I’ve never been one for dogs. I like them just fine, but the big ones scare me and the little ones are needy. I’m needy. We don’t both need to be needy together. That’s called codogpendence.

About a week ago, my girlfriend stood by a very expensive Pet Store and ogled the doggies (her word, not mine) in the window. She asked “Can we get one?” I said, trying to sound reasonable, “You have two already, remember? They’re at home peeing on the bed right now.” She said “Yeah, but this one is cute. Look at him! It’s a French Bulldog and he’s eating his own poop!” We hoped that was its own poop, but I needed confirmation that just wasn’t there. The weirder part was that it was sipping a Malbec and wearing a beret while it ate, like a true Frenchie.

“How much is it?” I asked, cautiously, aware that even if she said $1, my answer would still be ‘No.’” She said “Ok, well, you have to understand this is a high end pet store...” I didn’t like where this was going, as you can imagine. Does price and already owning two elderly dogs mean nothing to her? We are perfectly set up for two dogs at home, not to mention that if we bring one more living creature into our tiny, cramped New York apartment, I think it can be legally called hoarding.

Growing up, my father was allergic to dogs and cats. He still is. Also, we enjoyed our house and belongings and the conditions they were in. That was all eventually ruined by a bird, but my folks stuck to their “no pets wandering around the house” rule for at least a good 14-15 years. It was only at friend’s houses that we would see big, mammoth looking dogs and small, yappy ones. And, that’s how I prefer to see a dog now; for one or two hours on a Saturday night.

“But he’s so cute and cuddly!” she exclaimed. I replied “I don’t care if he has golden teats, I’m not going into debt for a dog, any more than I already have.” When a determined, impulsive woman wants a dog, you have two choices: get on board or get all the way out of the way. “It’s dinner or the dog; take your pick!” I exclaimed, knowing full well that if she chose dog, we’d be eating dog for dinner. Is that cute!

The dogs from my childhood, which could very well be the title of my memoir, were all so big. Picture Comet from Full House. That’s the dog. And I was small, scared, and weak. One good licking by these dogs, and I’m down on my back, unable to flip over like a turtle. It just made sense to stay away. The only time I’ve sincerely acted like I even remotely enjoy a dog was when I played Starveling in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. That dog, my dog.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can swing it. We’ve got two; let’s wait and see if our house magically expands or affordable housing magically because affordable.” She relented. “Ok, fine. You don’t really care about the dogs.” I argued “That’s not true.” But to be totally honest, it is true. I didn’t care about those two dogs. I care about the two we have.

So the moral of the saga, if there is one, is to find a person who realizes how physical space can limit ones physical surroundings. And a person who gets you so well that they know that a couple of French bulldogs mean nothing to you, and that that’s ok.