I hated dogs, but I hated the pandemic more.
When a type A lawyer gives in to her kids’ pleas for a puppy, love ensues
For years, my children begged me to get a dog.
No, I told them. Lawyer that I am, I laid out my arguments: I am a single mother. We live in a 1,200square-foot San Francisco condo. I travel constantly for work. Too much responsibility, too many chores, not enough time.
My children kept begging. Finally, exasperated, I told them, “Look, guys, I am more likely to serve you a dog for dinner than to get you a dog for a pet.” They turned several shades paler and never brought it up again.
Here is the truth: I hate dogs. I know, it is awful to say. Especially since I grew up in a house with dogs and reaped the benefit of their unconditional affection. But as an adult, I turned a sharp and unforgiving corner. The barking, the shedding, the leg-humping. The way their owners talked about them like precious offspring. The last straw snapped when I was living in Los Angeles. One day, when I was running in the park, a dog, illegally off-leash, chased after me and bit me in the upper thigh, his teeth sinking through my flesh and drawing blood.
Then the pandemic came, bringing drastic changes to the world and to my thinking about giving my children a pet. They had no playdates. I had no travel. Weeks turned to months. Online school ended. Other than their father, my ex-husband, we saw no one except masked strangers on the street, all of us careful to turn our faces away.
As we grew increasingly isolated, we also became less willing to leave the house, content with what our screens gave us: virtual games, virtual friendships, virtual work. We drifted away from one another and from the idea that it was important to interact in three dimensions. We were alienated from the world.
In May, I accepted that there would be no camp. It also seemed unlikely that we could go on vacation to the East Coast to see my family. Finally, sitting with my children at the dinner table, I broke. The pandemic was here to stay, for months if not years. Our family needed a lifeline.
“I am thinking we should get a dog.”
My 11-year-old son stared at me, then at the jam jar I use as a wine glass. “Are you drunk?” he asked. I shook my head.
My 9-year-old daughter looked worried. “Are we going to have to eat it?”
I shook my head.
It turned out that many, many other people — equally isolated and unhappy — had the same idea. We checked the shelters in our area. Some were shuttered. Some were open by appointment only. Most of the dogs had been scooped up. I widened my search, emailing breeders in different parts of the state. A six-to-12month wait, they told me.
A friend suggested a breeder in North Carolina. We went on the website and saw a tiny white puppy with brown ears, a bichon poodle.
“That’s our dog,” my daughter said.
“We’ll name him Kittle,” my son said. “The tight end for the 49ers.”
I looked at Kittle’s price tag and gasped. And that was excluding the plane ticket for the nanny who would fly him across the country.
Then I remembered the money I was saving by not sending my children to camp. This dog was a bargain.
Once the deal was sealed, my children began acting like expectant parents. They shopped online, picking out Kittle’s crate, blankets, chew toys, dog bowls, treats and football swag —collar, leash and doggy sweatshirt. I dutifully paid and smiled when they happily opened the shipping boxes, as if it were Christmas. But I didn’t feel happy. I felt dread.
Kittle arrived on June 4. We drove to meet him at the airport. My children were wild with excitement. I was not. Kittle was no longer a two-dimensional image on the Internet. I was going to have to deal with him as an actual living being. A member of our family. And I hated dogs. What have I done? I kept asking myself silently as we sped down the empty freeway.
In the waiting area, we watched as the passengers dribbled out — masked, grim, eyes trained on the nearest exit. Then came Kittle, with his very nice nanny, an unemployed flight attendant. I showed her my ID, and she put him in my arms.
Kittle was a tiny shivering ball of fur, too terrified to make a sound. When I held him, I felt something crack inside my hard, mean, dog-hating heart.
The first night, Kittle cried and cried, just like my children had when I brought them home from the hospital. I got out of bed and held him, just like I had held them, rocking and cooing. It was dark and I was tired, but I didn’t mind. I love you, I told him. And suddenly I realized that I meant it.
Kittle has transformed our lives. The world, flattened and drained of joy, has come alive again as he experiences it. He is curious about the shrubbery and smells and people he sees out on the street. Walking with Kittle is like parading around with a celebrity. We get stopped constantly. We talk to people again — real conversations — like in the Before Times. Little kids, teenagers, couples and senior citizens ask if they can pet him. We say yes. Kittle rolls onto his back, paws up. Every day, at least one person — often a clerk at the grocery store or a security guard stationed outside — tells us, “Thank you, this made my day.”
Kittle gives meaning and purpose to what would otherwise be shapeless and dreary hours. He needs to be fed, bathed, housebroken. He needs at least two walks a day. On our own, we would never do it. Now we do it for Kittle.
Kittle is in many ways just like any other dog — that is, in all the ways I hate. He barks and nips and humps my leg. He chews the furniture and shreds my legal pleadings. He leaves his toys lying around the house. Sometimes he pees on the rug.
What he gives back, though. Oh, what he gives back! In this time of fear and panic and misery, his love — its purity and hopefulness and nourishment — is priceless.