Some scientific genius probably spent bazillions of dollars to come up with this piece of profound wisdom about pets. It was probably the same person who was testing the effects of LSD on elephants. Since my anxiety levels were through the roof, pre-diagnosis, my husband put aside his allergies to everything living and did a ton of research. He concluded, after hours of reading and asking around, that the perfect dog for our family would be a Boston Terrier.
We drove a couple of hours to the breeder’s house, and I picked out the cutest little female puppy. We named her Biscuit. She is a petite Boston, at 9 years old weighing in at 16 pounds. Bostons are supposed to be a breed that “strives to please their owners”. Guess who didn’t get that memo? Biscuit is me in dog-form. She does what she wants, when she wants, and she does not give a doggie’s dang what anyone else thinks. (Somehow I feel this is my fault, but I’m not sure how.)
It took three years before she finally started to settle down out of the puppy stage. During those three years, when she was supposed to be reducing my anxiety, she chewed up a kitchen table and a coffee table, ate enough crayons to crap the rainbow fifteen times, escaped the house and ran off every time she could, constantly peed in the house five minutes after going outside, and generally drove us all to think maybe, just maybe, a pet was not the solution to our anxiety after all. In the meantime, she was not nearly as hypoallergenic as the husband had thought; so the more he tried to avoid her, the more she tried to snuggle with him. Of course! Her favorite place to hide is right on top of his pillow.
Now her favorite person in the family is…guess who?…my husband, naturally.
I love my dog, don’t get me wrong. But next time I start looking for something to reduce anxiety, someone puh-leaze hand me a margarita instead.