Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Some dogs are bred for hunting, others for pointing, others for retrieving, and still others for guarding, but the purpose of Pomeranians continues to elude me. That sounds presumptuous, so let me amend this to say that the purpose of the Pomeranian I looked after this weekend eludes me. Let’s set aside the fact that nature likely didn’t call for a dog that constantly wants to be picked up. Clearly, this is a strain of canine borne from the darker corners of the human psyche.

Even then, though, I couldn’t fathom which twisted breeder decided we needed a dog that a) shivers at fireworks, thunderstorms, or vacuum cleaners and b) is prone to yapping at, well, basically everything, all the time. I’m looking for something in the 50, 60-pound range, a little more sedate, with a bigger bladder–a dog you could give a hearty slap on the back without fear of, you know, crushing its fragile endoskeleton.

Or that’s what I was looking for, once upon a time. Now, I’m at odds with myself. This weekend drove home that fact that, even if I were to find the perfect dog, pet ownership would call for a complete lifestyle change. Waking up in the wee hours of the morning, for instance, expressly to experience fresh air. Remembering to supply food and water. It would be a seismic shift–and possibly exactly what I need.