Just the other day I
saw something that at first seemed amusing, then disturbing, and to my friend
Emily, (I’ve changed her name), it looked down-right practical; a stroller for
pets. If you’re out for a brisk three mile walk and you want to take along your
petite pooch, with legs the size of toothpicks, a pet-stroller might be in
order. A dog house on wheels gets your Taco Bell Chihuahua inside the
restaurant but if he speaks you’re out the door. Management is not kind to
children who bark.
Emily thought the
stroller brilliant because to her there is no difference between rearing a
child and raising a pet. To me, potty training and
paper training are two different things.
When my daughter Becky
was a baby, I mentioned how cute she was spitting out her first mouth-full of
Gerber’s Oatmeal; Emily was heartbroken when she had to switch from puppy-chow
to dog-chow. I was offended; they were two different species for goodness sake.
How could anyone love a dog as much as a baby?
When I had my second
child, Rachel, Emily bought another puppy and a cat. Our house was full of
babbling babies, bottles and Weebles; Emily’s was wall-to-wall newspapers, a
litter-box, yips and hisses.
Once my daughters
became old enough to play with the dogs, and by then two cats, the comparison
of rug-rats vs. ankle-biters ceased. The whole, talking and treating a pet like
a child issue sort of left my psyche until my now grown daughter’s fiancé
proposed, presenting her with a beautiful diamond ring and the cutest little
miniature-dachshund on the face of the earth. I proudly proclaim that until the
wonderful title of grandmother is bestowed upon me I have Hitch.
I call him my
grand-dogger.
At work when pictures
of grandchildren are passed around by proud grandparents it takes every bit of
restraint I have to not blurt out how cute Hitch looks fetching and carrying a
full sized Frisbee, or how sweet he is curled up in my lap, or how big he has
gotten; all 8 lbs. of wiener-dog
adorable energy. When my boss expounds on the intelligence of her beautiful
granddaughters or shows me the latest matching outfits she has bought them, I
can’t resist sharing my latest Hitch purchase; the little green dish with tiny
dog bones on it, and a natural-fleece lined zebra-print raincoat, with a hood. I
must admit there is something about a natural-fleece lined animal-print article
of clothing for a dog that seems so wrong, but it’s cute, how could I resist.
Yes, I have become one
of those nauseating people who talks about a dog like it is a child. When my
husband and I watch Hitch, I call it babysitting. When I hold him, I sway back
and forth and pat him, like I gently patted my babies.
My husband, who thinks
the only good-dog is a big-dog, and ours weighs over a hundred pounds, speaks
to Hitch like he’s a toddler. To him, every other small dog is defined as a
yipping little tangle of dog-hair at the end of a mop handle, but not Hitch.
“The little guy had
personality,” he says, and I must say, I do agree.
So until, and if, my
daughters have actual children I will be one of those obnoxious people who
follow every one of your cute grandchildren stories with one about my
grand-dogger. Did I tell you I went back to that store to see if they have any
of those strollers left? No, well okay then, enough said.
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