Last weekend I was almost talked into getting a dog. No joke! That’s right — the staunch defender of the “no more animals” policy almost caved.  They pulled out all the stops.  I was dragged into a puppy store.  My husband took my picture with a cute German Shepherd puppy that he already named Van Gogh (he had a crooked ear).  He then sent it out by iPhone to all four kids.  The same kids who take hours to call back when you really need to speak with them, responded right away — “please…..!!!”. The next thing I know, we are on the phone talking to breeders and looking at puppies on their website.  All I said was “they are kinda cute…”, that’s when the crazy train left the station and picked up speed.

While they were looking at puppies and planning a trip upstate to visit the breeder, I started thinking about our checkered history in the pet department. I remembered how I was left holding the bag with a parrot that never stopped shrieking (the few brief months it lived with us I could only make out every other word said on the telephone), an iguana that everyone was afraid of ( I gave it to the landscapers and I still believe they cooked over an open fire and ate it that same night), and gerbils that were like little Houdini’s ( you could put a cinderblock on top of the cage, and they would still escape into the piano).

Our first dog, we adopted from the pound — he was a runner.  Every time someone opened a door he ran away. I put up with this for several weeks.  One day I was chasing him down the road and I came to the realization that he didn’t like it at our house, so I let him go. The second dog was a black lab.  He stayed a puppy for five years.  He ran through gates, dug holes in the sheet rock, and chewed his way through solid oak chairs.  The third dog, an English bulldog (a surprise gift — needless to say I was shocked) was just plain dumb.  He got hit by a car three times, ate thirteen buckles off our loop-lock cover, and finally drowned in our pool. It was a horrible death, and I was sad — for a day.  I vacuumed up the dog hair and swore never again.  I was free!

I started having an out-of-body experience as I listened to them talk about the new puppy.  I heard someone say let’s get two– we’ll all help.  Are these the same “helpers” who refused to clean up dog poop because it made them gag, whose turn it never was when it was time to walk the dog, and who could never be found when the dog needed to go to the vet.

I looked at my husband; he looked at me — he knew.  The crazy train was pulling into the station — we were getting off.  He had that “what were we thinking” look in his eye.  I guess he too was taking a trip down memory lane — and it was littered with gates, pooper scooping, vet bills and late night walks in the pouring rain.  Choo Choo!!