We adopted a puppy nine days ago. Every member of this family has wanted a dog for years–my eight year old has asked me “When are we getting a dog?” every single stinking day for the past four years, and I never told her to stop because I’ve asked myself the same thing–but circumstances have only just allowed it.
The last time I lived in a home with a dog, I was a teenager. I recall the family mutt Solo (named, of course, after everyone’s favorite Corellian heartthrob smuggler) chewing up my favorite Chess King jacket (So now you know I’m over 21). The new dog hasn’t been a chewer yet, but just in case, I’ve put my skinny keyboard ties, Cavariccis, and checkered Vans in the attic, where he hopefully can’t reach them.
Sonny (So named by my children over a year ago, whether it was to be a male or female) month old Royal Bahamian Potcake rescue. This is a recognized breed in the Bahamas, but seeing as I believe that the idea of purebreeding dogs is inhumane*, I happily answer the question, “Is he a Rottie?” with “He’s a mix.” Mutts are strong. Mutts are survivors. Mutts are the future of the canine race.
I’m happy to have the company of a fellow mutt. After two years of working from home, with a social life dependent on WiFi and elementary school functions, I am finally getting out of the house and meeting new people. Our little town has three dog parks, and I have discovered that picking up a steaming pile of dookie is the great equalizer; I meet people of all social strata.
*At least when it comes to breeding them for arbitrary traits that have nothing to do with the continued well-being of the breed. I mean, seriously–what does 2″ of white tip on a dog’s tail have anything to do its resistance to congenital disorders and stuff?