For all the years I’ve been an adult (and most of the years before that) I have been firm–adamant, even–that I am not a dog person.
We had dogs growing up. I have vague memories of a blond labrador-style dog in our Seattle (or maybe Tacoma) house, and my dad told us that he (the dog, not the dad) went to live on a farm. Once, a few years ago, I asked him (the dad, not the dog) if that was the most classic “the dog went to live on a farm” ruse, but he assured me that the dog did, in fact, move to a farm. I choose to believe it.
When we were pre-teen-ish, my younger brother had a beagle named Darwin (which is very clever if you’re a nerd). The brother loved the dog with all of his (the brother’s) generous heart. I did not so much love the dog. It licked. It jumped up on me. It smelled like a dog.
When I had my first few kids, they were radically afraid of all things with fur. I thought that was lovely, because I didn’t have to fight the pets fight. I’m allergic to all the things, and I don’t want my house to smell nonhuman. Also, dogs don’t eat food storage, and my kids, for most of their childhoods, did.
When the last kid was tiny, he learned to talk and almost immediately began asking for a dog.
“No.”
He soon discovered that every healthy American boy requires [1] a dog.
“No.”
Age five: Mommy, I’d sure miss you if you died. But I bet someone would get me a puppy.
“Good luck, kid.”
Once he had a phone, he would regularly text me messages: photos of designer, nonshedding puppies.
Then suddenly he was the only kid living at home. (weeping and stuff)
Fast forward to his 16th birthday. My husband and I both (apparently) grew soft hearts at the same time, a dangerous proposition in the best of circumstances. There is a long story here, but the upshot is that we bought a goldendoodle puppy.
He’s adorable. He looks, as you can see, like a classic Teddy bear. He sleeps through the night and has made it two (nonconsecutive) days without peeing on the carpet. He smells like a dog, which will come as no surprise to anyone who has ever met a dog. He’s good and fluffy-puffy when he’s dry, but midbath he has a distinctly ratlike vibe. He doesn’t shed at all (yet) which is paramount (see allergy message above). He loves me. And I am falling in love with him, which comes as a daily surprise to me. His name is Edison, and he’s winning at all the things.
[1] My sister-in-law’s mother was the most vocal about this requirement. But she was not alone in insisting that my kids would require years of therapy to overcome the doglessness of their childhoods. She’s not wrong…