For two weeks this summer, I had a pet. Zoe has been in our family for nearly 10 years now; she's Jack Russell Terrier, and her coloring resembles that of a soccer ball. She was originally my brother's dog. My father had always told us that we could get a dog over his dead body, and my brother and I spent many years contemplating patricide. Finally, the parents decided that a pet might just be the solutions to the adjustment problems my brother was exhibiting (read, he got kicked out of History class for accusing the teacher of being a member of Nambla). The reasoning was that everyone else in the family had someone smaller to pick on except for my brother. Enter Zoe. Not an auspicious start for a dog, but Zoe didn't seem to mind.
So when my brother moved to New York, my mother was out of town, and my father refusing to care for the dog that had been adopted despite his protests, Zoe was foisted onto me. I'd never had a real pet before, and my experience with Zoe herself was limited. She joined our family around the time I discovered outlaw bikers and their drug labs, and soon after that, I moved out of the house. I steeled myself, bought an attractive black rubber bone, and invited the most hyperactive dog I have ever run across into my home.
Despite the fact that my workplace allows employees to bring their dogs in, I knew that this was not an option. Zoe, like the rest of my family, is neurotic and high strung, and doesn't interact well with others. So I went on craigslist and hired myself a dog walker. I wasn't sure how to pick one, but when Karen correctly identified 'The Popcorn Song' by Hot Butter on my voicemail message, I knew that she was the one. However, when she arrived at my house, I was less certain. Karen was a rotund woman, and took her dog-walking responsibilities far too seriously. She made me sign a contract, and then showed me her dog CPR training certificate. I started laughing, thinking it was one of those stupid gags that pet owners find so funny. Alas, it was no gag, and Karen was fully prepared to put her mouth over my dog's entire snout if the need should ever arise.
The Zoecam.
Karen was supposed to walk Zoe for 30 minutes each weekday while I was at work. However, after having my heart smashed into 10 billion tiny pieces, I decided to stay home sick one day, and neglected to call Karen and tell her. She arrived on time, said hello to me and took Zoe out for her walk. 14 minutes later she returned, out of breath, and with sweat soaked through both sides of her feces-colored t-shirt. "Would you like a glass of water?" I offered, unsure how to proceed. She nodded, her flushed face grimacing in desperation. Karen quickly regained her composure, and proceeded to regale me with the details of Zoe's bowel movement activities.
The next day, the same thing happened. This time, Karen managed to stay out for 16 minutes, and again returned drenched in sweat and on the brink of an agina. Logic dictated that if Karen walked the dog for an average of 15 minutes while I was sitting right there, it was unlikely that she was taking Zoe out for the requisite 30 minutes when I was at work. Fearing that Zoe's muscle mass was in danger of atrophying, I wrote Karen an email. I told her she could feel free to stand in one place and throw the ball to Zoe instead of walking her--it was Zoe who I wanted to get exercise, not Karen. Although it did appear that it was Karen who was more in need of it. I had always been of the belief that fit and fat were not mutually exclusive, but Karen, a professional licensed dog-walker who could not walk more than a few blocks without panting, was proving me wrong.
Karen wrote me a few indignant emails in reply, and I realized that arguing with a fat, bitchy dogwalker was not my idea of a good time. I decided to allow Zoe to suffer, but promised to make it up to her by taking her to the dog park when I got home each night. I learned that despite my love for Zoe, dogs are boring. They want you to throw balls to them. You have to pick up their doody. They sleep on your pillow when you are at work, despite not being allowed on your bed. Goddammit. They look at you mournfully a lot. They have the ability to make you feel guilty by wagging their tails and cocking their head in a certain way. And really, it was the guilt that I couldn't handle.
I'm lazy. Not quite as lazy as my professional dogwalker, but lazy nonetheless. Zoe is the sort of dog that would happily trot beside a long distance running, and at the end of their half-marathon, would wag her tail and indicate that she was ready for a walk. I knew I wasn't able to satisfy her, and it left me feeling inadequate.
Wondering what Zoe did all day, I trained my webcam on my living room, and left for work. I found myself unable to accomplish anything for the next few days, so busy was I refreshing a page every 3.5 seconds, despite having set the camera to update only once per minute. I quickly learned though, that the dog I once thought was filled with boundless energy was little more than a useless sloth, much like the rest of her family. Zoe slept, on average, close to 11 out of the 12 hours that I was gone from the house. Occasionally she would get up, get a drink of water, and slink back to her bed, the very picture of malaise. This only exacerbated my guilt. She was obviously, much like myself, clinically depressed and unable to function for much of the day. I couldn't help but think it was my fault.
After my boss caught me watching the dog-cam a number of times, I finally took it down. And after countless doleful looks from Zoe when I refused to throw her bone for her (again) or haul my fat ass off the couch to walk her, I decided that I was not yet ready for motherhood, and fobbed the dog off on my friend Kim. When I see Zoe now, she looks at me not mournfully, but resentfully—for only she knows how inadequate I truly am.
