My wife is a wise person. She assesses those things that are important and those things that are not and leaves the latter to me. For example, with our pets she lets me take the lead in providing them with names while she concentrates on their health and nutritional needs. She saw no reason that we should deviate from this successful strategy with our new puppy.
I do have a long resume in naming pets. As a child I named all my pets. There were actually two. Buster was my first dog. I named him after a children's program character I was enraptured with at the time. Buster was a ratter that my father acquired for us to keep our house free from the rats. The rats migrated down the alleys from the old Union Stock Yards in Chicago to the homes of people like us who lived nearby. The problem was that dogs that are hunters and children don't mix. Inevitably he bit me when I made the mistake of trying to pet him while he was eating. Good bye Buster.
Rusty came next. She was the pet that helped me through adolescence, puberty and early adulthood. She was a rust colored collie mix - okay I wasn't too original - that a neighbor gave to me because I expressed my admiration for how attractive she was. She was literally handed to me on the street. Bringing her home didn't make my mother's day after the Buster experience but my father interceded. Rusty saw me through many trying times and lived to be fifteen years old. She died while I was away at college. Her passing seemed to be a right of passage.
In college my roommate brought two cats from the family farm, a young male and a kitten. This was curious since our apartment lease did not allow pets. Fortunately, cats are easier to hide as long as you keep the litter box clean. Once again it fell to me to name them. My roommate had better things to do like hang out at the tavern and run up a big bar tab. The older one I named Robespierre because I thought it showed my recently acquired erudition. Falling back on my Rusty strategy, the little kitten I named Whiskers for obvious reasons. My roommate flunked out and left me with the cats. Where he came from it seems there was a rule that he failed to inform me about that if you named the animals you kept them. Ultimately my girl friend, now wife, took them home and that is where they lived out their lives.
It was a crowded home for Robespierre and Whiskers as my wife had a cat of her own back home, Nicki. A name she chose without my help. My wife's parents believed in letting the cats outside to do what cats do. Consequently, Nicki became pregnant the same year we graduated from college and were married. There were four kittens in the litter. I named them Frisky, a tortoise-shell, Misty, a long-haired grey cat, Urban, a long-haired black cat and Sylvan, a Maine Coon like cat. Frisky was a playful kitten and the first tortoise-shell cat I had ever seen. Misty's fur had the light airy color of a summer's mist. Sylvan's name was chosen because it reflected my wife's rural background. I chose Urban because he and Sylvan were the two males and I thought it clever to contrast the two since I was the city boy. Remember, I was a recent college graduate.
We found homes for Misty and Urban and my wife and I took Frisky and Sylvan into our first home as newlyweds. There they stayed with us for seventeen years. Ultimately Sylvan died from complications from an operation for a tumor on his tail. Frisky seemed to mourn herself to death and suffered a stroke four months later. We had to put her to sleep.
Next came Woodrow. He was another Maine Coon like cat that we adopted from our veterinarian. At the time we were enamored with the television series Lonesome Dove. Woodrow McCall was my favorite character. You can surmise the rest.
With both of us working little Woodrow was very lonely in our apartment. We decided to get him some "pets". Our vet had two kittens available. Augustus and Daphne came into our lives. Augustus, aka Gus, was of course the compliment to Woodrow from Lonesome Dove. Daphne's name was meant to be ironic. She was a runt with a deformed rear and a hernia on her stomach. The vet was surprised we would adopt her. It was clear to us though that she and her brother were very close. We had always regretted not having taken all four of Nicki's kittens. So what the heck. Three cats were no more trouble than two, we hoped.
Woodrow developed a heart condition and passed away from the stress that we experienced after September 11th and the resulting displacement. He was nine at the time. The vet said that if it was any consolation he probably would not have lived much longer. It wasn't.
Gus and Daphne were eleven years old when Hamilton came into their lives. Which brings me to why the name Hamilton? First, I hate cutesy names for animals. No Spot, Rover, Fluffy or heaven forbid Tiger. As it happened when we adopted our puppy I was reading a biography of Alexander Hamilton. The revolutionary era is a historical period I've always been interested in. More serendipitously our apartment is only a few blocks from his grave in the Trinity Church historical cemetery. I am a great believer in serendipity. I met my wife serendipitously at college, of which I attended due to the serendipitous factor that my aunt's best friend's daughter had attended there and enjoyed the experience. The chain is nearly endless. Plus Hamilton is a serious name, one that no one would bestow lightly.
