Except for the occasional school carnival goldfish, a kitten that almost immediately bolted, and a lost dog that took awhile to be claimed, I didn’t grow up with pets; so as an adult, I was perplexed by the relationships some of my childless friends had with their pets. Watching them take pet care to levels I was unfamiliar with left me either scratching my head or somewhat sad given the devastating effects of poverty on human beings world-wide.
Then I stopped fighting the family push to get a dog, and now, after fours years of labradoodle goodness, I better understand animal crazies. I’m not ready to label myself one yet, but the guy brings me a lot more joy than I ever would have guessed possible. Part of the joy is vicarious, seeing how happy he makes the Girls’ Club. Another part is watching him fetch the morning paper, leap, leap, leap, contact, sliiiddde, shortcut back through the groundcover, victory lap through the kitchen, and finally when the adulation dies, the drop. When we get home from church on Sunday mornings, we sometimes play a game where we purposely stand at 12, 3, 6, and 9 o’clock. He runs to mom, then sis1, then dad, then sis2, over and over.
I could go on, but you might start scratching your head and wonder if I’ve lost it.
Au contraire, it’s been all gain.