One of the things about moving to the country is that you're hard-pressed to find a reason not to get a dog at some point. It was tough enough avoiding dog ownership when we lived in a big house in Brooklyn. The cats saved me; while they lived, no dog would cross our threshold. One by one, three of them died off. Then, just as our last cat was on his last legs, Shirra got a call from her friend Merry announcing that a dog was available should we want it.
I had last owned a dog when I was three. I should say that my mother owned the dog and that my father tolerated his existence for a few years. When the dog developed urinary tract problems, as many pugs do, we had to send him away to a dog farm, or so my mother told me*. I have no actual memories of Poochie, who departed only a few months after my brother arrived, but apparently I loved him, and photos of that time support the notion that he was cute. But after Poochie disappeared, we owned a succession of wonderful cats, and I grew to admire them on many levels. For the most part, our family's cats have been loving, healthy, and easy to care for.
Why make your life harder by taking in a dog when cats seem so much simpler? I have always looked at dogs much as I look at the belief in a higher power, which is to say: Needlessly complicated and often quite unpleasant.
This brings to mind something I've come to believe about presidential elections. Like many people, I was thrilled that the country could elect a person of color. It won't be long before we elect a woman, and if Palin is elected, then it won't be much longer before we elect an intelligent woman. Next on the list might be a Jew or someone of Asian descent, and perhaps we'll even have a homosexual president in my lifetime, should I live long enough. But we won't elect an atheist until hell has frozen over. As for a president who doesn't love dogs? Hell will have to thaw again first. I have to face facts: This country loves dogs. And I'm living in dog country.
Shirra grew up with a wonderful dog that her family adored, and over the years she petitioned, gently, to add a dog to our home. When we -- and our cats -- lived in Manhattan and Brooklyn, this made little sense and the discussions were short-lived. But the move to New Paltz and the aging state of our last cat allowed the talks to resume. I tried to sound reasonable while deflecting the idea of getting a dog, but that reasonability is what worked against me in the end. Had I simply put my fingers in my ears and repeated, "I hate dogs," then this would have been a closed case.
Jack is a good-looking dog, and even my distaste for his kind does not prevent me from admitting it. He's an Australian Shepherd, a misnomer since the breed actually originates in the US, and compared with his breed, he's exceptionally quiet and well-behaved, lending further proof that he's not Australian.
The kids and Shirra fell in love with him right away, and I did my best to join the love-fest. But having a dog is like arranging a threesome: It will never go exactly as you'd planned and someone is bound to be disappointed. I took him for walks and eventually took him for unicycle rides on our road. He seemed to love the exercise, and I was having a good time, but before long, Merry informed us that Jack would be better off walking than jogging. It was something to do with his delicate tummy.
Had Jack joined us as a puppy, I might have been swayed. I would have memories of him cuddling adorably with the kids or hopping adorably around the house. I would have seen him scamper adorably around the garden while I washed my car, and he would have been adorable as he shook the water off himself after falling, adorably, into the bucket of suds. Instead, we inherited a middle aged dog who needs several medications a day in order to combat his intestinal problems. It's the marital equivalent of missing the honeymoon and skipping right to the part where you're too lazy to leave the room if you have to pass gas. Come to mention it, Jack has reached that point, too.
Part of my reluctance, all of these years, was the idea that owning a dog means walking a dog, which in turn means cleaning up after a dog. New York City sidewalks are repulsive enough as it is, but back in my childhood, my natural aversion to dogs was only reinforced by the many times I had to clean my shoes after stepping in one of the many poops that seemed to leap at my loafers or sneak beneath my sneakers.
When I was a kid, there was an odd woman who lived in my building named Fran Lee. During her 60s, she became an outspoken opponent of dog poop. Apparently she became so obsessed with poop that she collected bags of it. Then one day, at a meeting in my building, she made her point by bringing out a bag of poop, and I'm not sure what happened next, but I do know that she was evicted from the building.
According to my mother, Lee actually dumped some poop on a table in front of a woman who disagreed with her. In the end, however, Lee was able to bring about changes that led to the pooper scooper law. Finally, people were forced to clean up after their dogs. I've never actually heard of someone getting a ticket for failure to scoop a poop, but the law has been hugely effective in cleaning up city sidewalks. No such law governs my back yard, however. We have a fenced-in area outside the back porch, but I won't step foot out there. It's messy enough in good weather, but in winter, the snow and ice get covered in brown and yellow spots that turn our yard into my -- and Fran Lee's -- vision of hell.
One day, our unhealthy dog will be nothing more than a complicated memory, but we'll always have our $2,000 fence and some really fertile grass that it encloses.