When your dog is named Hamilton it reinforces to people that this is a dog to whom much is given and much is expected. He is a dog who is loved and respected as a thinking, feeling, caring animal enriching our lives.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Buyers Remorse ( Our Version)
Well, adopting a dog didn't quite go the way we expected. No quiet, organized selection process. No peaceful, relaxing dinner where we could enjoy our new status of dog owners discussing possible names and plans for our new pet. No pleasant anticipation of driving out to pick him up and bring him back to his new home filled with toys and a warm, welcoming crate that we prepared with blankets and chews. What we had was a hyperventilating puppy in a dented carrying case with rusty hinges that kept the case stuck closed.
Driving back to the city from the rescue shelter we made some quick calculations. We took Route 22 back hoping to run into a pet store before they all closed. It was nearly 8 P.M. so we were running out of time. The first store we came to turned out to be a pet store in name only. It was rather a retailer of fish and bird supplies. However, they knew of a Pet Smart store up the road. We made it there with minutes to spare.
My wife went in and I did my best to keep the puppy calm in the car. I opened the crate door with some effort, not having any three-in-one oil for the hinges. Tiger was curled up in a ball and seemed to be shaking. I rubbed behind his ears. Shouldn't he be happy, I thought. We are saving him, providing him a comfortable home instead of living in a kennel in nowhere New Jersey. Given, the dog's perspective was marred by his pack instincts. Who else but a dog would enjoy being trampled on a regular basis?
Tiger tentatively licked my hand and looked at me with those big brown eyes. First thing we're changing your name, I thought. You are getting a new start. My wife knocked on the glass of the back gate of our SUV. She had a shopping cart full of food, leashes, collars , toys, chews, potty training pads and a portable crate which would be easy for us to assemble. It was $400 worth of dog supplies. So our life together began.
When we arrived at our apartment the doorman was taken aback. My wife carried the dog in and I lugged the supplies. Tiger continued to whimper . I smiled at the doorman as we entered the elevator.
Gus did not welcome us home with open paws. But he was appropriately cautious and stayed out of our way. Daphne did what she always did when she was concerned or frightened. She headed for the bedroom and her safe place under the bed.
We set up the crate in the living room. Our premise was that eventually he needed to be separated from us at night so he would develop confidence and independence. His crate, according to all the dog experts, would be his safe haven that he would protect and respect even to the point of avoiding soiling it at nearly all costs of personal comfort.
That first night I volunteered to sleep with him in the living room just to get him acclimated to his new home. One or two nights and then he could be left alone We were confident in the wisdom of the experts. That first night he was so stressed out that he fell asleep immediately and was out until dawn. On the couch I slept fitfully but felt remarkably sanguine. I did not realize that the night from hell was almost upon us. It was a night my wife would never forget as she had agreed to sleep with Tiger in the living room.
The day was uneventful. I went to work and my wife stayed home with the puppy. He ate voraciously and amply used his potty pads. She took him out nearly every hour but the urge never manifested itself until he got back into the apartment. I came home at lunch and tried myself to get him to use the outside. No chance.
That evening was more of the same. Finally I went to sleep and my wife curled up on the couch with a book and a blanket. I slept soundly after the last night of restlessness.
It is hard to describe what happens to a puppy's intestinal system after two days of stress and eating new food for the first time. I can only attest that respect for the crate as den goes out the window. According to my wife you would never believe that a little puppy could have so much of anything inside of him. It was a constant flow all night. No sooner did she clean up one mess and he would make another. Being the stoic that she is she never once woke me up. She went through all the potty training pads, paper towels and newspapers that we had. She then scrounged newspaper from the hallway recycling bin. She had to visit several floors to get enough supply. The 24-hour supermarket delivered more paper towels. I never heard him come to the door.
" You'd sleep through anything," she complained.
" You could have woken me," I said sheepishly, grateful that she hadn't.
" Tomorrow we get serious about house breaking," she threatened, more to me I feared than to the puppy.
