About 3 weeks ago, Jay got the following call at 10:15 am.
Karla: “Hey, I need to come down to your office and get some money from you.”
Jay: “Uh, okay.”
Karla: “Cool. I’ll be there in half an hour or so.”
Jay: “Alright. What’s it for, anyway?”
Karla: “We’re getting a puppy dropped off at noon.”
Jay: “…”
Karla: “See ya in 30!”
During our one year wedding anniversary dinner in September, Jay and I enjoyed celebratory cocktails on a patio overlooking a beautiful Puget Sound sunset. Soft music played, candles were lit, we exchanged sweet nothings and a couple of toasts to how fucking awesome we are (seriously, we rock). As the evening progressed ever so romantically, Jay leaned in and asked the one question that can change a married couple’s life forever:
“So, are you ready for another dog?”
To which I replied, “Fuck no!”
Our Rat Terrier Orwell is a year old now, and has taken to life on the West coast like gangbusters. Seattle is the most dog friendly city I’ve ever seen. Seattle: Take your dog on the bus for free! Take him into stores and restaurants! Enjoy our six million square miles of verdant dog parks! We found it all a little unbelievable, coming from Astoria where you’d get dirty looks for walking a dog down the sidewalk and the only off-leash area was a 10 foot dirt-run encircled with a rusty chain link fence. Just to see if we could, we took Orwell into the “Bed, Bath & Beyond” downtown, tentatively strolling the aisles, waiting for someone to come screaming “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” and perhaps accusing our dog of shitting on the duvet covers or something. Instead, nearly every clerk and cashier oohed and ahhed over the O-man, stopping to pet him and coo over how adorable he was. One rather spacey blond store manager even started dancing with Orwell while we were at the checkout line, which was a bit much, but still (Seattle’s love of dogs is second only to its affection for hemp-wearing, patchouli drenched hippies).
So when Jay mentioned getting a second dog, my first instinct was “don’t need one, don’t want one.” I was spending a couple hours a day with Orwell at Regrade Dog Park - a pleasant acre or so of trees, inviting benches, and a tiny doggy swimming pool just two blocks from our apartment building. Regulars at Regrade frequently complain that it’s too small, and that the other dog parks are much nicer. I tend to respond to these complaints with an expression of slack-jawed befuddlement. Luckily, drooling idiots who don’t appear to understand human language (or hygiene) blend in pretty well there, as it was previously nicknamed “The Crack Park” before the city made it a dog park.
See, Seattle went about its urban gentrification a little differently than most cities. In New York, when poorer, homeless-ridden and (most importantly) “brownish/foreign” neighborhoods became hot-spots for condos and yuppies, all the poor, homeless, and brown people were strongly encouraged to move along, aided by skyrocketing rents and in Manhattan’s case, Rudy Guiliani arresting all of the above. Seattle, with its peace and patchouli loving ways, built the condos around the YMCAs, methadone clinics, and homeless shelters. We live in a very nice, completely safe, fairly upscale neighborhood…and it’s swamped with meth-heads and the homeless. On one hand, they’re all harmless, and you can even set your watch by the guy who screams at the alien Jesus messiah every morning at 11:23. On the other, it’s hard not to think “Guiliani would have these fuckers cleared RIGHT the hell out” when a schizophrenic wearing a urine-stained cape wants to talk to your dog about how the whores are keeping him down. It’s odd to be on the other side of gentrification for the first time in my life.
Anyway, Orwell and I both made plenty of friends at the dog park. I’ve not only met successful entrepreneurs and young professionals, but also batshit insane psych cases who spend their disability checks on dogfood (hopefully only for their dogs). I made a few good friends in the process, plus I finally have somewhat interesting stories to tell Jay over the dinner table. “Well, I mostly did laundry all day, but it did get pretty funny at the park when Hose-Lady tried to spray all the dogs down with water “because they’re unclean,” and then Screaming Bob got into a fight with Super Loud Screaming Bob!”
Most importantly, Orwell was loving it. He’s been the most popular dog at Regrade from day one. In New York, Jay did a great job making sure Orwell was well trained and socialized. Little dude will play with any dog, any time. Dogs that never played at the park before became happy, chasing puppies in the presence of ours. I don’t want to sound conceited, but I assure you I am not abusing hyperbole when I say Orwell is fucking magic, and pretty much the best, most likable dog in the world. With all this, we received multiple invites to other people’s homes for doggy playdates (shut up). I started hosting a weekly “Doggy Party” (SHUT. UP.) at our house, a whole afternoon of tiny dogs running around our apartment having a blast, while I sat out on the patio in the sunshine drinking wine (er, boxes of wine) with totally cool people. Orwell and I were having the time of our lives. We didn’t need another dog, and I didn’t want to house train another puppy (especially as picking up dog crap became my chore after I begged Jay to let me quit my job and become a housewife).
