Happiness is a warm puppy

I want a pet. Real bad.

I grew up in a pet-less house, due to my mother’s severe allergies and general distaste for stinky creatures pooping on her floor. She knew that if we ever did get a pet, she would end up being the one to clean up after it, like another messy, poopy, smelly child that isn’t ever going to grow up and go to college. I understood, and I still do. I pretended to have a thick skin where animals are concerned, brushing them off as nuisances. But secretly I yearned to have a pet. I did have two goldfish once, Topaz and Ruby, but goldfish can hardly be considered pets. They’re more like decorative urns you put on the mantle just to look nice, only they move around a little bit. Overall, I lived through the pets of others.

Lots of pets have come in and out of my life—Arthur, Jake, Rocco, Tiggers 1 and 2, Clocks, Frank, Koby, Hobbs, Charlie, Cash, Calvin. My life has been filled with other animals too: the homeless gray kitten in the backyard, the nest of new robins in the tree, the deer on the hill on campus, the butterflies and bobcat and condors and baby monkey at the zoo where I worked. I denied it for a long time, pushing the pets and the animals away, pretending I didn’t care. But I did. It wasn’t until I acquired in-laws with pets that I began to give in to my secret softness.

I think the catalyst for giving in was Koby, my mother-in-law’s ancient white miniature poodle. He’s like the crotchety, blind old man down the street who can’t speak three words without one of them being a cuss, and complains about anyone under the age of 63 being a witless whippersnapper. But I love him. He’s tiny and really just wants someone to hold him. I often give him baths when I am in town, just to see how excitedly he parades around the house, showing off how pretty he looks.

Now my desire for a pet has reached a breaking point. I really, really want one. And I finally realized something the other day: I don’t need to worry about getting stuck cleaning up after my children’s pets, because very likely the pets will be mine. There will be no one to take responsibility except myself. I will purchase a pet with the full knowledge that he or she will depend on me for food, shelter, and love until death comes knocking. If this means I’m finally getting the hang of this grown-up thing, I think it’s a pretty sweet way to come to the acceptance of responsibility, deciding that you’ll finally get the furry creature to cuddle you always wanted. Jordan and I will have to start small of course—a beta fish is my reward for finding a job (a step up from goldfish, at least they fight with their reflections). Then, as we move up in the world, we can move up to cute little animals like sugar gliders and puppies.