A Dog and His Bed: A Love Story

So we have a slight problem...Henry has fallen madly in love with his dog bed. Though the love of his life has worn many fabrics and taken on many shapes and sizes, she always resides in the same cozy corner of our living room, calling out to him like a yearning siren.

It all started when he was about six months old. Come 5 o'clock, after a nice, hardy meal, he would get this look in his eye, like a playboy at cocktail party. Then he would disappear into the living room for a little romancing.

When this love affair began, his lady friend was a lovely, fluffy cheetah print number that he just couldn't get enough of. We assumed it was the animal print that was fueling his desire. After all, who could resist that Jane-and-Tarzan-esque fantasy?

So we decided to change her cover, hoping this might reduce her appeal. We put her in something much more bland and matronly--a sea foam green corduroy. Unfortunately that was not the ticket. He only longed for her more. He actually liked her more frumpy look--like a naughty librarian beckoning him from behind her book cart.

Despite our embarrassment, scolding and cries of "Henry, that's disgusting!," they were two star-crossed lovers, determined to be together, no matter the consequences. "What's the problem?'" one might say. Well, not only does it completely ruin your image of them as cute little babies to be cuddled and adored, but Henry tends to get destructive during his romantic encounters. His girlfriends kept ending up looking like Swiss cheese and have to be replaced on a regular basis. How can he love something so much, but have such a strong desire to rip out its heart and destroy its very being?

This is why we were enormously relieved when he gave up his horrifying habit. We're not sure why or what happened between him and his lady friend—maybe they’d hit a relationship slump--but he just lost interest. He would lay on her with no ulterior motives, happy to simply curl up and pass out. "Thank God," we thought, "Now we can finally have company."

But about a month ago, those familiar bedroom eyes returned. We're not sure why. Maybe it was Spring fever or those new scented candles I bought—or even that jazzy music they play on the Weather Channel, which my husband watches incessantly. Whatever it was, suddenly he was in love again. Oh, the horror.

In our nearly three years of dog parenting, Matt and I have discovered it's a process characterized primarily by trial and error. You have to become a sort of doggy detective. We ponder, "Why did he chew up the $200 sunglasses? Was he mad at us? Was he bored? Was it because he was locked up and heard us talking about him in the other room?" You take a guess at the enabling factor, eliminate it and hope it doesn't happen again.

This is at the root of our newest solution--removing the girlfriend between the hours of 5 and 10 p.m. For some reason this is when he desires her most, so if she's not around, we deeply hope he'll lose interest. I refuse to be his escort service--bringing in one lady after another after he’s left them in shreds. So, he better start sleeping on--instead of with--his girlfriends, or he's going to have to get used to spending the night on the floor.

Fuzzy Grandchildren, Baby Phobia and Unspoken Desires

To my parents and mother-in-law, our dogs ARE their grandchildren. They shop for them, pamper them with bacon grease and table scraps and speak to them in baby-voiced-gibberish. After my parents watched our dogs for a long weekend, we were informed that Henry had been acting up--running away to the neighbors to visit a friendly English Pointer. "Well, did you scold him?" I asked my father, to which he replied matter-of-factly, "No. Of course not. I wouldn't do that to my grandson!" My mother often refers to them as her "fuzzy grandchildren," and despite Henry's tendency to mark his territory on her house plants, she never complains, just pulls out the paper towels and mops up the puddles.

I was always surprised and pleased by their warm embrace of the only grandchildren they will have for a few years, despite the babies popping up throughout our extended family and our circle of friends. When my dad speaks of someday taking his hypothetical grandchildren fishing, and I reply, "Well, I guess we're going to have to teach Pete how to fish," he just laughs and sighs. But, it was on a trip to the Lonestar State to visit family that I saw a flash of desire for a non-fuzzy grandchild.

One of my cousins is almost exactly the same age as me and was married only a few months before Matt and I. Now, at the same point in her life and marriage as I am, she has a beautiful, plump baby girl who is full of life and the obsession of the entire family. My grandmother refers to her simply as "the baby" and literally can't keep her hands off her. The obsessive behavior is understandable. Not only is "the baby" beautiful, she's the first small child in our family since scruchies went out of style.

I've always been sort of scared of babies--and, yes, I know this is ridiculous. Who is scared of cute, drooly, pudgy, cooing babies?! Unfortunately, the answer to that question is "me." They just seem so fragile, and I never know quite what to say or do when I'm around them, and asking to hold another person's baby seems like asking to see that ecstatic mother or father in their underwear. It's just too personal. Once they can sort of walk a little and tottle around, then I'm okay. At that age, you're less likely to break them.

So, when my cousin brought over her bundle of joy, I sat peacefully in the corner, enjoying her adorableness from afar as she was passed around like a Thanksgiving side. It was when she reached my mother that I saw it, not just a mutual appreciation of the undeniable cuteness, but a sort of underlying desire. And, I wondered, how can the fuzzy grandchildren compete? There are no bottles or diapers, and while they once made cute noises, now they're more likely to emit ear-shattering barks that make you want to leave the room, not pinch their cheeks.

