Reality: I am deeply dog-less and I am saddened by this fact for many reasons. Pets provide you with a certain comfort in times of need. If you have a dog then passers-by credit you with a certain amount of intellectual merit (when in truth I am little more than a lonely, barking lunatic.) They are less work than a human and probably wont steal my clothes. So, do I want a dog or a boyfriend?
My history with pets isn’t exactly stellar. As a child, I had a dog named Ralph whom we gave away due to me losing interest in him and who later went blind. I’ve had two cats – both of which left me a lingering sense of disappointment. One scratched and attacked my feet so regularly that I limped about for days on end, then eventually he ran away. The other, who I quite liked, went senile and then proceeded to die on me. I spent days shaking my fist at the sky, cursing some unknown higher power, having learned the hard way that cats in fact don’t have nine lives.
I’ve had hamsters, all of which have graced me with a very short lifespan. One even got eaten by aforementioned cat prior to him becoming senile. I’ve had rabbits, both of which I found stone-cold dead in their cages and had to break the news to my sisters, who were both under 10 at the time. I’ve had countless goldfish that bestowed the same amount of pleasure as sitting on a toilet seat made of broken glass. They looked at me with a sort of irksome whimsy. I took it personally that they couldn’t remember who I was for more than three seconds – I was irreverent to them, my existence futile. My history with pets hasn’t been great, no. But I find myself once again seeking companionship. And since I can’t go to the local pound and pick me up a boyfriend, I’ve decided a dog will do.
I know what I’d do if I had a dog: I’d take him home, sit him delicately on the corner of my bed in amongst my mountain of pillows; strategically placed so you couldn’t tell the plush from the living. I’d then rub his belly. I’d give him a commanding name like Rex or Fang. When he was little I’d cart him around in my backpack, then when he was older I’d walk with him down the street off-leash. He’d bark at shady characters, and even at my friends or parents should they say something I didn’t like.
Knowing my luck though I’d wind up with a dog that exhibited the same behaviours and traits as my exes. He’d greet new people with extreme aggression; have issues or a pathological obsession with chewing on me or peeing in my bed. He’d become more my captor than my companion. He’d embarrass me in public amid a throng of random people by starting to hump an unsuspecting passer-by without mercy or shame.
Am I talking about a dog or my ex-boyfriend?
The first thing I noticed about him was his dazzling eyes.
Living with him wasn’t always easy, he left his stuff everywhere; but I thought it was going OK, until one day I left the door open and he ran away.
He was judgemental about everything I give him for dinner – if I made it from scratch or if it was bought from Tesco.
He was never welcoming or excited about spending time with my friends.
He’s really was more of an ass man.
He had a complete inability to express physical emotion unless it was disdain toward other men that took an interest in me.
His mother was a bitch.
All my pets were poor substitutes for what I truly longed for as a child: real friends. Just as a dog would be a temporary fix to my current problem: Finding someone I want to spend my life with; someone to be my mischievous sidekick with whom I’d share all my worries and fears.
Nothing about life these days makes me a good candidate for having a dog. I work so much that I am never home. And when I’m not working I’m either out running, sobbing, or writing. I’d talk about my dog so much that the conversation would become as boring or offensive as talking about the weather or the latest hiccup in my sex life. I’m sure the dog would tire of my ceaseless melancholy too. He’d cuddle into me whilst I slept, filling me with a feeling of hope and comfort – which is a sharp contrast to the relationship I have with my alarm clock that’s set for 6:30am.
But the main reason I shouldn’t get a dog is because, despite knowing I would love him/her to bits, after a decade of ill-advised love affairs and poor choices of sexual partners, I know now that what I really want is a boyfriend.
…and when I get a boyfriend he will probably be allergic to dogs.