“Can We Get a Dog?” Five Words that Change Moms Life
Last week, I helped my son move to Chicago for his new job. Accompanying him was his emotional support animal, Max, a one-hundred-pound American Foxhound mix.
I'm not entirely sure who was harder to move, my son or his dog.
Max and I have always had an interesting relationship. At various times, he's lived in my house, and if we're being honest, I think I was actually his emotional support human. I worry about him the way I worry about my own children. Is he eating? Is he getting enough exercise? Is he lonely? Now that he's living in a high-rise apartment in downtown Chicago, I picture him staring wistfully out the window wondering where his backyard went.
Before he left, I ordered him enough treats and toys to supply a midsized kennel. I even bought him a chaise lounge dog bed. Granted, he's roughly the size of a loveseat, but he seems to enjoy draping himself over it like a Roman emperor. I just hope his "Dad" sends plenty of pictures.
Max making himself at home in Chicago
I'll miss Max.
That statement may surprise a number of my friends who have heard the Max stories.
He accidentally bit me once, which resulted in a tetanus shot and a doctor inserting a needle into my ankle that appeared to have been borrowed from a veterinarian treating rhinoceroses. He chased my pool man, who escaped by diving fully clothed into the swimming pool. To this day, I don't know whether to apologize or congratulate that poor man on his survival instincts. Max sheds enough hair each week to knit another dog. He destroyed my drapes. I had them repaired. He thoughtfully destroyed them a second time in case I'd missed the lesson.
Then there was the day he and one of my Labradoodles decided to split a bottle of my other dog's antibiotics. Both spent three days in the veterinary hospital together. Honestly, if you're going to make poor life choices, it's nice to have a friend.
Technically, Max isn't even my dog.
Which brings me to one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of modern motherhood.
How does every family pet eventually become Mom's pet?
It's practically a law of nature. The process always begins exactly the same way.
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"Can we pleeease get a dog?"
"We promise we'll take care of him."
"We'll feed him!"
"We'll walk him!"
"We'll clean up after him!"
Parents, I have now reached an age where I can confidently tell you this is the greatest work of fiction ever written. Within forty-eight hours, everyone else's enthusiasm mysteriously evaporates. Suddenly the children have homework. Dad has conference calls. Someone has baseball practice. Someone else has to study.
The dog, meanwhile, continues rudely expecting breakfast every single morning as though he has no appreciation for everyone's busy schedule.
Guess who remembers?
Mom.
The dog develops an ear infection.
"Mom."
Needs heartworm medicine.
"Mom."
Runs out of food.
"Mom."
Needs grooming.
"Mom."
Throws up on the white rug at 2:17 in the morning.
Oddly enough, nobody yells, "Dad! The dog just vomited what appears to be the remnants of a squirrel!"
No. Somehow everyone instinctively knows this falls under the Department of Maternal Affairs.
At our house, I'm responsible for buying the food, scheduling the grooming, keeping up with vaccinations, flea medication, heartworm prevention, nail trims, and enough veterinary appointments that I'm fairly certain my dogs' medical records are now thicker than my own.
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I know which dog likes which treats. Which one needs medication hidden inside a hotdog. Which one refuses to eat if his food bowl has offended him in some mysterious way. Which one has social anxiety. Which one has allergies. Which one believes the vacuum cleaner is plotting his assassination.
Nobody assigned me this job. There wasn't a family meeting. No election was held.
One day I simply woke up as Director of Dogs.
In fact, I suspect this has always been the way of the world.
I'll bet young George Washington begged his mother for a puppy.
"I'll take care of him myself," he told Mother Washington earnestly, but we all know what she was thinking.
Sure, you will, George.
Next thing you know, Mrs. Washington is out in the snow calling for “Liberty” to come back inside, while ten-year-old George has already recruited half the neighborhood into a backyard uprising against imaginary Redcoats — leaving her to wrangle the dog solo.
Alexander the Great probably conquered half the known world because his mother asked him to clean the kennel.
Napoleon didn't have a short-man complex. He was trying to avoid walking the family Saint Bernard.
History books leave out these details.
I love dogs. Truly, I do. I donate to rescues. I cry over sad dog videos. I have spent amounts of money at veterinary offices that would qualify me for airline status. But if we're being completely honest, I never actually decided to become the Chief Operating Officer of Dogs R Us.
It just happened.
Because somewhere between "Can we get a puppy?" and "Mom, have you seen the dog?" every mother quietly inherits one more living creature that depends entirely on her.
The kids grow up.
They move away.
Sometimes they even take the dog with them.
But somehow, even from a thousand miles away, you still find yourself ordering treats on Amazon, worrying whether he's lonely, and hoping someone remembered to tell him he's a very good boy.
Apparently, motherhood doesn't end.
It just expands to include other species.
Gif by RisePropertyGroup on Giphy
