I am part of a big family of people who: 1. Have dogs; 2. Have cats; or 3. Have no pets at all.
There's a cat at my house and she hates everyone. She barely tolerates people, and if a dog comes, she hides until the last bark fades as they pull out of the driveway.
Then there's me. I like dogs enough, and plan to have one someday when I want someone to take care of again.
Back when the kids were younger, we did have a dog for a while, but it didn't work out. While he was there, though, if we had to travel overnight to someone's house, the dog went to the kennel. It got expensive, but I didn't feel it was right to inflict our rambunctious golden retriever on other people's households.
On the other hand, on several occasions I've had dogs visit my house with their owners and mostly, it was fine. Still, everyone seems to know dogs aren't at the top of my guest wish list, probably because besides not owning one, I am also considered the family neat freak, which, when compared to authentic neat freaks, I am not.
But I have come to realize this has gotten in the way of having family come stay with me who won't go places unless their dogs are genuinely welcome. As a result, some great opportunities for extended togetherness have not happened.
Contemplating how life is too short to let too many of those go by, I have been telling myself that I need to exhibit a new enthusiasm for visiting dogs when that seems to be what stands in the way.
Then my sister from downstate called. She has a new dog. She was talking about bringing it when she came for Thanksgiving, but said I probably wouldn't want her to.
Not at all, I said brightly. It's little and cute, right? Yes, she said. And it's housebroken, right? Yes, she said, except it does "number two" in the house.
And I just could not do it. "Well, that's all right, a little poop never hurt anyone" died in my throat. A few days later, she called to say she was coming, but the dog was staying back with a friend.
I continue to chide myself to remember what's important, and will keep trying.
Meanwhile, my other sister called. They were going away and she needed someone to water their plants and -- then muttering almost inaudibly, like she was talking in that tiny print at the bottom of drug ads, "feed the chickens." Now, the last time I fed her chickens they were cute little fuzzballs in a box in the garage. They're not fuzzy and cute anymore. Still, I said I guess I could venture into the coop.
Then she told me the rooster charges and I'll have to go in there with a stick to charge him first. I almost declined, but then said I could do it. With my new resolve, surely I can become friends with her rooster.
Still, I hope she never brings him for a sleepover.
Reach Kathy Gibbons at kgibbons@record-eagle.com.
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