Oliver

Anyone who’s ever talked to me for more than 5 seconds probably knows that I love dogs. And when I say I love dogs, what I mean is that I FUCKING LOVE DOGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Imagine this font is in flashing neon with little hearts and stars and dolphins and rainbows and dinosaurs and kittens and goddamn puppies bouncing around all over it).

So it seems natural that when my parents told me two weeks ago that they wanted to get me a puppy that I should have been ecstatic, right? Because I FUCKING LOVE DOGS! But I wasn’t.

Even before I said yes to the prospect of a “sweet little Shih Tzu,” as my mom put it, I was assailed by the one of the worst panic attacks I’ve ever had. I hardly slept for 5 nights in a row, and I lost weight over Thanksgiving weekend, which is highly unusual for someone who loves mashed potatoes and gravy and post T-day pizza as much as I do.

It’s not like I didn’t want a dog. I mean, I spent at least one sleepless night trying to think of names for a little boy dog before I’d even met him. Every name I thought of (Eugene Hütz, Marcellus Wallace, Spock, Satan) seemed better suited to a cat, however.

I went to meet the puppies and I got the perfect one. He was the runt and the one that the lady called her little Ewok. “When you roll him on his back and rub his little tummy he looks just like an Ewok!” she said. This is true, except for the fact that my dog is adorable whereas Ewoks are butt ugly.

my dog

Ewok

Now I have him at home and I couldn’t possibly love him more. He is sweet and adorable and everything you would expect from a tiny three pound fluffball of a puppy, including puppy breath (one of my favorite things in the world) and needle-like puppy teeth. And stealth pissing. Blink your eye and there’s a pee spot on the rug.

I love the hell out of him, but why do I feel so depressed? I spent all day yesterday at home with him and all day I felt like I was about to burst into tears. My friend came over to play with him for a little bit, and after she left I couldn’t help but think I was never going to have any fun again. I hate change, I know that’s part of it. Having a dog means I’ll never be completely alone in my apartment again, though of course it’s not like living with other people. I place a high value on my alone time, and start to feel sort of panicky if I don’t have a good balance of alone time v. time spent around other people. On the other hand, I also know I can’t go out for awhile if I should want to–at least, not spontaneously, which is the way I like to do things. My parents sit the puppy when I’m working or not at home, but I won’t be able to just run out of the house on a whim. Having too much stuff planned out makes me feel kind of trapped, and the idea of not being able to just pick up and go get a beer with friends whenever I want to makes me feel just as panicky as when I can’t get away from people.

And then there’s the fact that the little bugger just…follows me around. All the time. Everywhere. And stares at me. Just like a puppy. I mean, he does this when he’s not sleeping or ripping the shit out of my clothes with his tiny little shark teeth. Am I really the best candidate to be responsible for a tiny little life? I’m pretty set in my ways. I mean, really.