Of course, my mother never said a word. She gets it. Recent graduate school grads about to move to another state who are currently unemployed do not make for ideal parents, but that's not to say some part of me doesn't want to fulfill their unspoken longing.

It was on a recent trip to the grocery store that I remembered all the reasons (aside from not having a job, etc.) that taking that life-changing step is not yet for me. As I loaded groceries into my trunk, a family across the parking lot attempted to remove their screaming one-year old from a shopping cart. But this baby wasn't going anywhere. All they wanted to do was go home after a long day at work, but she wasn't having any of it. Though I felt for them, I was sort of relieved to shut the trunk, hop in the car and drive home--obstacle free--with my only obligation being feeding the dogs and going to the gym.

Some day will be the right day, and my family will be ecstatic, but for now, I am enjoying my fuzzy children, savoring the quiet and hoping my baby phobia disappears when that baby is my own.

4 a.m. Reality Check

It was still dark outside this morning when I awoke to a piercing howl outside my door. I tried to convince myself I was dreaming, but my husband immediately sat up to investigate, and, inevitably, my worry jolted me awake. My first thought was, why is Pete (my Brittany Spaniel) in the hallway rather than closed up in the kitchen with Henry, our German Shorthaired Pointer? But then my more immediate concern was the familiar tone of panic in that early-morning cry. Yes, this only meant one thing--poop. As my husband started down the hallway ahead of me, I prayed that little cry was a warning of an approaching accident rather than a sigh of post-apocalyptic regret. But, as soon as I heard Matt's remorseful "Oh no!," I knew tonight would not be my lucky night.

I saw it the moment I reached the open door of the kitchen, a disgusting interpretation of a splatter-paint Jackson Pollock. No one-shot deal here. Pete likes to get creative with his messes, and then, apparently escape to leave Henry to deal with the consequences. Poor, sweet Henry. Too big to slip out of the kitchen, he was forced to lie next to this awful atomic bomb of a bowel movement. No one deserves that, and I was shocked and sort of impressed that he wasn't the one who awoke us with cries of mourning.

Many thoughts crossed my mind as I took in the mess, but mainly, "What if we just left it until the morning? How bad would it be?" But my next inhalation and the mangled expression on my husband's face reminded me that action must immediately be taken. So, I grabbed some baggy rubber gloves, which I accidentally bought a size too large, a bottle of Windex and a tube of Clorox wipes.

Matt had to wake up in a couple of hours, so I volunteered to do it all and let him go to bed, but he sweetly insisted on helping. He held a plastic grocery bag out toward me as I attempted to mop up the mess in only my t-shirt and underwear. As I scrunched my face and tried not to breathe out of my nose, one phrase echoed in my head--"Now this is love."

For some reason a moment from college also kept entering my thoughts. During my junior year, there was this night of late-night partying that ended with a run to Taco Bell, in which I purchased, but did not finish, a bean and cheese burrito. When I woke up the next morning, I found the half-eaten burrito taunting me from my nightstand, and, yes, I finished it at 10 a.m.

I thought of this not because of the comparative disgusting-ness of that moment or the similarity between the refried beans and Pete's work of art, but because it represented a point of total and utter freedom. There were no husbands, no dogs, just me, alone in my double bed, waking whenever I pleased and eating whatever I pleased. If I wanted to leave my Taco Bell trash on the floor and not clean it up for three days, who was gonna stop me? I was free of judgment and responsibility. What a life.

But, as I glanced at Pete's panicked and guilty face and reached out to stroke his soft little head, I remembered all the reasons I chose the life I have. It was kind of lonely in that big bed, and I wanted a dog so badly I volunteered at the Humane Society. So, as we tossed the bag in the trash and headed back to bed, I thought someday I might look back to this unpleasant night of artful pooping and think, not "How awful!," but "Aaah, marriage before kids. What a life."

Top Dog Parks in America (According to Online Resources)

View Best Dog Parks Nationwide in a larger map

Being The Person Your Dog Would Be

They say you should "be the person your dog thinks you are." By this I assume they mean we should be REALLY exciting, a great source of food and always ready to distribute ear scratching. I'm still working on this one, but what I'm really striving for is to be the person my dogs would be if they were--well, a person. Now, this is a little longer, more abstract and doesn't fit so well on refrigerator magnets and bumper stickers, but it's still a noble goal nonetheless.

This occurred to me during a visit to the beach on a beautiful, opening-of-the-heavens type of day. The surf was crashing, the sun was beaming, and while I had moments of great appreciation for the fact that I was sitting on that gorgeous stretch of sand, the main thing I was thinking about was far, far away. So far away, in fact, that it doesn't actually exist. It is my imaginary vision of what me having a job will look like and my mental ramblings and worries of how exactly I'm going to acquire one of these allusive occupations.

