Pet Peevish

I grew up in a home where ‘no’ was the prevailing wind.   The hallmarks of teenagehood—attending a school dance, a cute new pair of shoes, a stylish haircut—were normally met with a firm ‘no.’  Even on the rare occasions when my parents were inclined to allow me some liberty, like going to a party, there was always an unpleasant tax involved.  I would need to take my brother along, or wear what my mother picked out, or endure some embarrassing parent-designated reengineering of the circumstances.  After a while, there was no point in asking.  I learned instead to make excuses to my friends for why I was always busy.  

Perhaps this is why I have always had difficulty saying ‘no’ to my children.  That they know it and don’t bleed me dry speaks to their character.  I have always maintained that spoiling them is my greatest pleasure.  There are shelves and shelves of parenting books enumerating the reasons that this makes me a terrible mother.  Nonetheless, I am a sucker for the look in my son’s eyes when he’s sporting new sneakers, or my daughter’s breathless gasp at an exciting new book.

There is one area, however, where I am, hands down, intractable.  For as long as my children could walk and talk they have wanted a puppy; yet I seem to be incapable of giving in to this single wish. 

Long before the kids came along, my husband and I felt the need to expand our family.  It was impractical to start having children during his residency, but we were really hurting for the pitter-patter of little feet.  Despite my debilitating allergies, I was bamboozled into accepting a little kitten into our household.  The tiny ginger tabby stole my heart, following me everywhere and nuzzling against my heartbeat.  He seemed so lonely during the daytime when we were both at work that we followed up with a companion, a seal point Siamese of exceptional beauty and questionable manners.   After the kids came along and reached school age, I relented to a blue-tongued skink, a vegetarian reptile with limited growth potential.  Lizzie lived out her days in a large glass tank, subsisting on a diet of designer smoothies made of anything left in the produce drawer of the refrigerator.

There is one thing in common with these pets:  none of them had to be walked.  The cats were fastidious, learning to use their sequestered litter box or the great outdoors for their toilette.  They came and went easily enough, one more than the other, but they were basically low maintenance animals.  At no time, however, did I have to put a winter coat over my nightgown and walk them late at night.  Or put steaming poop in my pocket!

I have been taking note of pets and their owners for my entire life.  It seems that no matter what promises are made, it is the mother in the household that truly adopts a dog.  Children are not as good as their word, claiming automatic byes for homework, sports practice, music lessons, and any other event that arises.  Quite frankly, I refuse to be left holding the, er, leash.

Please don’t think me a bad person.  I can appreciate the sweetness and the beauty of these loyal creatures.  I am the first person to turn to the Westminster Dog Show when it is on and I even travelled to New York once to see it in person.  But I have a dark past with dogs that left me irrationally terrified around all canines.  Back when I was a child, my very young brother walked around the corner to play with his close friend.  The friend’s family was in the backyard, so my brother climbed over the fence to join them.  Their dog, true to his breeding, perceived my brother to be an intruder and attacked him, trying to protect its family.  We could hear my brother’s blood-curdling screams from our house.  I remember the way my mother dropped the kitchen knife from her hand and went running out the door, coming back holding my little brother in the air, his leg dripping with blood.  She grabbed a clean kitchen towel and headed for the hospital.  It was the first time I ever saw stitches.

To this day, I am anxious around dogs.  Almost every friend we have has at least one dog, and so does every member of the family.  I freeze up when dogs approach me, barely able to tolerate the obligatory ritual of sniffing and marking.  I particularly dislike dogs that jump in my lap.  For some reason, in a room full of people, I am the lap most likely to attract a dog (not sure what that says about me!).  The jumping and licking just makes me want to crawl under a rock--or jump into a vat of sanitizer.

So forgive me, my wonderful children, for failing at the one thing you have asked of me.  For the twentieth year in a row, there will be no puppy this holiday season.  I cannot assume the responsibility for a dog, and therefore am not worthy of one.  But if it’s any consolation, I will continue to love you, to put out your favorite food, to scratch your tummy, to brush your hair, and to clean up after you.  No pet can bring me what I get from the two of you.