Wednesday, May 03, 2006

In Virginia, I have a puppy. Well, maybe not a puppy--she's seven--but I don't think "dog" does her justice. Such a curt word. A mix between a little poodle and lhasa apso, she's black with floppy ears and curly black hair and fits comfortably along the seams of one's legs if they're stretched out on an ottoman. She is sociable and easy going, but isn't a pushover. I respect that. She likes to cuddle, mostly when it's cold, and she smiles a lot. She has a delightful way of plopping down when she's had enough of the day, and a not so delightful way of ignoring you if you decide that you haven't. She has a sparkling personality and dashing good looks.

Her name is Molly. We are friends, and I love her.

Because we are friends and I love her, I assumed that I love dogs, that I was a "dog person." I now know this to be false. Correlation is not causation.

A friend is out of town for some weeks, and I have agreed, along with several others, to take turns taking care of her dog, Juliet. Some sort of lab mix, Juliet represents the antithesis of my Mollydog experience. She sheds. She reeks. She reeks again, because it's that bad. She drags me all over the street when I take her out, and she sprawls out on the couch when no one is looking. Common courtesy forces me to pick up her half-pint sized dumps. I have started to resent this animal, which mostly makes me resent myself. Juliet is a beautiful animal--polite, calm, understanding, friendly. But I cannot love her, and I don't think we can be friends, however hard she tries.

I am selfish. But at 21, I expect to be. If not now, when? I have no responsibilities except that pesky 9 to 5 thing that happens in the middle of the day. But now there is a living thing that needs me. Juliet needs walks and potty breaks and balls thrown and pain medication and, most of all, attention. And it's not that I have none to give. It's that I don't want to give it. I already have a dog, and she's not here.

So, Jules, I'm sorry. It's not you, it's me.