For my entire life I have professed to be a dog lover. There’s a picture of me taking my first steps as a toddler on the beach with the sweetest smile on my face, as I reached out to pet a giant golden retriever. I had dogs when I was little. My grandparents had dogs. My neighbors had dogs. My friends had dogs. I loved them all.
When I was able to buy my first house, I was thrilled that after 10 years of renting “no pets allowed” homes, we could finally get a dog. I have lived with one or two dogs ever since.
Dog sitting for my neighbor this part year has made me realize something. I don’t love all dogs.
I love my dogs.
There’s nothing wrong with my neighbor’s dogs. They are friendly and fairly mellow. But they are also huge, big shedders, kind of smelly (like hounds can be) and most importantly – not my dogs.
Then I started thinking about other dogs I see regularly in the neighborhood. For the most part, they are all normal, friendly dogs. Some are big. Some are small. Some are rambunctious. Some are cute. Some are ugly. They all seem fine. But I don’t want much to do with them. I certainly don’t love them.
Cesar Milan loves dogs. Rescue people who adopt injured, aggressive and disabled dogs who require significant rehab, training and time commitments love dogs. Some people I meet on walks will sit on the ground, carry treats and plead for my dog just to let them touch her. I think they love dogs.
Sometimes I entertain fantasies of volunteering at a rescue, opening my own shelter or being some other kind of dog hero. But I never take action on this because I don’t want to take on the burdens of that kind of care. That’s the last thing I want.
I like dogs. A lot.
But I’ll take them in small doses and I’ll save my love for my dogs.