I woke up yesterday absolutely convinced that I needed/wanted/was desperate to have the companionship of a dog. Not just any dog. A large, hairy, probably golden retriever-type dog. I could picture us, walking Last Child to the dog park, throwing balls, snuggling on the couch...
Okay, so the dream deteriorated at the couch part, since I don’t think golden retrievers are exactly lap dogs.
But the feeling of missing a dog is still hovering in the air. I walked into my bedroom and looked at the foot of the bed, knowing that if I saw a dog there, I should call the looney bin. Still, I felt let down when I didn’t see a dog there.
How many blogs ago did I rant about the infestation of living things in my house and how I am not responsible enough to allow one more breathing/food-consuming/vet-demanding being to cross my threshold?
Once, I woke up positive, absolutely sure, that the solution to all the political unrest in the world was the color purple. If everyone loved purple, we’d all get along.
So I take these waking-thoughts as signs of a deranged mind in need of chocolate and more sleep.
But, still, today, I’d like a romping, ball-catching dog. I’ve never had a ball-catching dog. I had a dog that chewed on balls, but she never caught them. In fact, if you threw a ball, she wouldn’t be able to find it. Ever. It would have magically left her world and the ball would sit where it landed until Armageddon before she’d be able to find it again, even if it landed directly in front of her face.
Can’t you picture me? I’d be so cute, so outdoorsy, with my fleece and my hairy ball-catching dog. My children would love me and sing anthems to me. We could take the not-afraid-to-swim dog to the mountains on family excursions and she could run loose. Random children would pet her and the owners would coo about what a beautiful, good, gentle, ball-catching dog we owned.
Except that in real life, it would require teaching that I’m not capable of. Heck, I can’t even teach my children to fetch a ball. I’ve known Hal for 20 years, about, and he’s never once chased a ball for me. So, clearly, no matter how bad I think I want the vision of a dog, in my life that vision would fail miserably and I’d be left with a flatulent puss-ridden four-legged furry child who would never sing anthems to me, no matter how many balls I threw at it.