ten dogs (ns)

   My girlfriend and I saw a sign on the road advertising: “Puppies for sale.” Of course, you have to see that. Wait, have we checked off the stereotypical list of other things to achieve in the day: Khakis from The Gap, frosty smoothies, and a chair from Ikea? Okay, we’re ready to view puppies. But I’m not satisfied yet. Shouldn’t we pay homage to Pat Tillman? I mean, look at me: a Khaki wearing, smoothie sipping, chair buying sad excuse of a man. What the hell am I doing? I should be settling scores, running laps, slamming the remote against the sofa armrest instead of getting up to replace its battery. I should be doing more. Then I figured Tillman, guys like him, would be in favor of taking a leisurely break every now and then. You put in some work – you take a break. So let’s see some puppies. This, I should warn myself, is not a good idea, I’m thinking as we drive in. I’m a sucker for dogs. The problem is they take away my capacity for reasonable thought. When I end up talking to them (part one of the problem; I’m “talking” to them), they see me through the lens of the babies from Raising Arizona, staring at H.I. McDonough; googli-eyed, bouncing them around, speaking to them like infants. They take me back to a place I shouldn’t be: a mentally regressed third grader that crosses wires between proper English and baby talk. I’m the type of dog owner that, when confronted with a sick, dying dog, and the Vet assures me that, “All dog’s go to doggie heaven,” I’ll retort, saying, “Not this one – she’s gonna live forever!” Dogs make you act delusional. You’re thinking becomes, adjusted. As a productive member of society you are on record telling a colleague, “I believe the numbers for the report are reflected in the overhead of the cost effective revenue surplus from VIX reports, as stated in the IMF’s recent findings,” whereby seeing a dog, only moments later, you’ll be overheard saying, “Woogie, woogie, woogie!” So you can imagine my delight laying eyes on ten, tiny little one-week-old dogs (not even puppies), no bigger than a hand. It was a front row seat to the Nature Channel. My girlfriend began questioning who I was seeing me react in such a way, suggesting on the spot we open our own dog farm. (This would be in addition to one of my other ideas: let’s rent a boat, go into the Bermuda Triangle and see what happens, or, based on my love of the Lost City of Z, let’s try to re-enact an episode from Survivor Man with no formal training whatsoever.) “I declare right now we house and take care of hundreds of dogs, sell them, possibly, to the right owners, and basically become dog raising people.” I was in. I was definitely in. For inspiration, to start our own dog farm, I was overboard eager to purchase not just one of the little guys but the whole pile of em’. They were pure breed cross mixes of German Shepherds with Golden Retrievers. The owner said, “The cost for one of these fellas is twelve-hundred dollars.”
   There’s a lot more actual work with dogs than meets the eye. It’s not all, “Woogie, woogie, woogie” – it’s more like, “Feed me, walk me, feed me.” With a dog you become Rick Moranis from Little Shop Of Horrors, with no life of your own, shuffling back and forth, constantly trying to appease the thing. Who’s in charge around here anyway? All the dog food – apparently they don’t graze on grass anymore. Is the dog going to impress guests with paw-shakes and playing dead, or is it going to fall short of a good performance, and crack under pressure? The grooming, the dog parks, the dog’s mental wellbeing – is the dog getting enough exercise; is the dog depressed; is the dog playing with other dogs it’s own age; is the dog feeling appreciated; has the dog taken its medication; why is it limping? It was a good idea while it lasted.