I really like dogs. My dog, Neal, was like my fourth sibling when I was a kid. My family is fully comprised of dog people. The best thing that could happen to you, if you were a dog, would be to end up living with my parents, one of my siblings, or my cousins, Gwen and Malcolm. I generally like people who like dogs — my college roommates, my current bosses. My estimation of strangers shoots up if they have well-behaved, well-loved dogs. I’m actually a little suspicious of people who don’t like dogs.
But I’ve never had a dog of my own. Cats, but not dogs. First I was living in New York, and I don’t think dogs want to pee on the sidewalk. Then I was living in Washington and away from home for twelve hours a day. Then we were in Vermont with more time and more room but also with a baby, and one creature to potty train is more than enough. It was never the right time.
Suddenly, in the past few months, it just seems like the right time. John’s old enough. Michael is cool enough. I’m home enough. Matt’s completely on board. I think we can handle it. I think we’ve gone long enough without it. It’s time.
Have I lost my mind? Possibly. But a puppy is coming to our house at the end of November, and that is that. Wish me luck!