Friday, 28 February 2014

petit chien

I thought I wanted a little dog, a friendly face who'd be pleased to see me at the end of the day. A companion for walks by the river and runs in the park.

It turns out, I'm not ready for the commitment.

Mickey is cute. And having him to stay for two weeks has been great. I'd like to have him stay again. But full takes a lot of energy. I don't mind walking him a couple of times a day. In fact, I love that. But the expectation, as soon as I wake up or get in the door at the end of the day, is intense and unavoidable. His need to get out and walk and mark his territory and sniff every lamp post translates into barking and jumping and very heavy panting. Making him wait only increases the anxiety. And my guilt at not adequately meeting his needs.

And he smells. And leaves hair everywhere. And scratches the carpet.

But he also looks at me adoringly and hopefully. He is happy with any sign of affection; a rub behind the ears, a scratch on the stomach. If I talk to him, he cocks his ears and pretends to be listening, and tries to work out what I mean, or what I want from him.

Perhaps in time I'd get used to a little dog. Perhaps I'm just no longer used to sharing my space and my time. Perhaps I have become selfish and set in my ways.

Or perhaps I should just look after a little dog occasionally and not wish for more.

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