I am not a dog person. I’m the house guest who would rather visit with you through the keyhole than get intimate with your pet moments after we’ve met. Even at my wildest you had to buy me a cosmo and a burger.
However, I have managed to own a dog, and, in contrast to the multitudes of plants that have met their untimely demise at my hands, I have kept that dog alive for 12 years. If being able to care for plants were a parenting pre-req, my boobs would be those perky little things of yore.
My dog and I have a tenuous relationship, one that is adversarial at best. On the one hand, when dealing with small people who eat dinner like ravenous drunks it is nice to own a pet that will eat anything vaguely resembling an object. On the other, if you like objects in general, owning a pet that will eat anything vaguely resembling an object can be the pinnacle of frustration.
I have put up with her eating $20 bills, the entire arm of my favorite cardigan, a razor blade, a 50ft strand of Christmas lights, the tongue of a Gortex boot. Her aliases include ‘Asshole Dog’ and ‘Are You F’ing Kidding Me?!’
However, while I’ve made a habit of threatening to make her a Sarah McClachlan dog, I have never wanted to punish her with the force of a thousand suns. Until now.
After spending two weeks hunched over the kitchen table, eyes puffy and burning while I promised myself I would go to bed after placing just one more of the 1,000 pieces. My OCD humming as I finished the black and white swirls of the Coke logo. My children eating on the kitchen floor because there was a method to how those pieces were scattered about the table and heaven help the person who disrupted it. My embattled relationship with my dog has come down to this…