This weekend I irreversibly altered my life by adopting the dog seen above (illustration 1.bonkers). 48 hours later, I’m still not sure what the hell I just did.
The Wife™ and I are both dog people, and for years have talked about getting a dog once we had a suitable home. We’ve been more actively considering it lately, and last weekend went to an adoption place to look at a few little ones. We talked and thought and no where in the process of the past week did we think that we were not ready. We wanted a puppy, both for the Cute Factor and also for the tabula rasa-esque of his habits. A clean slate to teach him cool tricks! I’ve since gotten the word SUCKER! tattooed across my face.
Saturday we decided to go back and see more, and as it turns out, we found Jonas. Well, technically his name was Jack (named after the main character in a certain time-related television drama), but we didn’t think it fit him. We had gone to see his brother, Bear, not knowing that Jonas even existed. But once we got there, brother Bear proved to be a wee bit too excitable. Jonas, on the other hand was totally Emo. He was kinda wussy, seeking loving affection and a boatload of shade from the sun. His main goal for the day was to sit in your lap and not be hit by the evil heated death rays from above. He was seemingly just a few steps short of listening to Morrisey on repeat in the basement of his parents house while painting his fingernails. Totally emo.
I can’t say we were smitten, but the Cute Factor was dangerously high. And his quiet, calm (emo) demeanor was a large plus. So in the end we took him home. And then I almost puked because I couldn’t believe what we had just done.
His first night he and I spent alone together (The Wife™ had a bachelorette party). In my head I fantasized that it would have been spent kicking back on the couch together with a few brews watching a Law & Order marathon on USA. Instead it was an all-out battle royale between he and I. Emo dog my ass.
Long story short, we butted heads. And I bet he secretly likes those fancy import beers too.
And while Sunday was better, we apparently still have a completely manic depressive (emo) dog on our hands. One minute he’s the sweetest thing that could make your heart melt with his sad little eyes. Then next, he’s Dogzilla attacking your hands like they were raw pieces of beef slathered in barbecue sauce. Apparently in dogspeak, the words “no!” “no biting!” and “down!” translate to “yes!” “can I have some more?” and “please attack my crotch!” The world is his Nylabone and everything, I mean everything is edible. To be fair, from his point of view it must be a pretty sweet gig. Except for the part about eating bird crap.
So this morning, after an all-too-early walk around the neighborhood I had to put him back in his crate. I feel terribly that he’s penned up all the time. I put on NPR in hopes of weening him a bit off that goth-synth crap, but I’d put $20 on the table that when I get home I’ll spend the entire evening wrestling the little bastard and trying to remind myself why in the hell I wanted to do this in the first place.
Oh, and the moral of the story this weekend was that I am sure as hell not ready to have children. Because they don’t come with a two-week return policy. At least I don’t think.
