She’s Not My Dog. She’s been Not My Dog for twelve years, ever since my husband went to buy a piece of furniture and came home with a German Shepherd puppy instead.
I’m a reluctant pet owner at best, the kind who acquires animals by accident. Over the years, I’ve shared a home with cats, rabbits, dogs, lizards, mice, fish, and snakes, but rarely by choice. It’s more of an inevitable byproduct of raising children than it is a life choice, at least for me.
Where many people see unconditional love and companionship, I see shedding, litter boxes, and tongues or snouts in uncomfortable places. The smell, the expense, the barking; who needs it?
Not me. This is definitely Not My Dog.
I’ll admit to being furious when my husband called with the news he’d acquired a dog. Not just any dog — he bought her from a guy from Tijuana selling puppies from a cardboard box in the parking lot of a strip mall. It was a classic textbook case of how not to add a pet to the family. I cried tears of frustration; having a puppy is like raising a perpetual toddler. I was overwhelmed by the idea of extra responsibility.
Even laying eyes on her for the first time did little to soften my heart. Sure, her ears were floppy and fuzzy. Yes, her little nose was adorable. And the way she curled up in my lap wasn’t bad either. But this was Not My Dog.
She’s Not My Dog when it’s time to drag her to the vet for shots, snap the cone of shame around her neck after surgery, or pick off ticks and fleas. She’s Not My Dog when it’s time to bathe her or clean up after her. She’s Not My Dog when she digs holes in the yard or when she’s barking in the early morning. If we leave town, the task of finding a dog sitter does not fall to me, because she is Not My Dog.
The task of training her did not fall to me, because of course she is Not My Dog. For my husband, who is apparently the alpha dog in her eyes, she will sit, stay, and shake as if it were an obedience contest. She obeys me halfheartedly, offering a paw to shake with the minimum amount of enthusiasm she can muster, because she knows she is Not My Dog.
When she steals the dishtowels off of the rack and runs circles around the kitchen table so I will chase her and steal them back, she’s cute and fun, but still Not My Dog . I enjoy watching her bound through the neighborhood chasing squirrels and feral cats, but dispassionately, because she’s Not My Dog. One day on a walk, she had a close encounter with a skunk; definitely Not My Dog.
Something has happened over the years of raising Not My Dog. Her sweet face greets me in the morning, her snout snuffling against my hand; she knows I will have an illicit treat for her. She has figured out that I will let her sneak into the house even when she’s dirty, as long as she stays on the tile floor. I’ve become the softy who buys her dog treats and chew toys. She barks too early in the morning, but instead of yelling at her, I check her water dish, certain that she’s just advising me that it’s empty.
Not My Dog is getting older. Like many German Shepherds, she shows signs of congenital hip problems and nerve damage. I foresee a day in the near future when sitting, standing, and walking will become unbearably painful for her. She sometimes loses control of her bladder. Normally a dignified dog, she looks so mournful at these lapses that I rush to reassure her that despite being Not My Dog, she’s a good girl and I love her. I scratch behind her ears and nuzzle her head; for a dog who is so distinctively not mine, I’m pretty fond of her.
As we begin to have the hard conversations with the veterinarian about pain management and life expectancy, wondering to what lengths we’ll go to prolong her life, I’m saddened. As much as I mutter and growl about having a dog, I know we’re lucky to have had such a loyal and loving pet. I pray for wisdom to make the right choices about her last days. We want to keep her as long as possible, but not let her suffer any more than is necessary. I can’t predict whether she’ll be with us for weeks, months, or even years, but I will make sure My Dog has the most comfortable and happy life a dog could have.
