I like to think myself an animal lover. I grew up with a dog always in the house, a series of cats, and innumerable goldfish, won at various school fairs (I was a champ at the goldfish toss. In college I related those skills to beer pong, but I digress…)
Unfortunately, for a very long time, I lived in a building that did not allow pets. So, when I began writing, I gave my characters pets, if only to live a little vicariously. In Compromised, Gail and Max were both attached to their horses, QueenBee and Jupiter. Phillippa, in Revealed, is rarely without her little Pomeranian, Bitsy. When I moved recently to a pet-friendly building, the idea began to build in me to actually, you know, get a pet. But oh! The trepidation!
Cat or Dog? Dogs must be walked — and in the city that means the walker has to pick up the dog’s, er, business. Cats are more independent, you do not have to be home at a certain time or keep to a schedule with them, but in a tiny apartment a litter box is not easy to conceal, by sight nor smell. And what breed? What size? Kitten or puppy or full grown or purebred or rescued animal? Dry food or canned?
So complete was my lack of decision-making I bought no fewer than 4 books on pet ownership, (everything I know I learned from books; its my way) before I finally decided it was too big a change, too big a responsibility, too big an infringement on my independence, to own so much as a sea monkey.
And then, this weekend, I dog sat for a friend of mine.
People, I am in love with this freaking dog. She’s a happy, demanding ball of fluffy pocket-sized energy that I would normally mock as not actually a dog, and is currently sleeping on my feet.
I have to give her back on Monday.
I think I’m doomed. Dog-napping’s not a federal offense, right?

This entry was posted on Sunday, April 19th, 2009 at 9:25 pm and is filed under Writer's life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.