Balancing Act
The Family Planning Debate
I have a fenced-in yard. Not just a run-of-the-mill fence, either; the previous owners worked for a fencing company and put in a fabulous black chain-link number. For some reason, this fence constantly prompts visitors to comment: “This yard would be perfect for a dog.” I don’t disagree. Again, thanks to the previous homeowners—who owned a beautiful white Samoyed—I know my yard is perfect for a dog. I’m just not convinced a dog would be perfect for the yard.
My son certainly seems to think the only thing missing from our house is a dog, which, I must admit, is mostly my fault. When he was younger and wanted a dog, I told him we couldn’t have pets in our apartment, but that as soon as we bought a house, we would get a dog.
And now here we are.
I do realize that this is the type of thing that could prompt serious trust issues for him later in life. It may even earn me a phone call from the therapist he’s almost certain to have about how my failure to live up to the dog promise has scarred Jesse for life.
But I’ll cross that mental health bridge when I get there; what I’m most concerned about right this very minute is the prospect of a dog. I honestly adore dogs, and I would love to have one—in theory. But as I pointed out to two dog-owning but childless girlfriends—who couldn’t understand why I was hesitant to take on the responsibility of an animal after the much larger responsibility of raising a human—children become increasingly independent as they grow older, whereas dogs never learn to pour their own cereal, mow the yard, or screen your phone calls for telemarketers.
Also, some dogs incur higher bills over the course of their lifetime than children do. My parents, for instance, have two Dalmatians. While this prompts squeals of delight from passing children, the, shall we say, intense temperament of one of the dogs prompts my parents to squeal with horror at her drug bills. Apparently, Sappho has the canine equivalent of ADHD, and she requires “downers” to keep her from climbing the walls—literally.
They were tipped off, courtesy of a neighbor, that she was performing daily wind sprints around the neighborhood, which seemed odd because my parents’ yard, too, is well fenced. The mystery was solved when they caught Sappho jumping the six-foot fence one night. My dad added two feet of vertical height, and placed weighted aluminum cans on top of the fence so they could determine whether she was able to jump an eight-foot fence as well. To no one’s real surprise, they discovered they have an Olympic-caliber high jumper drinking out of their toilet. They upped her dosage.
The boy-dog, Archimedes, isn’t a fence jumper; in fact, it takes an act of Congress to get this dog off his ample haunches. But I believe—and I know it sounds far-fetched—that underneath Archi’s quiet studiousness lies a doggie psychopath. It’s just something about his eyes. As my very perceptive guy pointed out, his temperament—though less annoying than Sappho’s—isn’t normal for a dog. I keep waiting for the night the police show up at my parents’ door saying they’ve finally captured the long-sought fugitive Archi the Kid. I’ll be the one being interviewed by the local news stations in my curlers. “It’s always the quiet ones,” I’ll say, sadly but knowingly.
Even discounting the possibilities of hyperactivity or psychosis, another problem I have is that all of the dogs I like are best suited to places like Siberia and Greenland. I would get an Alaskan Malamute in a heartbeat, but a veterinarian suggested that my plan could prove costly, as I would have to buy a new Malamute every August when it drops dead from the heat. Also, I researched the exercise requirements of a Malamute, and I learned a daily backpacking trek was indicated—with the dog carrying its own pack. Which led me to the question of what exactly one would put in a dog’s backpack.
Taking all of these things into consideration, I naturally concluded that a pet was, indeed, the answer. So I rushed right out to the pet store and hurried home with—a fish. My son is ecstatic about Fin’s arrival, but he still wants to know when we’ll move up the food chain to something that has legs. I told him we’ll get a dog when he learns to feed Fin every day. Which could prove difficult if I continue hiding the fish food. TPW
My son certainly seems to think the only thing missing from our house is a dog, which, I must admit, is mostly my fault. When he was younger and wanted a dog, I told him we couldn’t have pets in our apartment, but that as soon as we bought a house, we would get a dog.
And now here we are.
I do realize that this is the type of thing that could prompt serious trust issues for him later in life. It may even earn me a phone call from the therapist he’s almost certain to have about how my failure to live up to the dog promise has scarred Jesse for life.
But I’ll cross that mental health bridge when I get there; what I’m most concerned about right this very minute is the prospect of a dog. I honestly adore dogs, and I would love to have one—in theory. But as I pointed out to two dog-owning but childless girlfriends—who couldn’t understand why I was hesitant to take on the responsibility of an animal after the much larger responsibility of raising a human—children become increasingly independent as they grow older, whereas dogs never learn to pour their own cereal, mow the yard, or screen your phone calls for telemarketers.
Also, some dogs incur higher bills over the course of their lifetime than children do. My parents, for instance, have two Dalmatians. While this prompts squeals of delight from passing children, the, shall we say, intense temperament of one of the dogs prompts my parents to squeal with horror at her drug bills. Apparently, Sappho has the canine equivalent of ADHD, and she requires “downers” to keep her from climbing the walls—literally.
They were tipped off, courtesy of a neighbor, that she was performing daily wind sprints around the neighborhood, which seemed odd because my parents’ yard, too, is well fenced. The mystery was solved when they caught Sappho jumping the six-foot fence one night. My dad added two feet of vertical height, and placed weighted aluminum cans on top of the fence so they could determine whether she was able to jump an eight-foot fence as well. To no one’s real surprise, they discovered they have an Olympic-caliber high jumper drinking out of their toilet. They upped her dosage.
The boy-dog, Archimedes, isn’t a fence jumper; in fact, it takes an act of Congress to get this dog off his ample haunches. But I believe—and I know it sounds far-fetched—that underneath Archi’s quiet studiousness lies a doggie psychopath. It’s just something about his eyes. As my very perceptive guy pointed out, his temperament—though less annoying than Sappho’s—isn’t normal for a dog. I keep waiting for the night the police show up at my parents’ door saying they’ve finally captured the long-sought fugitive Archi the Kid. I’ll be the one being interviewed by the local news stations in my curlers. “It’s always the quiet ones,” I’ll say, sadly but knowingly.
Even discounting the possibilities of hyperactivity or psychosis, another problem I have is that all of the dogs I like are best suited to places like Siberia and Greenland. I would get an Alaskan Malamute in a heartbeat, but a veterinarian suggested that my plan could prove costly, as I would have to buy a new Malamute every August when it drops dead from the heat. Also, I researched the exercise requirements of a Malamute, and I learned a daily backpacking trek was indicated—with the dog carrying its own pack. Which led me to the question of what exactly one would put in a dog’s backpack.
Taking all of these things into consideration, I naturally concluded that a pet was, indeed, the answer. So I rushed right out to the pet store and hurried home with—a fish. My son is ecstatic about Fin’s arrival, but he still wants to know when we’ll move up the food chain to something that has legs. I told him we’ll get a dog when he learns to feed Fin every day. Which could prove difficult if I continue hiding the fish food. TPW