Right before the aforementioned anniversary dinner, Orwell made friends with a 5 month old Rat Terrier pup, a completely adorable miniature Orwell. Jay started getting all googly-eyed, remembering how cute Orwell was as a wee lil’ dude. I started considering getting a second one, but doubts kept creeping in. “What if the new dog isn’t as cool as Orwell? Are we gonna have TWO dogs sleeping with us? Do we get a second Rat Terrier or something completely different? Will Orwell be happier with another dog to play with, or prefer being an “only child?” What if the new dog SUCKS?” and a million other soul-searching queries. I put more thought into getting a second dog than I ever have wondering if Jay and I should breed.
Jay left the question at “Hey, I don’t think we NEED another dog, and I know all the responsibility is pretty much on your shoulders, but if you want one, it’s okay with me.”
However, he was still pretty taken aback to get that call a few days later. Out of purely innocent curiosity, I’d started casually browsing for dogs on the net, and found a 3/4 rat terrier mix that was pretty much custom made for us…and of course Orwell. This dog would eventually be the same size and have the same energy level as Orwell, but he’d look totally different, so I would be slightly less likely to get them confused (when drunk), or compare them to each other (also when drunk) - “Orwell would never do that, inferior second dog!”
But still, I wasn’t even sure if I WANTED another dog. So I looked at more dogs. Looked at every local dog available for adoption on Petfinder.com. Emailed a few breeders with new litters coming up. Thought about it some more. And kept coming back to the picture of this one little black and brown puppy. Twelve hours later I shot the owners an email and had Edison wrestling with Orwell by noon.
Jay was naturally a bit perplexed. “Christ. You certainly move fast once you make your mind up, don’t you?”
Ultimately, my decision to get another dog wasn’t exactly that I wanted a second dog, but that I’d found our second dog. Orwell was a bit of an accident himself. We’d planned on getting a dog eventually, but the moment we saw him we both knew “THIS is our dog.” I had the same lightening strike with Edison. And turns out, rightfully so. The two little guys adore each other. Orwell, in typical big brother fashion, constantly tries to sit on Edison’s head (in my sibling experience, to better facilitate farting on him, but I’m not sure how dogs handle that part). Edison, in typical little brother fashion, likes to yelp and look at me with a “DID YOU SEE WHAT HE JUST DID?” expression when Orwell’s not even touching him.
So we’ve got two awesome dogs, which is great, but unfortunately the addition of the second means we are now officially “Dog People.” Owning two dogs makes it nearly impossible to avoid anthropomorphizing them. “Orwell’s acted out a lot today, I think he might be jealous.” “Edison gets so sad if he doesn’t get to play with the green plastic lizard toy.” For the record, dogs don’t get jealous. Dogs don’t get sad. They’re fucking tiny wolves we bred down to convenient apartment sized animals that we let live with us. If I passed out on the couch for more than 4-5 hours (my usual “afternoon nap with box-wine assist”), I have no doubt I’d wake to find Orwell and Edison feasting on my tender, delicious calf muscles and fighting over who gets first crack at the bone marrow.
But once you get two dogs, they start feeling more like part of your family rather than just your pets. It’s not “the dogs,” it’s “the boys.” We refer to them as brothers even though they have no immediate ancestors in common. From there it’s a short step to dangerous “what should we dress them up as for Halloween?” territory (Batman and Robin, most likely).
I relate to the ladies at the park who talk for hours about the consistency of their dog’s bowel movements, and discuss the best food for delicate puppy tummies. I hear the phrase “puppy tummy” and don’t punch the utterer in their stupid, stupid face. I don’t know the names of people I see everyday, but when I say “Mitzi’s mom,” and “Cooper’s dad” and “Toby and P.J’s dad’s husband,” everyone knows who I’m talking about.
We had Edison neutered today. I wasn’t too concerned when we had Orwell snipped (Jay was a little upset), but this time I’ve been stressing all week about whether or not to make him wear one of those retarded lamp-shade collars, or if “bitter-bitter” lotion will do the trick to prevent him from chewing out his stitches. Picking him up from the vet afterwards, I was a bit of a mess, seeing the little guy all glassy-eyed and whimpering. Even though I’ve already been through this before, and know he’ll be racing around like a demon by tomorrow morning (despite my best efforts to somehow keep two terriers to stay calm, relaxed, and not playing, biting or jumping for the next week).
I’m gonna try the bitter-bitter first, but Toby and P.J.’s dad has a spare lamp-shade thingy I can use if I need it.
I’m officially dog people.
Tags: Essays, Manifestos, & Unsolicited Opinions, General Musings by Karla Pacheco
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