Driving back to the city from the rescue shelter we made some quick calculations. We took Route 22 back hoping to run into a pet store before they all closed. It was nearly 8 P.M. so we were running out of time. The first store we came to turned out to be a pet store in name only. It was rather a retailer of fish and bird supplies. However, they knew of a Pet Smart store up the road. We made it there with minutes to spare.
My wife went in and I did my best to keep the puppy calm in the car. I opened the crate door with some effort, not having any three-in-one oil for the hinges. Tiger was curled up in a ball and seemed to be shaking. I rubbed behind his ears. Shouldn't he be happy, I thought. We are saving him, providing him a comfortable home instead of living in a kennel in nowhere New Jersey. Given, the dog's perspective was marred by his pack instincts. Who else but a dog would enjoy being trampled on a regular basis?
Tiger tentatively licked my hand and looked at me with those big brown eyes. First thing we're changing your name, I thought. You are getting a new start. My wife knocked on the glass of the back gate of our SUV. She had a shopping cart full of food, leashes, collars , toys, chews, potty training pads and a portable crate which would be easy for us to assemble. It was $400 worth of dog supplies. So our life together began.
When we arrived at our apartment the doorman was taken aback. My wife carried the dog in and I lugged the supplies. Tiger continued to whimper . I smiled at the doorman as we entered the elevator.
Gus did not welcome us home with open paws. But he was appropriately cautious and stayed out of our way. Daphne did what she always did when she was concerned or frightened. She headed for the bedroom and her safe place under the bed.
We set up the crate in the living room. Our premise was that eventually he needed to be separated from us at night so he would develop confidence and independence. His crate, according to all the dog experts, would be his safe haven that he would protect and respect even to the point of avoiding soiling it at nearly all costs of personal comfort.
That first night I volunteered to sleep with him in the living room just to get him acclimated to his new home. One or two nights and then he could be left alone We were confident in the wisdom of the experts. That first night he was so stressed out that he fell asleep immediately and was out until dawn. On the couch I slept fitfully but felt remarkably sanguine. I did not realize that the night from hell was almost upon us. It was a night my wife would never forget as she had agreed to sleep with Tiger in the living room.
The day was uneventful. I went to work and my wife stayed home with the puppy. He ate voraciously and amply used his potty pads. She took him out nearly every hour but the urge never manifested itself until he got back into the apartment. I came home at lunch and tried myself to get him to use the outside. No chance.
That evening was more of the same. Finally I went to sleep and my wife curled up on the couch with a book and a blanket. I slept soundly after the last night of restlessness.
It is hard to describe what happens to a puppy's intestinal system after two days of stress and eating new food for the first time. I can only attest that respect for the crate as den goes out the window. According to my wife you would never believe that a little puppy could have so much of anything inside of him. It was a constant flow all night. No sooner did she clean up one mess and he would make another. Being the stoic that she is she never once woke me up. She went through all the potty training pads, paper towels and newspapers that we had. She then scrounged newspaper from the hallway recycling bin. She had to visit several floors to get enough supply. The 24-hour supermarket delivered more paper towels. I never heard him come to the door.
" You'd sleep through anything," she complained.
" You could have woken me," I said sheepishly, grateful that she hadn't.
" Tomorrow we get serious about house breaking," she threatened, more to me I feared than to the puppy.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
To the Rescue
"You need to look at this puppy I found on Petfinder," my wife said. " His name is Tiger."
Having decided to get a dog my wife took it as her mission to search out the various rescue services to find a likely dog for adoption. She saw this dog as the best hope to get me off the sofa and out doing regular exercise to get my weight and blood pressure under control. As my spouse for over 30 years she knew my resileance and dedication once I send myself off on a course of action. The issue is to get me sent off. Procrastination is also one of my many vices.
I sat at the computer and looked at the picture posted by the NJ Collie Rescue & Referral organization in Whitehouse New Jersey. Staring at me were these two large brown eyes centered in a halo of fur. The puppy had a black nose and floppy ears and an innocent look that only a baby could present to the world. From the picture it was puzzling to determine why the dog was given such an unusual name as Tiger.
My hesitations disappeared in an instant. "That's the one," I exclaimed." Let's contact them right away."
Impulsiveness is another one of my endearing traits. Would you be surprised that I was a Gemini? I watched intently as my wife sent an e-mail to the people in Whitehouse.
