- Growing up, we never had any pets. I was actually a little scared of animals, probably something ingrained in me through my parents. Once my brother and I had to dog/cat sit our neighbor's pets, and I remember rushing in, doing the obligatory feeding and cleaning up, and getting out, staying as far from the big goofy sheepdog as I could. Poor things, they must have hated those days when their owners were gone. I feel bad now that I didn't even really think to walk the dog. In my defense, they didn't ask us to, and I only sort of rarely remember them doing it themselves. So anyway, its a bit baffling to me that I'm now the avid dog lover that I am. The kind of pet lover that berates lousy pet owners, that gets annoyed by people who get a pet because they succumb to peer pressure or cuteness, play at it for a while, and then return the pet when they realize it might require a slight change in lifestyle. The kind of pet owner that rants against people who raise puppies in their backyard because they're too stupid to spay/neuter their dog and because they want the extra cash. The kind of owner that cries a little when I hear about puppy mills or dog fighting. Well, ok, I guess I'm really only a dog lover. Cats are fine, but I'm allergic. I mostly blame my husband's (now mine too) dog Bandit for my relatively new found dog love. She's one of the most perfect dogs in the world, though she did take a while before she decided I was all right (she's utterly devoted to G and didn't like to share). It took a lot of runs and treats before I won her over.
- Once, my brother and I captured what we thought were caterpillars and stuck them in little sour cream boxes to try to watch them molt into butterflies. We stuck plenty of leaves in the box, poked a couple of holes, and hid the box under a bush in our back yard to wait for the transformation. The next day, the little suckers had mysteriously disappeared, and to this day, I have no idea why. No holes in the box other than the little ones we had poked. Every single one of them, gone. That was about the extent of our "animal ownership" as children.
- The first dog I owned all by myself was this Australian Shepherd mix named Rose. I got her off Craigslist, which I've now realized may not be the best place for this sort of thing. She was an all right dog, I suppose. I got her in the Bay Area one summer and then took her back to school with me in San Diego. She was obsessed with the ball, was a little bit of an escape artist and would freak about random things -- a computer cord I had in my hand once when I was moving, baths (a lot of dogs don't like baths, but she needed to be held down by a 2nd person and looked at you like she was going to kill you the whole time). The incidents of her being a little freaky weren't every day. But the few times I'd gotten mad at her, she looked mad right back at me. I wondered why she freaked me out a little. Figured it was me, I wasn't used to discipling dogs. And maybe it was her too, maybe she'd had a rough background. But things were coming along all right. For about a month or so. Then, it happened. I had just come home from walking her. My little brother was in town, we had taken her to Balboa Park in San Diego. We were hanging out in the kitchen after, making dinner. My roommate (whom Rose knew and loved) walked in, and we were talking about our days. And all of sudden, with absolutely no warning or provocation, Rose lunged at my roommate, snarling and ready to bite, standing on her hind legs, her face almost level with my roommate's. We were lucky that day. My roommate liked dogs and remained calm. She grabbed Rose by the neck and waited for her to calm down and go back down on all fours. Aside from a few scratches where the dog's nails grazed against her, she was ok. But I had never seen anything like that before or since. The dog's eyes took on this glazed look, and it seemed almost as if she was seizing. It was over as quickly as it started, and for the rest of the night, she stayed subdued, looking almost guilty and even slept in my roommate's room that night. But after that, I knew it was a done deal. The next day, I took Rose to the Humane Society, where I knew they would most likely put her down. Before I did, I called the old owner to let her know what had happened and offered to drive the dog back up to her. She swore that something like this had never happened before and didn't even considered the possibility of taking her back, even after I bluntly told her what was likely to happen to her. And I was right. The lady at the humane society said that 1) the chances of that never happening before is pretty zilch, so the old owner was full of shit and 2) Rose was too far gone now to save her, that they couldn't trust her to adopt her to anyone. I had been up all night the night before trying to see what could be up with her and came across a kind of "dog rage" that can be common in some breeds. And the symptoms described were exactly what Rose had demonstrated -- the glazed look, the seizure, etc. Apparently its a genetic condition in dogs and somehow relates to a pituatary malfunction. I don't know if that's what Rose had, but in any event, there didn't seem to be anything to be done. The whole time we were waiting at the Humane Society, Rose put her head on my lap. I think she knew what was going to happen to her. And I couldn't stop crying.
- Despite these traumatic first attempts at pet ownership, I did go on to get a beautiful puppy named Mia, who is only sometimes a turd, and kind of adorable.
- The last thing I would expected though would be to now be the proud owner of 3 dogs.
Sigh. I never did get to the travel stories. Next time? And the next post will be hopefully be more cheerful too.
No comments:
Post a Comment