Who Rescued Who?

This isn't going where you think it's going.  Not in this essay, and not in this dog's life, generally.

I've often heard it said that a person who doesn't love animals is a person not to be trusted.  Maybe no one phrases it exactly like that, but the general consensus seems to be that people who torture animals are almost certainly psychopaths, and anyone who falls on the spectrum somewhere between Michael Vick and Elmyra from Tiny Tunes probably possesses a healthy amount of empathy.  

As I sit writing this, I'm surrounded by a small menagerie consisting of two fat, indifferent cats and one very needy, anxious dog.  At this moment, all three animals want nothing more than to be on my lap getting pets, but the cats will never admit it and the dog is entirely too large.  I love that their desire to be near me forces them to tolerate, to varying degrees, being in close quarters with one another.  In this moment, their presence is comforting, but I may feel differently ten minutes from now when one of the cats is clawing at the upholstery and the dog is frantically trying to get eyeballs deep licking the other cat's balloon knot.  I tell you this so you don't suspect that I'm running inter-species UFC fights out of my living room as you continue reading, but I'm also not always about hugging and squeezing and loving these adorably wretched creatures for ever and ever.  I'm normal, is what I'm saying.

I love my pets so much but nothing enrages me more than those "Who Rescued Who?" bumper stickers.  I'll have you know, we straight up trash picked all our animals so I'm not taking an elitist stance here.  Our animals’ origin stories sound like the premise for an after school special about a scrappy band of hard luck misfits who escape the lure of the streets for a better life.  One cat was plucked as a tiny kitten from amidst the broken glass and crack rocks of a Baltimore gutter, and the other found me in a liquor store parking lot on a 5 degree December night in Utah.  The dog has severe anxiety, which must stem from the intense pressure everyone in his generation feels to develop a personal brand and always be hustling.  That, or he was severely abused as a tiny puppy.  It's one of those things.

But I digress.  Let me be clear that I’m not shitting on the concept of animal rescue.  Adopt don’t shop.  Puppy mills are terrible.  The world would be a better place if the ASPCA no longer had to air those Sarah MacLachlan commercials (for so many reasons).  I’m just saying, asking the question, "Who Rescued Who?" is aggressively dumb unless you are literally riding shotgun next to a St. Bernard that has learned how to drive so it can rush you to the hospital before your lungs collapse from a sucking chest wound.  My particular animals have not rescued me in the slightest unless they thought I wanted to be rescued from large amounts of money, time, personal possessions, and sanitary living conditions.

Earlier, I mentioned the dog’s anxiety, which manifests in erratic, self-destructive behavior whenever he is scared or over-stimulated, which is most of the time.  We are not monsters.  We tried.  LORD did we try.  For 5 years, we tried all kinds of positive training with praise and treats; we tried every kind of collar and harness and Thundershirt known to man to get him to walk in a civilized manner without trying to dive into the path of every oncoming vehicle, dislocating my shoulders and shredding my flesh with the leash in the process.  We then did what any good parent at the end of their bullshit rope does, and resorted to pharmaceuticals.  Twice a day, old Charlie swallows the generic canine version of Prozac.  It’s not a miracle drug, but contrary to our fears, he isn't a sedated lump with no zest for life.  He’s still a maniac, but he’s no longer headbutting all of our visitors in the crotch or having a stroke when he sees children, the UPS truck, squirrels, or trash bags.  It's something.

This drug is necessary but it’s expensive.   Charlie's vet doesn’t carry it, so I have to get the prescription filled at a human pharmacy.  Once a month, I have to march up to the pharmacy counter at the Murder Kroger, of all places, and announce that I’m taking better care of my dog’s mental health than many people can afford for themselves.  

When I pick up the drugs, the pharmacist always asks for the patient's date of birth.  The first time, I had to just make up a date because they didn't have one on file and also he's a dog.  Now this guy has a fake birthday I have to remember, along with all the other unpaid emotional labor I have to manage in my life.  Then, as you know, you have to sign all the screens with the privacy notices and the offer to consult with the pharmacist.  Once, I tried to be cute and was all, "this medicine is for a dog, do I need to sign with a paw print?"  Nobody thought that was cute.   In fact, I’m pretty sure now I’m a meme somewhere that circulates with the tag #whitepeoplebullshit.  And they're not wrong.  

Clearly, we try to do what's best for our animals, but we fuck up sometimes and I feel okay about it.  For that reason, I resent when people refer to their pets as their children.  Having pets confirms the fact that I don’t want kids.  I am almost too selfish to properly care for these animals; surely any children of mine would be absolutely demented.  The great thing about pets though, is that I don’t have to worry about damaging their futures.  Most parents’ greatest hope is that after 18 years of care and attention, their children are prepared for bright futures as productive members of society.  My greatest hope is that after 18 years of care and attention, these animals have all died peacefully in their sleep so I’m not shelling out for expensive veterinary care to keep old-ass, decrepit animals from suffering.

While I think it’s ignorant to act like your pets are equivalent to human children, I still do it when people ask me if I have kids.  At my age, merely saying no tends to make people feel uncomfortable for having asked.  It challenges their world view somehow when a married, stable, healthy looking person has not procreated for whatever reason.  Here’s what I say instead.  An acquaintance asks if I have children and I say, “Yep and there’s 12 legs between them all.”  Then I lean back and watch the wheels spin while they do the math and try to figure out if I’m a Mormon with 6 kids, a wiseass with 3 pets, or an average person with 2 kids, 2 pets, and a love of word problems.