It took a day for them to respond. We called the number they sent and filled out the questionnaire sent to us. I liked the fact that they were being careful in determining who they were dealing with for the adoption. I don't know what the passing grade is for approval but within another day we were okayed and we made arrangements to visit the shelter and check out Tiger. If we should adopt there would be a $200 fee.
We planned a drive out midweek. There was a restaurant near Whitehouse we wanted to try so we thought we would visit the shelter, decide if we wanted Tiger, make arrangements to pick him up the following Saturday and then have a celebratory dinner at the The Ryland Inn.
Wednesday we left early from work for our a leisurely drive out to the country to check out our prospective dog and then our pleasant meal before returning to the city. We would have a few days to get the apartment organized with a crate, dog food and bowls and a nice selection of toys for the new puppy. Maybe I'd have enough time to have another discussion with Gus. A very relaxing, civilized approach to the adoption of our first dog.
Leaving the interstate we had no difficulty finding the shelter. It was actually a single family home at the end of a quiet, narrow country road with a large cyclone fence surrounding the backyard. The yard itself was also divided by an additional cyclone fence which divided the yard into a private living area and a dog habitat with kennels and a pack of collies, shepherds and mixes running up and down, over stimulated by our arrival and the game they were also playing, a form of pick on the littlest guy who happened to be Tiger. He had grown since his picture had been posted on Pet Finder but we still easily recognized him. He was about eight weeks old. The swarm of dogs ran over him and just as he bounced up and got his balance back they would run over him again. Tiger was thrilled. He barked after each stampede left him rolling and seemed to be inviting more of the same. The older female dogs kept grabbing his muzzle to correct his over-exurberance. He looked up at them joyously.
Vicki came up to us and introduced herself. She was the founder of the NJ Collie Rescue and Referral organization. She had travelled to West Virginia to rescue Tiger and his mother from a " kill " shelter. It seems she traveled up and down the East Coast saving dogs. Her organization was funded by donations and the fees she charged for adopting dogs from the shelter.
" it's too bad you weren't here earlier," she said. " Tiger's mother was just adopted a few days ago. She was a two year old Sheperd mix." It seems the definition of Collie was quite broad from the point of view of rescue, gratefully so.
She lead us towards Tiger. The other dogs parted warily as we came closer. Tiger stood his ground, half crouched, tail wagging.
I placed my hand out for him to smell, all the books tell you to do this, and he licked it. I reached down and petted him. He continued to lick my hand. I rolled him over on his back; this was meant to tell us if he would be aggressive or not. If he stayed on his back he was more passive or Beta. If he struggled and tried to right himself immediately he was more aggressive or Alpha. Tiger did neither. Instead he rolled on his side and looked up with big brown eyes and the expectation of some reward. Maybe he was hoping to be trampled again.
It was the eyes that got to me. They were deep brown, liquid and so pure looking. I was reminded of the moment I fell in love with my wife. Her eyes were light blue, the color of opals and once I looked into them I was committed. I wanted to bathe in them forever, just as I was at that moment when she looked up at me and smiled. Tiger's eyes also enveloped you with purity and trust. You wanted to love him because you could see love mirrored back at you. And he was beautiful with a medium brown brindle coat. Calling him Tiger was like calling a Dalmation Spot.
My wife and I didn't even speak. We just looked at each other and smiled. I reached for my checkbook. That's when we received the first of many surprises we have experienced since becoming dog owners. It seems buyers remorse is rampant in dog adoption. Even people who leave money don't come back for the dog they promised to adopt. Meanwhile checks are stopped before they can be cashed. If we wanted Tiger we had to take him now or there would be no promises about his availability on Saturday.
What choice did we have? A beat up old crate was found and Tiger was corralled and placed into it before he knew what was happening to him. Check provided, hands shook and we were off with a new puppy cradled between us in the front seat, a tiny whimper coming from inside the crate.
Having decided to get a dog my wife took it as her mission to search out the various rescue services to find a likely dog for adoption. She saw this dog as the best hope to get me off the sofa and out doing regular exercise to get my weight and blood pressure under control. As my spouse for over 30 years she knew my resileance and dedication once I send myself off on a course of action. The issue is to get me sent off. Procrastination is also one of my many vices.
