Woof

     Man’s best friend, for me, is more of a peripheral acquaintance. I have no problem running into him a few times a year, but balk at the idea of meeting for a long walk.

     I agree that this soulless disposition is a red flag. I wave my white flag in surrender.

     My propensity to jump at the smallest disruption makes me fundamentally incompatible with pets in general. On top of this baseline anxiety, I rarely find intriguing a living being with whom I can’t have a bilateral conversation about the news or, even better, my feelings. The cost-benefit analysis of maintaining an additional canine life simply doesn’t add up. I can’t afford to spend that much time outside.

     During finals week in college, young puppies would be brought to campus from the local shelter in an effort to relieve student stress. The value in this practice eluded me, as being surrounded by restless newborn animals seemed like one of the most stress-inducing environments I could imagine. I often pondered the potential alternative of bringing in newborn babies for us to hold, wrapped securely in swaddling clothes with pacifiers to keep them occupied. I was sure a plethora of health and legal protocols would prohibit such an event, but it still made more sense to me.

     All griping aside, there are a few times when I can see the light.

     Walking down the street one day after therapy, I noticed a man paused beside a building, stalled by his golden retriever. The dog was leaning forward, neglecting to raise a hind leg in classic fire hydrant fashion. Slowly, unenthusiastically, she was relieving a clearly full bladder. She looked pitifully lethargic, and I loved her.

     If I were a dog, I would capitalize on the unique privilege to invest minimal effort into every task while continuing to reap the full rewards of belonging. I would lie down whenever possible, feel no pressure to smile, and take my time returning the tennis ball. I would certainly never trouble myself with raising a hind leg to pee.

     The implicit freedom enjoyed by pups is the subject of both my envy and repulsion. Their ability to move through the world void of guilt is a feat incomparable to my existence. Their wagging tails and my oscillating self-doubt are irreconcilable. I love them, and I want them to go away.

     I think of my childhood dogs, Sheba and Duke, who I picture now galloping through a field of tall grass, tongues flapping in the wind, a solid red barn sitting stoically in the background.

     I want to be just like them. By myself.