I don’t particularly like dogs. Or cats. Or hamsters. Or gerbils. Or anything that cannot, without raising eyebrows, eat dinner with me at a table. (I’m looking at you little white lady who brings her monkey into Neiman Marcus and the restaurant.)
God that feels good to get off my chest.
Yes, it’s true. Now I’m not a hater, but I’m not really what you would call an animal lover.
Part of it is the commitment thing. (We have discussed my commitment issues previously, correct?) I don’t really want to wake up early or go out in the rain/sleet/snow/cold/sunshine so that someone else can use the bathroom. Part of it is sheer fear. I was attacked by an overly aggressive dog as a wee lil thing and it frightened my mother so much that she didn’t see the need to try to re-introduce me to the animal so that I wouldn’t have an underlying fear of teeth. (Also, for about seven years I had a recurring nightmare about being attacked by a large beast.)
For years, I have lived a charade.
I have cooed at puppies. I have pet the rays at Sea World. I have passed along flyers for free (admittedly adorable) kittens. I played my part well, but the entire time all I was thinking was: “Praise Baby Jesus this thing isn’t mine.”
Of course the animals knew I was a fraud.
They would bark endlessly, or eat my fancy shoes, or hiss and hide behind chairs. I even tried to get a dog myself at one point. But after one particularly embarrassing reveal (damn you Tinkerbell!) I decided it was in everyone’s best interest if I simply avoided dates with anyone who mentioned they had a pet.
But then I met A. And he has a dog. Please say hello to my little friend:
( I know. I know. How cute, right?)
She’s a rescue–a former dog-fight mauling machine who was adopted and renamed Daisy of all things. And she’s smart. And sure when A points his finger like a gun at her and says “Reach for the stars!” in his Toy Story voice it is kinda cute. But still. She’s a dog.
And I’m not a dog person. Looking back it was probably obvious because I never came over and started wrestling with her or kissing her face like all you dog people would, but we had a nice little routine. It helps that due to her age (she’s eight) the only time she isn’t sleeping or lying around is when she’s eating. And when that’s over it’s right back to the lazy bit.
I thought I was doing really well. But then she brought it into the light who I really am.
Granted it wasn’t her fault, although I certainly didn’t ask her to make a lunch out of bread wrapped in plastic and have it get stuck in her tummy. But she did and she got really, really sick. Like, go to the vet and get an IV sick.
I was genuinely upset about this very sick dog.
But then I heard how much the vet bill was going to be, and even though it’s certainly not my money and even though it was going toward man’s best friend, all pretense that I was a pet lover went out the window.
“WHY ON EARTH WOULD IT COST EIGHT-HUNDRED DOLLARS TO FIX A DOG?!?!”
I caught myself but it was too late. I was outed.
I’m pretty sure that if she wasn’t before, Daisy is now completely and utterly uninterested in me. Verdict is still out on the owner. Fingers crossed there.
But wow … it sure feels good to be out in the open about things.
