Going to the Dogs

Everyone told me not to get a dog. 

“You’re not home enough,” people said. “It’s not fair to the dog.”

My mother had a different take on the situation.

“A dog? You can’t take care of a Chia Pet.”

Although I didn’t want to admit it, they raised some good points. Considering my schedule, would I be able to properly care for this dog? Not to mention, I am bad with houseplants.

The thing is, I’d always wanted to be one of those carefree “dog guys”, the ones who drive Jeeps with the top down and throw Frisbees at Golden Labradors with cool red bandanas tied around their necks.

But I’m not one of those guys. I’m more of a sit by the fireplace with a sleeping dog kind of guy.

The key to the whole thing would be finding the right dog for me. And to do that, I needed to be honest with myself. I don’t drive Jeeps, I don’t go to the beach, and I’m not always social. I do not even own a Frisbee or bandana.

Instead, I work a lot and am usually grumpy when I get home.

What I needed was a dog who didn’t mind being alone and who could, ideally, amuse himself without wrecking my house. This dog must already be house-trained, up to snuff with vaccinations, and not have a “dog smell”. 

A few other things. No barking. No whining. No growling. And finally, since I pretty much only wear black or dark blue shirts, no shedding. (Hey, I never claimed to be flexible.)

Once these lofty conditions were met, I knew I’d have found the right dog for me. But after researching the characteristics of different dog breeds and talking to my dog-owning friends, I started to see how my list of conditions was not only unreasonable, it was moronic.

What dog doesn’t shed or bark?

I decided to go with a rescue dog from Petfinder.com, for two reasons. First, there are millions of homeless dogs in the United States, many of them in high-kill shelters. And second, an older dog would (hopefully) have a track record regarding their behavior, demeanor, and dog manners.

It took about four months from the time I started actively looking for a dog until the day I drove to another state to pick him up, all because my state, Massachusetts, doesn’t allow out-of-state pet adoptions. We met at a motel in Connecticut where I presented identification and a $300 donation/adoption fee in exchange for the dog I had selected. I have to admit, the whole thing felt a little shady to me, but I went through with it nonetheless.

Charlie (formerly Cappy, a name the shelter folks gave him) came from Tennessee, a place where he was abused, homeless and malnourished for at least two of his three years. During his time there, he survived both a flood and a severe poke in the eye that left him partially blinded. 

It’s been four years since Charlie and I first met in the motel parking lot in Connecticut and not one of my conditions has been met. He barks, he sheds, and he whines when he wants to go out.

One night I came home to a tipped-over trash barrel and realized that Charlie had eaten about a half pound of shrimp tails.  Another night he ate the plastic lid from a can of hot sauce and woke me up three times from 2:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m.  looking to go outside. He’s also kind of anti-social when other dogs come around.

None of this matters of course. Getting a dog was the best thing I ever did. He might eat the trash now and then, but the good far outweighs the bad.

I couldn’t resist telling my mother how well things had worked out.

“You were wrong, Ma,” I said smugly. “Charlie and I are getting along fine.”

“Of course you are. He’s just as anti-social as you. Everyone knows dogs take on the personalities of their owners,” she said.

Somewhere in 2016