16 July 2007

Dog-crazy.

I've wanted one for a long time. We always had dogs on the farm. Something like 13 over the 18 years I lived at home. There were strays. We took in my aunt's dog because she was moving and the dog couldn't go with her (Lady Chatterly). Some of them ran away (Snoopy, the sheep dog). At least one was stolen (Eddie?). One got pseudorabies and died. I really only remember one being hit by a car (Barkely). There were the three Irish setters we had at one time when I was a wee girl.

There was Pepper, who had to go to my grandparents' place because he would jump on my sister and I and knock us over. He would scratch us. When he was living at my grandparents', he got away one day and another farmer shot him. Pepper was the only dog who was really mine. My parents gave him to me for my fifth birthday. He was black with white spots. I remember thinking after I impulsively named him Pepper that I should have named him Salt and Pepper, what with the white spots on his black coat. Hey, I was five. I was dumb.

Yesterday, at the Bastille Day block party, I was particularly gushy about all the dogs I saw. Carrie said that I just need to go ahead and get one already. I don't think I'm ready. She thinks I'm never going to be more ready than I am now. But really, I'm gone for about nine hours a day, for one thing. I'm just not sure that I have time for a dog. The last thing I would want to do is get a dog and not be able to give it the love and attention it deserves.

Plus, I'm not even sure I could have one in my apartment. I suppose I could ask. What if they say I can have one? Can I afford it? Damn, it's like $200 to adopt a dog.

I'm terrified by the idea of being responsible for another being. Could I handle it? All those years of being around dogs and I feel like I haven't the slightest idea of what goes into dog ownership. Would I be a terrible dog owner? And even though I dealt with losing many dogs in my formative years, I'm terrified that I would get a dog and you know, one day it would die and I would be devastated.

Plus, The Social Worker would never come to my house again. I can't have that.

And let me just state again, that I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF MY APARTMENT ALLOWS DOGS. There are two next door in a very similar building, though. And I know my management company is ferret-friendly. Gross. Still, I'm spending all this time (and have spent a great deal of time already) going over and over this in my mind. Because that's the kind of girl I am. I freak out well in advance of things. I like to be prepared.

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