I sat at the computer and looked at the picture posted by the NJ Collie Rescue & Referral organization in Whitehouse New Jersey. Staring at me were these two large brown eyes centered in a halo of fur. The puppy had a black nose and floppy ears and an innocent look that only a baby could present to the world. From the picture it was puzzling to determine why the dog was given such an unusual name as Tiger.
My hesitations disappeared in an instant. "That's the one," I exclaimed." Let's contact them right away."
Impulsiveness is another one of my endearing traits. Would you be surprised that I was a Gemini? I watched intently as my wife sent an e-mail to the people in Whitehouse.
It took a day for them to respond. We called the number they sent and filled out the questionnaire sent to us. I liked the fact that they were being careful in determining who they were dealing with for the adoption. I don't know what the passing grade is for approval but within another day we were okayed and we made arrangements to visit the shelter and check out Tiger. If we should adopt there would be a $200 fee.
We planned a drive out midweek. There was a restaurant near Whitehouse we wanted to try so we thought we would visit the shelter, decide if we wanted Tiger, make arrangements to pick him up the following Saturday and then have a celebratory dinner at the The Ryland Inn.
Wednesday we left early from work for our a leisurely drive out to the country to check out our prospective dog and then our pleasant meal before returning to the city. We would have a few days to get the apartment organized with a crate, dog food and bowls and a nice selection of toys for the new puppy. Maybe I'd have enough time to have another discussion with Gus. A very relaxing, civilized approach to the adoption of our first dog.
Leaving the interstate we had no difficulty finding the shelter. It was actually a single family home at the end of a quiet, narrow country road with a large cyclone fence surrounding the backyard. The yard itself was also divided by an additional cyclone fence which divided the yard into a private living area and a dog habitat with kennels and a pack of collies, shepherds and mixes running up and down, over stimulated by our arrival and the game they were also playing, a form of pick on the littlest guy who happened to be Tiger. He had grown since his picture had been posted on Pet Finder but we still easily recognized him. He was about eight weeks old. The swarm of dogs ran over him and just as he bounced up and got his balance back they would run over him again. Tiger was thrilled. He barked after each stampede left him rolling and seemed to be inviting more of the same. The older female dogs kept grabbing his muzzle to correct his over-exurberance. He looked up at them joyously.
Vicki came up to us and introduced herself. She was the founder of the NJ Collie Rescue and Referral organization. She had travelled to West Virginia to rescue Tiger and his mother from a " kill " shelter. It seems she traveled up and down the East Coast saving dogs. Her organization was funded by donations and the fees she charged for adopting dogs from the shelter.
" it's too bad you weren't here earlier," she said. " Tiger's mother was just adopted a few days ago. She was a two year old Sheperd mix." It seems the definition of Collie was quite broad from the point of view of rescue, gratefully so.
She lead us towards Tiger. The other dogs parted warily as we came closer. Tiger stood his ground, half crouched, tail wagging.
I placed my hand out for him to smell, all the books tell you to do this, and he licked it. I reached down and petted him. He continued to lick my hand. I rolled him over on his back; this was meant to tell us if he would be aggressive or not. If he stayed on his back he was more passive or Beta. If he struggled and tried to right himself immediately he was more aggressive or Alpha. Tiger did neither. Instead he rolled on his side and looked up with big brown eyes and the expectation of some reward. Maybe he was hoping to be trampled again.
It was the eyes that got to me. They were deep brown, liquid and so pure looking. I was reminded of the moment I fell in love with my wife. Her eyes were light blue, the color of opals and once I looked into them I was committed. I wanted to bathe in them forever, just as I was at that moment when she looked up at me and smiled. Tiger's eyes also enveloped you with purity and trust. You wanted to love him because you could see love mirrored back at you. And he was beautiful with a medium brown brindle coat. Calling him Tiger was like calling a Dalmation Spot.
My wife and I didn't even speak. We just looked at each other and smiled. I reached for my checkbook. That's when we received the first of many surprises we have experienced since becoming dog owners. It seems buyers remorse is rampant in dog adoption. Even people who leave money don't come back for the dog they promised to adopt. Meanwhile checks are stopped before they can be cashed. If we wanted Tiger we had to take him now or there would be no promises about his availability on Saturday.
