Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Lately, whenever I’m not jamming login credentials into Blogger, I’ve been making a new stop on my daily trips down the Information Superhighway: Petfinder.com. Back in February, I visited a shelter and decided against adopting a dog, so overwhelmed was I by choice, never mind the inevitable financial and mental cost. Now, having had a few months to marinate on the matter, I’m back on the scene, scanning–let’s be honest here–mug shots of the canine gen pop in the Charlotte-metro area.

I know what I want. Nothing’s changed on this front. Got to be a rescue. Medium energy. Large. Must not be yappy. After growing up with a Cocker Spaniel and, more recently, spending time with my sister’s new Pomeranian, the verdict is simple. Small, barkey dogs, in veterinary parlance, drive me fucking insane.

And I’ll need every shred of sanity because this won’t be easy. I know the effort demanded. When I look in a kennel, any feelings tied to the moment quickly evaporate in the face of all the attendant responsibilities: the initial cost, the shots, housebreaking, trips to the vet, doggie shampoo, early mornings, wrenching end-of-life care. Instead of carpe diem, what unfolds in my mind is per diem, really.

But I believe this is one of those situations where I can mull over four dozen reasons not to act, when all I really need is the one right reason to do so. Even now, I can picture all the corners of my townhouse being christened with dog leavings and a corresponding decrease in property value, but guess what? The housing market already took a shit on every square inch of it, and it’s going to be a while before better days arrive. I may as well pony up and enjoy the situation at hand.