On Becoming a Dog Owner

Oedipus famously blew it by killing his dad and getting jiggy with his mom; Lear’s lamebrained idea was to insist that his kids profess their undying love; we recently joined the ranks of famous fuck-ups in a much more profound way: we got a dog.

She’s a sweet puppy, but to paraphrase those words made famous by mothers since time immemorial: “What the hell were we thinking?!”

A few weeks ago, we were a fully autonomous family of three in the 21st century. Now, we can’t leave home for more than 3 hours at a time if we want our couch cushions to remain uneaten.

I like the dog, but I’m still not sure she does anything for me that compares to my scooping her poop. It’s sweet to be licked in the face, but if turnabout’s fair play, then she ought to be taking out the garbage or doing my taxes.

I never thought I’d become one of those people who walks a dog. Now you’ll find me having those inane conversations with other dog walkers about types of food, styles of collars, and how often to clip your pup’s toenails. This from a man who was trained to investigate the very arcane of the universe, or at least wonder why hotdogs come six to a pack and buns eight.

Speaking of training, we’re doing great—from the dog’s perspective. We’ve managed to teach her to wolf down her dinner in three huge bites, to tear apart anything resembling food that sits near her eye level, and to selectively identify our favorite knick-knacks for destruction by chewing. Not bad for folks who’d never used a clicker, huh?

There’s plenty more I could tell you about—the way her drool makes our hardwoods slippery, the hours of fun we’ve had chasing her back into the yard when she breaks free from her leash—but it’s time for a walk and as my dogs’s master, I’m her slave.