What choice did we have? A beat up old crate was found and Tiger was corralled and placed into it before he knew what was happening to him. Check provided, hands shook and we were off with a new puppy cradled between us in the front seat, a tiny whimper coming from inside the crate.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Explaining Hamilton ( the dog) to Gus ( the cat)
Anyone who has a cat for a pet is familiar with the canard that cats are the superior species to us humans. Having married a cat person and consequently having had several cats as pets I can provide first hand validation of this curious phenomena of nature. Call it God's joke. Actually I think our cats view our household as a circus with the cats as the ringmasters, my wife and I as the trained acts and our dog as the clown.
At the time we were planning to adopt Hamilton our cat household consisted of two black & white cats we had adopted from the Cat Practice in Chelsea several years ago. They had been adopted to be companions for our Maine Coon mix whom we had also adopted from the Cat Practice. Unfortunately Woodrow, the Maine Coon mix, had passed away before we brought Hamilton into our lives. The other two cats, Augustus ( aka Gus) and Daphne had never known any housemates other than their own species. OK, we have fish too, but the cats don't even notice them, which is a separate story.
When Woodrow was alive he ruled the roost. We joked that it was his reign. He was the ruler of our pride. Fortunately Woodrow was a benevolent ruler who shared his food and treats, at least a little, and adored Gus, his best friend. After Woodrow died, by birth order as we knew it, we decided that we had now entered the reign of Augustus. Augustus was more tyrannical. Consequently, Daphne finally rebelled and began to shun Gus, hissing anytime he came anywhere near her space which in our modest apartment was frequent.
We thought Gus would embrace having a new friend, even a dog friend. He sincerely seemed lonely without Woodrow. I actually took time to try to explain this to Gus, reaffirming the circus analogy. He in turn was much more interested in the treats I was feeding him. I presumed a dog was too much of an abstraction for him and he would better grasp the situation when we brought Hamilton home from the shelter. Grasp it he did and he did not like it. What good was it to be ruler if the subjects can willy nilly interject a smelly, whining clump of fur into his world. Already his sister won't tolerate him, his best friend has disappeared and now he has a creature he cannot understand or communicate with who, heaven forbid, might be intending to use the litter box. No worry there of course with a puppy.
If there was one miscalculation in our adopting Hamilton, the relationship between him and Gus would be it.
At the time we were planning to adopt Hamilton our cat household consisted of two black & white cats we had adopted from the Cat Practice in Chelsea several years ago. They had been adopted to be companions for our Maine Coon mix whom we had also adopted from the Cat Practice. Unfortunately Woodrow, the Maine Coon mix, had passed away before we brought Hamilton into our lives. The other two cats, Augustus ( aka Gus) and Daphne had never known any housemates other than their own species. OK, we have fish too, but the cats don't even notice them, which is a separate story.
When Woodrow was alive he ruled the roost. We joked that it was his reign. He was the ruler of our pride. Fortunately Woodrow was a benevolent ruler who shared his food and treats, at least a little, and adored Gus, his best friend. After Woodrow died, by birth order as we knew it, we decided that we had now entered the reign of Augustus. Augustus was more tyrannical. Consequently, Daphne finally rebelled and began to shun Gus, hissing anytime he came anywhere near her space which in our modest apartment was frequent.
We thought Gus would embrace having a new friend, even a dog friend. He sincerely seemed lonely without Woodrow. I actually took time to try to explain this to Gus, reaffirming the circus analogy. He in turn was much more interested in the treats I was feeding him. I presumed a dog was too much of an abstraction for him and he would better grasp the situation when we brought Hamilton home from the shelter. Grasp it he did and he did not like it. What good was it to be ruler if the subjects can willy nilly interject a smelly, whining clump of fur into his world. Already his sister won't tolerate him, his best friend has disappeared and now he has a creature he cannot understand or communicate with who, heaven forbid, might be intending to use the litter box. No worry there of course with a puppy.
If there was one miscalculation in our adopting Hamilton, the relationship between him and Gus would be it.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
My Sweet Boy Hamilton
Hamilton is a German Shepherd mix that has changed my life in immeasurable ways. For many years I thought dog ownership and city life were incompatible. I persisted in this belief despite all evidence to the contrary. Daily my neighbors and friends were walking dogs, sharing the elevator of our building and generally flaunting their dog life style in front of me. Still I persisted in my view that city raised dogs were an abomination against the natural order. Cats, now those were pets best suited to city living. Plus my wife was a cat person. It was all too easy.
