My wife always wanted us to get a dog. She’s allergic to like every kind of hair except dog hair, oddly enough, so I think that part of her just wants a dog so she can curl up next to something hairy without getting all itchy.
But she bugged me for years about getting one, to the point that one year she asked if I wanted a hint for what to get her for Christmas. I said, “sure,” and she responded by going like this: “Ruff Ruff.” Which I think is unfair, insofar as barking like a dog is not really so much of a hint as it is a command. So no dog for her that year.
It’s not that I don’t like dogs. I love dogs. But I didn’t want to have a dog in the city. It’s just too tough. You can’t take the dog anywhere you go, you can’t even take a dog off leash in Central Park, and walking the dog seems like it would horrible to both human and dog. Walking city streets is great, walking a dog is great, walking a dog on city streets is horrible: hard pavement, constant fear of passing cars, etc. And if you don’t have outdoor space, you either train the dog really, really well to hold it in while you’re at work, or your apartment slowly becomes a poop zone.
On top of all that, it was the stairs. I’ve mentioned the stairs before. Four flights. The idea of schlepping that stupid dog up and down all those stairs every time he had to take a poop was just unfathomable.
So no dog while we were in the city. It was one of the few arguments I ever won with my wife. My life was a complete poop-free zone. No kids. No dog. The only poop I had to deal with was my own, which was frankly all I could handle.
But then, of course, we moved to the suburbs — otherwise known as “Doggie Heaven”. Big back yards, lots of dog-friendly parks, dog runs, people with dogs, kids with dogs, dog stores, everything a dog could want. And although we didn’t have a yard, we had an elevator, so walking the dog would be a lot easier.
I held out for as long as I could. I really enjoyed that poop-free life of mine. We’re going to have a kid at some point (the next great Suburban Rite of Passage), at which time my life will become heavily invested with OPP (“other people’s poop”), so my hope was to hold off on getting a dog until I had no other choice.
That said, I didn’t really hold out for long. I made it until Christmas, the first gift-giving holiday following our move to the suburbs. So really, I didn’t hold out at all. First holiday, new dog. A cute little half-Pomeranian, half-Shitsu puppy that we named “Kozy,” after a little stuffed animal called “Kozy Bear” that I’d gotten my wife a few years ago. He’s a really great dog, and my wife is committed to teaching him how to poop in specially designated poop areas. So I have some guarded optimism.
Move to the suburbs, then get a dog. One of the great Suburban Rites of Passage.
