanted my dog to be the beauty inside me that I never even knew I had, and I wanted everyone to see it and fall in love. I guess, through my dog, I wanted everyone to love me.
And when my coworker handed me the puppy, the trembling bundle all close-eyed and whining in my arms, I almost cried. And when the puppy nuzzled her head into my neck and nipped at my uniform I knew this was it. This was my dog. This was Chewy. I had no idea at the time that my dog was only three weeks old, but holding her up against my neck, feeling her soft warmth, that dog cradled ahead of it, a lifetime of responsibility. She has a lot to live up to.
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