Thursday, January 26, 2006

An Irish setter. It’s imperative I attain one eventually. This isn’t to say my guinea pigs are inadequate, somehow boring or unloving, their four-fingered paws poised to thwart an imaginary pet mandate. They are, in fact, excellent pigs and fill the capacity ably, but cavy-human interaction has its limits. There’s the dark path, which involves testing cosmetics on them in the name of scientific advancement, and then there’s the pet path–my path–where the goal is to raise them, until one day you believe they will live forever.

I’m a dog person. Apparently you select your camp early on, and this was my choice. Faithfulness, emotional transparency, expressive eyes–you had me at the “dumb” in “dumb loyalty.” Sure, there are those with more ecumenical leanings who welcome both cats and dogs, but I simply do not have time for feline mind games. Do not manipulate me with your litter box, Dr. Seuss.

The reason cats and dogs enjoy their place in the pet hierarchy, and I don’t expect you to gasp in amazement, is because they can display an affection driven by something other than food. True, there’s the initial learning curve, the contours of which are essentially lots of piss and dog shit, but it’s nothing new to me. When this setter sidled up the other day and wagged her tail, man! That’s when intuition and my wallet and a feeling of urgent discovery intersected.