Starting Life With Dog

Here is where it starts to get actually entertaining instead of just being sad, lol.

Continuing from Life Before Dog, my parents sat me down and told me that they were getting me a dog to be my ESA, aka Emotional Support Animal. It's different from a Service Animal in that they do not receive formal training and I cannot bring him with me everywhere we go, but I am allowed to have him live with me wherever I live, even if there is a no pets policy, and I can take him with me on airplanes and transit. As for why an ESA instead of an actual SA, Fibromyalgia is not cut-and-dry, training animals specifically to assist people with the disease would be far too inconsistent, not to mention the fact that you still have some people who don't even think it's a real illness. I didn't need a dog to guide me places or press buttons or open doors for me, I needed a reason to live for. I needed something to force me to get out of bed in the morning, eat breakfast, go outside. I wouldn't do it for myself, but if there was a dog in the picture, my parents knew that I would do those things for the sake of the dog, no matter how painful and difficult it was, and they hoped that eventually I'd start doing that stuff for myself, too. I'm happy to say they were right.

I'd given up on life when they told me. I'd hit absolute rock bottom, and I'd been scrabbling to crawl out of the pit for so long that I gave up on even trying. That conversation started the spark. Somewhere in the utter blackness I saw a light. It was just a little spark, but it was more than I'd ever expected to see again. I had a goal, I had something to work towards. For the first time in forever, I felt like I actually had a purpose.

It felt good, having something to do with myself again. I threw myself into planning. I researched breeds, read training manuals, watched several seasons of the Dog Whisperer. I looked at local shelters and rescues, I asked friends with pets, I discussed things with my parents, I looked at the rules and regulations surrounding ESAs. Pretty soon all I was doing in a day was researching dogs, dogs, dogs.

I decided that not just any dog would suit me. No, if I was going to get a dog, it was going to be the most perfect dog in the entire world. I had all these great fantasies in my head of Lassie-esque devotion, a dog-human relationship so touching it would totally make an awesome movie. Critics would give it five stars, everyone would sob as they watched the touching tale of I and my perfect dog.

As one can imagine, I had a very strict set of standards. I had the image of my perfect dog all laid out in my head. They would be smart so I could teach them lots of tricks, they would be impossibly loyal, they would be small and hypoallergenic, they would be cuddly, laid-back lapdogs that didn't require a lot of exercise so that I could keep up with them, they wouldn't be too young or too old, they had to be well-behaved and impeccably mannered. I already had enough problems of my own to worry about, I didn't want a dog that came with baggage to add to mine.

After pouring through the SPCA, local rescues, breeders, and kijiji ads, I somehow managed to narrow it down to three candidates. The information I had on them met the criteria so far, they were all breeds that were on my yes-list, they were at good ages. I got in contact with the current owners, discussed prices, and, of course, going to see the dogs. I had decided to be objective. I was not going to take home the first one I met, I was going to meet all of them and carefully evaluate how well we'd fit together. I was going to take time to decide this, because it was an extremely important decision. This dog was about to become my constant companion, for better or worse, and I needed to be absolutely sure I had the right one. But as they say about the best-laid plans, things didn't quite work out the way I thought they would.

December 23rd, the day before Christmas, was the day I'd set up to meet the first of my candidates. The others were farther away, so we went to go see him first. I remember feeling sick in the car, my stomach full of butterflies, like that feeling you get when you really, really like someone and want to tell them, that giddy nervousness. My dad drove me. We soon pulled up at the house. Reminding myself one last time to be cool about this, I knocked on the door.

The lady opened the door, and I spied the reason I had come here. My heart leaped in my chest when I saw him. I'd obviously seen dogs before, but I was currently looking at a dog that could potentially be mine. It changed everything. He was dressed in a little santa suit with a jingle bell collar. I immediately felt sorry for the poor thing. His owner then introduced him as Bambi, and I felt even worse.