It's not like I've never had a job, it's just that I don't currently have one. I just finished my master's degree--Yay!...In the middle of a recession--Boo! And I often get caught in these thoughts of a career, and I crash around in my head like a Canadian tourist struggling to escape the undertow. Where will I get a job, when will I get a job, will I have to be a stay-at-home dog mom forever?

It's not like I don't love rising at 9:30 a.m., enjoying a little "Regis and Kelly" and not removing my pajamas until my husband comes home (so he doesn't think I've totally lost all desire to look attractive). It's just that I am bored out of my gourd, and the only people I talk to for the majority of the day are not actually people, but spotted canines who are probably sick of hearing me read my cover letters aloud as I check for typos.

This is beside the point. The point is that here I was, sitting in heaven/on the beach, but only thinking about Careerbuilder.com. All the while, Henry and Pete were enjoying every second of that flawless day. Pete dashed about chasing every bird in sight, whether on land or far above in the air, and despite his past experience and every bit of common sense in his head, he just knew today was the day he was going to catch one of those fat, pesky seagulls.

Henry, on the other hand, had no use for seagulls. With professional-athlete-worthy catching skills, he chased the tennis ball as my husband tossed it along the sparkling shore. Each time he ran back, ears flopping in the breeze, with a sandy, slobbery ball in his mouth, he looked like he would simply burst with joy.

They weren't thinking about last week when I yelled at them for shredding a slew of mail, including several wedding invitations, nor were they thinking about the inevitable diarrhea they would later have after drinking a mountain of salt water. Heck, they weren't even thinking about that dreadful visit to Pet Paradise. They were focused on that one beautiful moment and nothing else...

This is one area--among many, actually--that I think dogs exceed us in intelligence. So now, when that prospective employer refuses to return my e-mails, I try to think, "seagulls" and "tennis balls" and envision Henry's expression as he runs along the beach with his ears caught in the wind like flapping wings.

Guilt

It happens every time. The bags are packed, the car is loaded, then...the dreaded kennel drop off. Our dogs get to do a lot of road tripping, so they're usually more excited than concerned when they see us stuffing our bags and loading the trunk. They tend to follow us closely, sniffing and bouncing about, Pete panting with his mouth curled upward in a way I swear is a smile. That's when the guilt sets in. It's like handing a toddler a beautiful lolly pop, knowing you're just going to have to snatch it right back again.

When we load them into the back of the car they're expecting a plethora of exciting possibilities--the beach, camping, a trip to visit my doting parents. Never does it seem to cross their adorable minds that they will be staring through the wrong side of a chain-link fence for the next few days.

Henry has it all figured out. As soon as we pull into the gravel drive, the excited panting ceases. Maybe it's that creepy white sign with the zombie-like cartoon cats and dogs smiling blankly as they gather around the kennel name--"Pet Paradise*"--a title I'm sure Henry finds laughably ironic. Maybe it's the distant cries of desperation from the other dogs, who are sure to be warning, "Don't let those cartoon cats fool you. Save yourself!" Whatever, the giveaway, he's not going near that entrance. No, no. Not this time.

Pete, on the other hand, remains gleeful and carefree. He's just too young. He'll learn...But for now, his expression reads, "Oh, we're stopping. Yaaaaay!" As we literally drag Henry from the car, Pete hops down, his white, cotton tale wagging about.

Once we are inside, we are greeted by Jaylene*, the manager, receptionist and the one who likely pens those silly report cards we receive when we retrieve the dogs. Apparently Henry's demeanor is best described as "excited" and Pete "needs his nails trimmed" and "doesn't have any fleas." So far they've passed, or at least have been allowed to come back.

They give you the option of paying extra for one-on-one play sessions. Supposedly, the dogs are released for 15 minutes (for the low, low price of $4.25 per dog, per day) and given some good-ol-fashion TLC. They also offer something they call "Yappy Hour," which is is only $2 and is said to involve ice cream. My husband and I, the skeptical types, have a hard time envisioning sweet, southern Jaylene unleashing a bunch of hyper, stir crazy beasts, corralling them into some sort of gathering area, then whipping them up sundaes as they spin in circles, attempt to mount each other and sniff at one anothers' behinds. Not likely. So we pass. But, that's not to say we don't feel guilty. What if this Yappy Hour really does exist and because we wouldn't cough up $2, they have to watch it from their prison cells and wonder, "Why not us??"

As we leave our fuzzy children behind. We ponder...Should we be concerned that Henry seems terrified of Jaylene, the round redhead who always greets him with such affection. She seems sweet and all, but what if she has a dark side? What if after the "Sorry we're closed sign is up," after five or during their insanely long two-hour lunch breaks, she thwacks them with a bull whip--cackling as she rears back for one more lash.

In the end, we always end on the same conclusion. "I'm sure it's fine. They're just dogs." Or are they....

*Names of people and places have been changed to protect the innocent.