Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Against my better judgment, I visited an animal shelter on a cold afternoon around Christmastime, pet ownership heavy on my mind, the whys and wherefores be damned. The cat ward was quickly dismissed–forever, come to think of it–because allergies aside, felines just plain freak me out with their sly, lithe movements and those piercing eyes, behind which could only exist finely wrought plans for my imminent demise. I was looking for dog.

The litany of costs slowly unfurled as I neared the entrance. Adoption fees. Modest, of course. Heartworm treatment. Affordable, if I chose the cheaper method, but a cool grand for more reliable treatment. Food, vet visits, grooming. Time costs: waking up to a clock not of my own setting and getting far more sunlight and fresh air than I’ve promised myself. The wages of housebreaking, paid in inches of soiled carpet. It was overwhelming to project beyond the initial excitement of scooping up a new pet.

But pets also offer that which defies measurement, and the promise of this pushed me through the door, straight into one of the most depressing scenes I’ve ever witnessed. A long room stretched before me, cells on either side with rap sheets affixed to the doors, the wretched inhabitants within representing the full spectrum of canine emotion, from tail-wagging optimism to motionless defeat. It was a doggie prison. Whenever an inmate would be taken out for a walk or heaven knows what, all the cells would erupt in noise, and I was convinced cups and spoons and shivs would start clanging against the bars, were opposable thumbs available. It was a kill shelter, too, so I suppose the hallway doubled as a Green Mile, even for the colorblind.

There was a brown Labrador I liked. A good, solid dog, which I later discovered also qualified as a very Caucasian selection. Well! The burden of choice, however, proved too much, because with each lap up and down the hall came a desire to adopt all of them, to relocate them away from this hellhole, so I did the next best thing and left with none of them. Now, weeks later, I find myself thinking about the benefits: the forced exercise, the social aspect, the discipline tempered by commitment, and, most recently, how a dog could handily serve as a makeshift security system. It all makes sense, really. Rather than call up ADT and pay some heinous monthly fee, I could put the money toward the most faithful alarm system of all. Sweet, dependable rationalization. You are man’s best friend, truly.