Canis lupus familiaris

She that is called Daisy

She that is called Lola

Daisy is a murderer.  I keep an eye on her.  She makes feeble attempts to keep it under wraps, but her obvious blood lust constantly betrays her.

Lola is entirely too needy, although she cloaks this personality trait in the garb of pacifism.  Reach for her, and she rolls over and puts her hands up.  "Non violence non violence!" her eyes seem to plead.

They are both quick to offer reassuring licks to the hand, arm, leg, or face.  This would be more endearing if they didn't spend all day eating turds out of the cat box.  

They are not my children.  They are my dogs.  I try not to get that sentimental over them, because they are essentially ridiculous creatures, whose well-being is constantly being undermined by their lack of common sense.

I recognize that young people often acquire pets as a way of testing their parenting mettle.  This decision may not be made consciously, but owning a dog or cat certainly taps into a primitive nurturing instinct.  Either that, or it reassures one that such an instinct does not exist within them.

I try to find it.  To hold it, and caress it.  I welcome Lola onto the arm of my chair for closeness and companionship, and just when I feel a tiny pulse in the primitive adoration part of my brain, she turns her face to me, eyes dewy with affection, and exhales a deep slow cloud of utter despair directly into my eyes, nostrils, and mouth.  A logical conclusion of eating dog food, dirt, garbage, and feces is breath that could daze a moose.  I can't begrudge her this breath.  It makes perfect sense.

I try to relate to my dogs.  I sit with them, and discuss the news of the day.  Daisy's ears flare up like the bat I'm convinced had some role in siring her.  She cocks her head from side to side, not unlike the anchors on the local news, as if to let me know that she knows what I'm going through.  That somehow, deep inside, she gets it.

And then she suddenly starts chewing on her genitals.

Both dogs have a way of sneaking underfoot, most often while you are transferring a massive steaming pot of pasta from the stove to the sink.  You yell at them to go away, and they do for a moment, but then soon come crawling back in meek supplication, apologizing by repeating the original offending action ad nauseum.

I have spent 19 days of my life standing outside, waiting for Lola to defecate.  Seriously, I calculated it.  She labors over it - the spot - the magical spot - where she must place her little fetid pile.  She spins, and spins, and spins, and spins towards the inevitable release.  She begins to crown and then, suddenly, it reenters her body like an elementary school bully slurping up the line of spit they are dangling over your helpless face as she reconsiders her placement.  "Nope, not good enough, but I think that spot over there...oh boy!!!"  And the entire process begins again.  As I stand shivering, ankle deep in snow, wondering how my life ever came to this.

Daisy has a brilliantly calculated and sadistic habit of gauging her speed of forward locomotion by the level of emotion humans are focusing on her.  It works in precise reverse proportion.  The faster I want her to go, the slower she moves.  If I loudly suggest her forward motion, she slows to a full stop and lays down, utterly defeated.  It is genius.

When I am fully dressed, warm and ready to face a trip outside with them, they evacuate their waste quickly and efficiently.  When I am dressed only in shorts and a t-shirt, shoeless and shivering, hopping up and down on the porch at 6am in the dark, imploring them to make a quick resolution, they immediately run as fast as they can down the driveway, towards whatever oblivion lies in store there.

When they find decaying food in a pile of garbage on the ground, they bury their heads and feast as fast as they can without regard for taste, texture, or even general suitability for consumption.  When I toss them actual fresh doggy treats, they appraise them only fleetingly, ultimately ignoring them, standing steadfast and staring up at me as if to say, "Really?  That's all you got?"  I suppose there is no point feeding sirloin to a creature that considers feces to be gourmet cuisine.  "In the mood for Mexican?  There's a little chihuahua just moved in next door!  German?  Well, there's that one-eyed German Shepherd down the road.  Are you in the mood for a road trip?"

There is a certain undeniable surreal humor to being a dog owner.  In the right light, it can be hilarious to feel your life slowly slipping away as you focus all of your mental energy on willing a dog to poop.  And to feel a real and palpable elation when you finally spot it start to make its slow, steaming descent from the dog's body towards the ground.  

I need to keep reminding myself of this.  I need to remember to laugh, long and loud and clear.  Ha ha ha.  There.  Better already.

Mostly I view my dogs with a sort of cautious wariness that borders on nausea and unbridled dismay.  And, if it's true that pets are often a subconscious preparation for children of the bona fide and human variety, I feel that my chances of being an exemplary parent are bleak.  If finding a small, dry canine butt nugget in the middle of the floor is enough to make me light-headed with a black and fathomless despair similar to the feeling I get while watching golf on television, how could I possibly handle finding the walls smeared in shit by a little Picasso (Poocasso?) in training?  

And unlike dogs who retain a certain childlike innocence throughout their lives, humans have a way of progressing beyond the diapers phase and towards all manner of more grown-up delights.  Such as furious teenage rebellion, drug experimentation, dicatorship, genocide, murder, and worse - sex!  It's like they say, "the dependent you know is preferable to the one who will eventually steal your car and dehumanize the populace of a small Asian nation."  Could I handle being the father of the next Pol Pot?

I guess, in that light, I am pretty fortunate to have two small dependents that merely shred the flesh of my leg in furious, desperate displays of greeting every time I walk through the door rather than having a son that literally shreds people's faces like Freddy Krueger.  That have voices like ice picks sent straight through my ear into my brain, rather than having actual ice picks that they plunge into the chests of men they have tied to the bed in light S&M play, like Sharon Stone.  That are of a species in which it is perfectly acceptable for females to have full and unrepentant beards, and that chase their tails with abandon rather than chasing lovers down the street with a chainsaw.

They are not my children.  They are my dogs.  

Viva la perros!