I asked all the questions I had prepared. The lady answered them as best she could, but there were some gaps. She was definitely trying to cast him in the best possible light. If I had managed to remain objective, I would have probably left to look at the other dogs. She brought him over and introduced us- well, attempted to. When she called for him he seemed to ignore her, and when she eventually moved to go grab him, he attempted to trot away, looking miffed at the entire affair. She plunked him down in front of me, and I offered him my hand to sniff. I looked deep into his eyes, and I could tell that he was thinking "wow such bullshit do not want no human no pet no much desire to explore gotta go fast why touch do not like RABBIT". He shifted away from attempts to pet him. He growled when she picked him up. Eventually he wriggled out of her arms and trotted off, presumably to some other area of the house, away from all the big two-legged things that kept getting all up in his business.

Perhaps sensing that kernel of doubt in the back of my mind, she assured me he was super smart, and she'd taught him all kinds of tricks! She called him over. He eventually showed up when she shook the treat bag. My eyes went to him as I awaited a demonstration of his skills.

She told him to sit. He cocked his head and scratched his ear. The woman assured me he totally knew how to do this, and tried several times to get him to sit, attempts which he observed disdainfully. Hoping to salvage the situation, she desperately said that she'd been teaching him how to give kisses! She put her face up close to his and requested he give her a kiss. Instead of licking her, he just kind of drew his head back and trotted away disdainfully, those treats were not tasty enough to warrant him having to deal with this shit. He'd flunked the first half of the test. On top of that, he wasn't even neutered.

She let me take him on a walk for part two. She had to dig for a leash, explained she didn't have time to walk him. Objective, stay objective.

We took him out for a spin around the block. It became immediately clear he had absolutely zero training in this. He pulled every which way, getting distracted by every little thing, bounding around like a tetherball during a particularly vicious match. "Wow, he's so curious! He really likes walks!" I cheerfully made excuses while attempting to control an 11-pound living wrecking ball as he flung himself in the general direction of whatever was most interesting at the time, which happened to change every few seconds. My dad, who knew what I was looking for a dog, was skeptical. I babbled on about something involving him being intelligent, I don't really remember, while the dog proceeded to choke himself on his leash in order to attempt to investigate a squirrel he'd just seen. Eventually we turned around and had to drag him back, a difficult thing to do when your dog is attempting to run in the opposite direction you need to go because "Holy shit I just saw a tree guys gotta pee on that this is mine oh wow is that a rabbit holy shit I fucking love chasing rabbits am outside best day ever".

 After managing to wrestle him back inside, my dad was just about done. He kind of gave me that look, the look that says "do you think this is a wise decision because I don't". Redundant, because I'm pretty sure I was screwed the moment I laid eyes on him. I wanted this dog. He was absolutely nothing like my dream dog, but I figured with so much time on my hands, I'd be able to whip him into shape pretty quickly. My dad asked me if I was sure, and I said yes. He still looked a little doubtful, so the lady suggested we take him for a day and see if we wanted to keep him, the clever woman.

We left the house with him and a whole bunch of stuff she'd given us, his kennel, vet's papers and such, some food, a stuffed animal, a bunch of toys that had never been used, still in the packaging. He obligingly hopped up into the back of the car with me and we started the ride home.

I couldn't stop grinning like a loon. This was a dog. This was my dog. Holy shit, I had a dog. As far as he was concerned, however, he didn't belong to me. He bounced around the car nervously, shying away from my attempts to pet him. I thought it was reasonable for him to be nervous around cars, he'd been through four owners before I got him, and he hadn't even turned two. He probably associates cars with never seeing his home again, I speculated.

When we got home and came in the door, my mom and brother were surprised. They'd been told that we were just going to meet the dog today, and didn't think I'd be bringing him home right away. I unleashed him proudly, told him to explore his new home.

The very first thing he did was run over to the nice white leather couch in the family room and lift a leg to pee on it. As far as first impressions go, he'd screwed the pooch on that one.

My mother was horrified, but, to her credit, did not lecture me. He wasn't the kind of dog I said I was looking for, but I'd picked him, and my parents were willing to respect that. So long as I got him house trained ASAP, mom told me he was out if he kept it up.

He came home with us for a trial day, and never went back. I awoke Christmas morning the proud owner of a dog. A naughty, ill-mannered, and mischievous dog, but a dog nonetheless.

It was the best Christmas ever, despite the fact that he made a nest out of the wrapping paper, and we couldn't catch him to get him out of that stupid Santa suit, nor could we get the demented jingle bell collar off his neck that day. Still the best Christmas ever.