The fiancee and I, as yet, are dogless. We hate that we are dogless and wish to rectify the situation, but it’s not likely to happen until we move to a bigger place next year. I also have some daily-abandonment issues to work through, but that’s for later; I already have coping strategies that I can employ. For example, I have been ignoring my dry cleaning for five weeks now, and it isn’t complaining. It’s just sitting there placidly in a wrinkly, expensive pile. My dry cleaning is, if I may, doglike in its silent devotion. I’d pet my dry cleaning right now, but it’s developing a nice crust, and I don’t want to disturb it.
I have no interest in the whole cat vs. dog debate, except to just note that a lifelong allergy to the former totally precludes cat-ownership, and also to note that I hate the prissy little beastlets. Anyway, dogs! It will remain to be seen what kind of dog we want. It will certainly be a mutt, probably from the pound or a friend somewhere, as I am incapable of going into pet stores without thinking that I should have brought a cake with a file in the middle of it. “Here! You know what to do!” I’d hoarsely whisper to a languid iguana. Then I’d realize that iguanas generally really don’t know what to do. What the hell is the shelf life of a lizard anyway? “The iguana isn’t selling. That’s stale merchandise. Throw it in the dumpster.”
For space reasons, it will probably be a small dog. For example, pugs. Pugs make me laugh extremely hard, mainly by just sitting there existing. They all look like tiny, furry Martha Rayes. The main objection to a pug would be my ongoing feeling of dread that at any moment, his eyes could pop out of their sockets, causing me to run around madly, screaming like my asshole was on fire.
Of course, there is such a thing as too small. Chihuahuas, poodles: these are dogs for unserious people. People who own these dogs also do crafts like latch-hook or enter ping-pong tournaments. They own Hummel figurines or listen to Pizzicato Five. Unnatural things. People who own these dogs are, technically, psychotic. That’s all I’m saying. (If you are one of these people, I don’t mean you, of course; just people exactly like you. You, I like.)
If I could get me a bulldog, that would be outstanding, but I think you hit the fucking breeding problem. A bulldog’s main attraction is the fact that every living moment in his presence feels like an old Warner Brothers cartoon. I would spend hours and hours capering around him, twittering “Hey Spike! Whatcha doin’ Spike? You wanna get something to eat, Spike?” until the poor tortured bastard would bite my face off. So that’s probably out. I need my face.
There’s breeds like Terriers and Corgis and crap like that, but then you’re getting into the whole pedigree thing again, and I won’t have any of that. I’m insecure enough; I don’t need to get into a pissing match with someone over their pets’ credentials. “A fine animal you’ve got there! What’s his breeding?” “Jesus, mister, I don’t know. He drinks out of the toilet and sniffs his friends’ asses. So, Dartmouth?”
I’m sure we’ll end up with some anonymous little mutt, and that’s cool. I can teach him tricks, like rolling over or nipping at the testicles of hippies. I can take him for long walks, during which I suppose I will be required to collect his dogshit. But not for long. We’re going to go throw it at pet stores.