Hair of the dog

Literally.

I’m dog-sitting this week for a friend of mine.  And am gladly doing so — I really do love having a dog in the house again.  But, the hair!  As I pet her I can see the hair just cascading off her, making my kitchen floor look more like mohair and less like ceramic.  Luckily, the “neat freak” gene that runs through my family tree somehow missed me, so I’m not yet having OCD fits about it.

Ginger is about the only dog that I think is more laid-back and even lazier than my dog used to be.  And as such, I can tell that we’ll get along famously.  Ever since I had to put Joe down last May, I’ve wanted another dog.  I love coming home to someone who’s unabashedly, deliriously happy to see me.  And a little snuggling while watching TV?  That’s the best.  But see, the thing is that Joe and I, we had an understanding.  I didn’t bother him for long periods of time while I was out earning a paycheck (he’d been an adament SAHD for as long as I had him), and in return, he’d nap with me after a long day’s work.

To bring a new dog into that kind of arrangement just doesn’t seem fair — it’s not like the dog can read a list of disclaimers before deciding to sign on with me.  And to be honest — and it kills me to admit it — not having a dog brings with it a certain freedom.  No longer do I have to worry about getting straight home after work, or who’s going to watch the dog if I want to jet off for a last-minute vacation (not that I ever do, but HEY at least it’s an OPTION!).

So, this week will serve as a reminder of both why I love having a dog and why I can’t have a dog.  Much like grandparents have the luxury of spoiling the children and sending them home, I will enjoy this time and still be happy to see her take her toys and hair and go back home.

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