Did a load of laundry, vacuumed the house twice, washed the toilets, cleared some work emails, ate lunch. Still, the tears came. I held off the anxiety attack for as long as I could. Six hours after the man's flight left for London, I put the cone on the dog, left her in the corner, put on Dashboard Confessional and went to the bedroom to bawl my eyes out for 45 minutes. I never thought I would be such a wreck. I was never bothered about the man's work trips. I welcome the solitude when he's away. Now, I don't even have me-time at home. Without him around to entertain the dog and to split those Choya-duties, the burden sits heavy on my shoulders.
Dog ownership is not filled with cotton fluff, and rainbows; not that I ever expected it to be. I knew what I was in for, and I dreaded it. I still do. Granted, this dog is by no means a nightmare. She was perfectly fine staying home alone (provided we've exercised her) till recently when she friggin pooped on the floor when we left her for less than four hours. She never used to bother us in the nights, and then suddenly she starts whining all fucking night. (The bedroom is out of bounds at all times.) She is fairly obedient and not destructive—she's a teenager testing her limits, so her training continues every day.
I haven't had a good night’s sleep for two months. Without a helper or teenage children around, I have to adjust my schedule to suit the dog's pee breaks. I have to step out of my home to find me-time and sanity. I don't hate the dog but I don't find myself falling in love with her. I'm not sure if that will ever happen.
The man is more enamored with her than I am. Like I said, 'Choya's not my dog. It's my husband's.' With me, it’s rules and discipline. She can ask the man for cuddles and fun. In the nights, she makes the man carry her to bed (in the guest bathroom). What nonsense. When the man travels and it’s just me at home, when I turn off the lights and announce “It’s bedtime”, she obediently trots to bed on her own. All I need to do is to shut the safety gate behind us. She has done that for a whole week.
Choya's life isn't long. She's here in my home and I can't ignore her. I'm obligated to feed her, monitor her physical health, consider her mental well-being, groom her, walk and exercise her, and pick up her poop. And never let her off the leash in an unsecured area. It’s a neverending list of chores. My patience is sorely tested. At least she is cute.
The internet is full of articles about how dogs are great for your mental well-being and reduces anxiety. It took a lot of googling to suss out non-reddit threads about how anxious people get with their new dogs, and some regret their decision. The few writers who dare to go against the 'dogs are wonderful' creed got roundly criticized.
Elisabeth Egan's November 3, 2016 article (hilariously) on Glamour UK resonates, 'Don't Judge Me, But I Hate My Dog'. Although it was her who made the decision to get a dog, not anyone else. She had no control over how this dog would pan out in terms of temperament and quirks.
Dog ownership is not filled with cotton fluff, and rainbows; not that I ever expected it to be. I knew what I was in for, and I dreaded it. I still do. Granted, this dog is by no means a nightmare. She was perfectly fine staying home alone (provided we've exercised her) till recently when she friggin pooped on the floor when we left her for less than four hours. She never used to bother us in the nights, and then suddenly she starts whining all fucking night. (The bedroom is out of bounds at all times.) She is fairly obedient and not destructive—she's a teenager testing her limits, so her training continues every day.
The man is more enamored with her than I am. Like I said, 'Choya's not my dog. It's my husband's.' With me, it’s rules and discipline. She can ask the man for cuddles and fun. In the nights, she makes the man carry her to bed (in the guest bathroom). What nonsense. When the man travels and it’s just me at home, when I turn off the lights and announce “It’s bedtime”, she obediently trots to bed on her own. All I need to do is to shut the safety gate behind us. She has done that for a whole week.
Choya's life isn't long. She's here in my home and I can't ignore her. I'm obligated to feed her, monitor her physical health, consider her mental well-being, groom her, walk and exercise her, and pick up her poop. And never let her off the leash in an unsecured area. It’s a neverending list of chores. My patience is sorely tested. At least she is cute.
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| This is Fig Newton Egan. |
Elisabeth Egan's November 3, 2016 article (hilariously) on Glamour UK resonates, 'Don't Judge Me, But I Hate My Dog'. Although it was her who made the decision to get a dog, not anyone else. She had no control over how this dog would pan out in terms of temperament and quirks.
Otherwise, I’ve added dog ownership to the roster of things I don’t enjoy as much as other people seem to. (That list also includes breastfeeding, yoga, karaoke, facials, parades, and my twenties.) But I’m not allowed to say this, because we are required to love our animals—all the time and without reservation. At the dog park, a fellow human asked which beast was mine, and I pointed to Fig, who was enthusiastically humping an elderly corgi. Hoping for a sympathetic ear, I admitted, “He’s a real handful. Actually, he’s ruining my life.” The woman gave me a disgusted look and scooted to the other side of the bench. Would she have had such an unsympathetic reaction if I’d made a similar admission about one of my kids? When did zealotry become a requirement of pet ownership?
Here’s what I’ve learned about dog people: They love to proselytize. Every time I stop at a red light, I’m face-to-face with their bumper stickers: “Who Rescued Who?,” “Dog is my co-pilot,” or (my least favorite) “You Had Me at Woof.” So I’m anticipating some criticism for my honesty—starting with my sister, who bakes organic treats for her rowdy lab. But don’t worry about Fig, who has legions of fans. I have his back. And his Prozac.
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