How could I subject a dog to a life of cramped apartments, elevator rides and sidewalk perambulating when everyone knows a dog needs a yard to run in and fields to play in. I guess the thousands of dog owners in Manhattan did not agree me. Granted some of their dogs were not the type I could see myself strolling down the street with. I am very tall and my weight fluctuates to great degrees. It would be quite a site to see me walking down the street trailing some lap dog behind me.
It was my size that finally tipped the scale, literally, to getting a dog. My doctor finally had seen enough regarding my living habits and told me in no uncertain terms that I had to reform my self away from the kitchen table and into the gym. I knew that was a hopeless task. I have no patience for running on treadmills or twisting and turning in sweaty gyms watching the clock to determine if I had put in enough time to leave with out being embarrassed by the trainer and the fitness fanatics.
No, a dog would be the answer. I would walk him several times a day and get my much needed exercise doing something useful. To salve my guilty conscious for subjecting the poor creature to a life of city living misery I would make sure the walks would be extensive. Anyway I grew up with a beloved family dog. It was time to return to my rightful place in the human, animal continuum. A dog person I was and a dog person I would be again. My wife and the cats would have to adjust.
Naturally my wife was thrilled. She had always wanted to have a dog she said while diplomatically not mentioning the ancillary benefit of the dog forcing me to get some exercise. So we began our research. This was a common theme for us. Having decided on an approach or decision we always tried to understand the subject or task we had undertaken inside out.
What we were not prepared for was the depth and extent of the subculture we would become a part of as dog owners in the city. Neighbors who we had never spoken to became friendly. We learned about play dates, dog walkers, day care and pet cabs. Even more interesting we also learned about the quirky people who own dogs, love them and participate in the unique dog world that is the city.
My wife and I love our dog, maybe to a degree that some people could never understand. We have restructured our lives around his needs and to maximize our experience of the love and affection that he gives us. We do not apologize for this nor do we over sentimentalize our relationship with him. He is our pet and he gives us much joy and purpose. I hope to share these experiences with you and also to provide useful information and entertainment.
How could I subject a dog to a life of cramped apartments, elevator rides and sidewalk perambulating when everyone knows a dog needs a yard to run in and fields to play in. I guess the thousands of dog owners in Manhattan did not agree me. Granted some of their dogs were not the type I could see myself strolling down the street with. I am very tall and my weight fluctuates to great degrees. It would be quite a site to see me walking down the street trailing some lap dog behind me.
It was my size that finally tipped the scale, literally, to getting a dog. My doctor finally had seen enough regarding my living habits and told me in no uncertain terms that I had to reform my self away from the kitchen table and into the gym. I knew that was a hopeless task. I have no patience for running on treadmills or twisting and turning in sweaty gyms watching the clock to determine if I had put in enough time to leave with out being embarrassed by the trainer and the fitness fanatics.
No, a dog would be the answer. I would walk him several times a day and get my much needed exercise doing something useful. To salve my guilty conscious for subjecting the poor creature to a life of city living misery I would make sure the walks would be extensive. Anyway I grew up with a beloved family dog. It was time to return to my rightful place in the human, animal continuum. A dog person I was and a dog person I would be again. My wife and the cats would have to adjust.
Naturally my wife was thrilled. She had always wanted to have a dog she said while diplomatically not mentioning the ancillary benefit of the dog forcing me to get some exercise. So we began our research. This was a common theme for us. Having decided on an approach or decision we always tried to understand the subject or task we had undertaken inside out.
What we were not prepared for was the depth and extent of the subculture we would become a part of as dog owners in the city. Neighbors who we had never spoken to became friendly. We learned about play dates, dog walkers, day care and pet cabs. Even more interesting we also learned about the quirky people who own dogs, love them and participate in the unique dog world that is the city.
My wife and I love our dog, maybe to a degree that some people could never understand. We have restructured our lives around his needs and to maximize our experience of the love and affection that he gives us. We do not apologize for this nor do we over sentimentalize our relationship with him. He is our pet and he gives us much joy and purpose. I hope to share these experiences with you and also to provide useful information and entertainment.
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