Missing Out on a Furry Best Friend

There is a passionate, devoted, wonderfully crazy world out there that, sadly, I am not a part of—the world of dogs. Dogs and things connected to them are everywhere these days. There are dog parks and specialty stores. There are dog magazines and newsletters. There’s doggie day care and dog beauty shops—even traveling ones like Zoomin-Groomin—a local franchise right here in Sharon. There are doggie treat stations at pet stores set up like a salad bar with bins and scoops for liver hearts and carob chip cookies. There are websites and personal ads devoted to matching people through their common interest in dogs like in the movie, “Must Love Dogs.” There are even bumper stickers that read “the more people I meet, the more I like my dog.” (There’s definitely something to that saying.)

I always thought that when I had a family, we’d get a dog. Both my husband and I grew up with dogs. He had a Golden Retriever-Golden Lab mix naturally named Goldie. I had two dogs, our first a Hungarian Sheepdog, Trinka, and then an Old English Sheepdog, Myshkin, named by my mother after the kindly prince in Dostoevsky’s novel “The Idiot.” While my memories of Trinka are anything but fond (she bit and barked and viciously shredded our curtains), Myshkin—though somewhat slobbery—was a very loving pet.

Years ago my husband and I talked about getting a dog. We hesitated, though, since both our children had allergies. We were looking to decrease allergens, not add to them. As years passed, and our kids’ symptoms improved, we began exploring possibilities, considering dogs that weren’t as likely to create problems.

I got the book, “The Right Dog for You” with information about different breeds—kid friendliness, train-ability, how they got along with other dogs. We’d pretty much settled on a small to medium-sized dog, narrowing it to a Beagle or Border Terrier. A friend of mine whose children had allergies swore her Wheaten Terrier was not a problem, so we began looking into those. We researched, waited, delayed some more. Then the doubts started to surface again. “We go away on weekends a lot,” my husband said. True. “And we have no family nearby to take care of the dog when we’re away. We’d be tied down.” True again.

So we got other ‘pets’ instead—a hamster, water frogs. While our frogs splashed away in their modest aquarium, our hamster lived in a miniature city. Her cage-home had more rooms than ours, with passages connecting in a tangled web of tunnels to various compartments and exercise wheels. She even had this plastic ball where we’d put her in and watch her roll across the kitchen floor. The thing is, hamsters are asleep just when you most want to play with them, and you can’t hug a frog—too small, too slippery. Yes, these animals were sorry substitutes for a dog.

I’m quite amused at the whole dog-thing. People can be quite funny about them. My mother is a classic case in point. She is utterly obsessed with her Pug Kobe, (in no way named for the considerably taller and more temperamental NBA star of the same name.) My mother showers Kobe with gifts—an assortment of sweaters, squeaky and stuffed animal toys, raw hide chew things, doggie treats. Make no bones about it, this is one sweet, spoiled dog.

And there’s more. Kobe sits like a statue as my mother photographs her wearing her many scarves—one covered in black Labradors (from our visit to the Black Dog), one with little lobsters on it (from our visit to Kittery, Maine), even a leopard print cape with fur lined along the top. One Christmas, my mother even had Kobe’s picture taken sitting on Santa’s lap. “The proceeds went to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” my mother said, justifying it. Somehow I think this photo-op would not have been missed, ‘good cause’ or not.

Besides buying things for her dog, my mother has accumulated other ‘Pug things’—Pug figurines and pillows, Pug rugs and T-shirts, Pug throws and metal sculptures. On a recent shopping trip, she found a silver bracelet, little hearts and Pugs dangling from it. Naturally it was a “must-have” item. My mother carries Kobe photos—at last count eight—with her in her wallet. She is always on the lookout for a chance to show them off to someone who can relate to her obsession, like the store owner where she purchased the Pug bracelet. My sisters and I teased her once, asking to see the wallet-sized photos of her children she carries with her. (There were none.) The truth is, I have no problem with being second fiddle to her dog. For my mom, who lives alone, Kobe is a devoted companion. She is her best friend.

Somehow I think that’s when it will happen for us, when we will finally break down and get a dog. When the kids are gone and the house is looking a little too clean, sounding a little too quiet, feeling a little too empty. When I look at the space next to me on the couch and think, “gee, it would be nice to have a dog nestling, snoring, slobbering, waiting for a belly-rub, looking up at me with those ‘I adore you’ eyes.” Yes, I can picture it, my furry friend just sitting there, being a great little pal.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com March, 2006)