Today, I’d like to write about my dog. I named this blog after her actually. I wrote about how we got her back when this was on Substack. At the time she was a puppy, and for anyone who has never raised a puppy, they quite literally are your life for those first few years. They are just like babies, but with the ability to chew through power cords when you’re distracted. Thankfully, it’s also socially acceptable to lock them in a crate. This is not true for babies.

I’m pretty sure if I sent in a stool sample to some company in California her breed breakdown would include 6% cat. She’s the most cat-like dog I have ever encountered. She standoffish. Absolutely no cuddling unless it is below freezing outside. In that case, cuddling is an option, but the terms will be discussed at length first. She’s constantly weaving in and out of our legs, demanding butt scratches as I start a forward fold during my morning yoga. She’s proud of her butthole like a cat. She’ll show it to anyone interested in taking a look. Apparently, that is everyone. I’ll tell you that I have seen a lot of it and it’s a pretty average butthole, but slay girl, I guess. She likes to sit up high on windowsills and watch the critters outside. She cleans herself like a cat. She will lick, lick, lick for 5, sometimes 10 minutes at a time unless you firmly tell her to stop. Occasionally, I’ll be reading or writing, and I will feel flames of rage crawling up my vertebrae and just as I start to invent a thought to match the anger, I will come online to the lick, lick, lick and I release it in a forceful “DOG!” and she will look up at me mid lick. I swear she rolls her eyes a little. Maybe it’s 8% cat.

We have a lot of routines, the two of us. That’s my fault. I am consistently inconsistent, and she has learned to keep up with that. Bless her. We have a morning routine, and a few bedtime routines. We have a silent language between the two of us. She’s learned to read me when I don’t feel like talking. When everyone else is gone at school and work, she and I can go the whole day without saying one word to each other. It’s just nice to know the other is there.

We walk a lot. I am grateful to her for that. I love to walk but in today’s world, it feels like walking around is seen as an activity that only the psychotic participate in. But guys: Walking is for everyone!^TM Having a dog with me helps people see me the way I should be: productive. It’s okay, I’m not walking for enjoyment like a psychopath, it’s a chore![1] Unless it’s very hot, she and I can walk for miles around our neighborhood, both of us happy and stimulated by the novelty. She keeps an eye out for suspicious men and threatening squirrels, and I keep her out of traffic and prevent her skull from being crushed by a horse hoof. Ink and I are tight, is what I am saying. I trust her judgement and she trusts mine. She’s not a great emotional support dog, though. I thought all dogs were supposed to have some kind of instinct to soothe their owner when they are upset, but I have been sobbing on the floor of my bedroom and she chooses that moment to scratch at the door to get out. I don’t blame her. I want to get away from myself too.

In the evenings when we are all settling down, Ink starts up what I call stand around and stare time. It’s just like it sounds, I sit peacefully in my chair reading or scrolling, and Ink will stand around and stare at me. It’s uncomfortable. If I ignore her, she will scratch at the arm rest, unmistakably meaning “Get up!” Ink chooses me as the family member who must entertain her. I am also responsible for deciding what the entertainment will be. Usually, we take another walk and watch the bats dip down for mosquitos or visit with a neighbor dog. Sometimes we hit the ball out back. Rainy days are the worst. I don’t mind a little rain but the cat in her will have none of it. She drops anchor before we make it out of the garage, and I’m forced to head back inside. On rainy days, we tug toys or wrestle. Occasionally, I’ll send a kid into the basement with the dog and the laser pointer, but I read somewhere that can make your pet go nuts because they never get to succeed in the hunt. The dot doesn’t really exist. I try and reserve that activity for when we are truly desperate. I don’t want her to feel as if she’ll never fulfill her life’s dream.

Table tennis is another favorite pastime. Ever since she was a puppy, she has loved hard plastic and ping pong balls are her holy grail. Santa brought a table for our oldest a few Christmas’ ago (it would be creepy if Santa dropped off gifts on any other day of the year) and a great activity to wear out the dog is to volley the ball gently back and forth while she frantically circles the table waiting for her chance to grab it. Occasionally she pops up from underneath to snap at it like a shark. We do have to watch our toes because she will run right over them. No mercy. I feel happy for her when she finally gets it. She lays down exhausted, adjusting and readjusting the ball inside her mouth. Click, click, clicking it against her teeth. Doing her best to resist the urge to crush it with her powerful jaws. I try to give her a few moments to enjoy it before I command her to drop it and remove all the layers of slobber before starting the game again.

I think we can learn a lot from dogs about how to live life. Since Ink doesn’t talk, I spend a lot of my time with her observing her and imagining what she would say if she could. Aside from the occasional trash-talking squirrel, she seems pretty content with most of her simple life. She rotates around the house napping in various spots. She begs for the last bite of bagel, or pizza, or popcorn. The look in her big, brown eyes usually seals the deal. She’s always ready to take a ride in the car, no destination needs to be specified. The front window is always showing something interesting. When she comes in from her last bathroom break before bed and I put her jammies on (ie. remove her collar and hang it on the doorknob), she is ecstatic to receive her bedtime treat. Every night it’s one of two options, soft or crunchy. She never complains that it is the same as the day before. In fact, she has no idea that there are aisles and aisles of dog treat options in the store a few miles down the road. She’s not missing out. She only knows what is here being offered in this moment and she is happy to have it. She bounds joyfully into the other room to enjoy it on the jute rug. I imagine the scent of natural fiber helps her feel wild again.   

[1] Why do I think people want to make sure I’m suffering? I have a guess. Maybe I’ll switch that up and start walking around like ol’ Leo DiCaprio in that meme. People will love to see me walking happy.