I got a girl right here who doesn't like Star Wars. She hasn't seen any Terminator movies. She didn't like Disneyland, despises video games, won't play board games, and isn't fond of chocolate. She doesn't like playing cards, isn't a fan of football... come to think of it, she doesn't really seem interested in baseball, basketball, or hockey either. She doesn't like jewelry. She thinks flowers are a stupid gift because they just die; and fake flower are even worse because they don't die. She's not into shopping or getting her hair done. She didn't get the "maternal" gene, so she doesn't like babies. It's a hard sell trying to get her to watch a movie made before 2013, and there only three films she's seen more than once. She doesn't keep greeting cards any longer than it takes to read them. A European vacation is a hard no. Her first boyfriend gave her a '68 Camaro... and she sold it.

Even she loves dogs.

I don't like dogs much. I wasn't raised with them, found them dirty, covered in slob, and loud. They are high maintenance, have too much energy, and are just generally too much.

I know it. You know it, too: dogs are America's sweethearts. Say a single negative thing about them, and it's like saying someone's baby is ugly. You just don't do it, in polite company, and in this case, on the internet.

During the pandemic, I was lonely. Oh no: here it is, the Twist. Yes, I got a dog. He's a corgi, because I am (of course) that basic of a b*tch. And to top off the basicness, I got him at two months old. Because, puppies. Need I say more? Not if you're also an American. I submitted.

Ernest was a terrible puppy: loud, dirty, and requiring massive amounts of training. But here's the thing: I was raised to believe that if someone who depends on you needs something, that person can be labeled Needy and can be told to F Off. It took many months for me to realize: this corgi puppy needs me to be Present for him. In a big way. It's taken almost three years, but I've come to realize (I think - oh no, here it is again, a Twist) that having a puppy is like being an actual mom.

I used to think people who referred to themselves as their dog's "mom" were obnoxious - and here's the thing! I still do. I refer to myself as the dog's "lady." Lady would like for Ernest to go outside. Lady would like Ernest to fetch the toy, etc. etc. Maybe I'm phobic to "motherhood", but actually, raising a dog, for me, has been like a catharsis: I'm a parent now, however I label it or don't label it. I have someone depending on me for everything. And that, initially, was quite terrifying. Especially for someone who was raised to believe that having "needs" (being loud, being dirty, etc.) were the equivalent of using a siren to wake you up at 3 o'clock in the morning. Unnecessary, wasteful, ugly.

Ernest has taught me how to be a mom - totally. I had to learn selflessness. I had to learn that just because Ernest is muddy, and loud, doesn't mean he has a personal vendetta against me. He doesn't want me to be angry. He's just a dog. I think of children in the same vein: they don't mean to make you angry, they're just being kids. Ernest ate my book once, the one I was almost finished with, and I got mad - but here's the thing (again) - it's not his fault. He's a dog. It's a beautiful thing, when you realize you don't have to hate everything that requires effort and time.

I love Ernest (full name: Ernest Hope Hemingway) to the moon and back. I kiss him constantly, give him belly rubs (which he loves), and, I think most importantly for both of us: I laugh at him, and his antics. When he eats the paper towels, I initially feel resentment, sure, but then - I laugh.

It's really fun, actually, being a dog parent. I proudly wear the title of Lady to Ernest. He's chill, and we have fun. It wasn't always like that when he was a puppy, but it is now, and I can also proudly say I've got some parenting experience (?) under my belt.

i say hello to all the dogs i meet

i get excited when i see them

and they usually get excited too

my friends look over at them

when i say "dog, dog, dog!"

i like when dogs look like their person

i like to think it means something

that they have grown together

or maybe the person picked the dog

or vice versa

because they sensed familiarity

i love to say hello to dogs

because they are alive

and loving everything i meet

means i am alive too

I just don't like dogs, I absolutely love and adore them. I thank the good Lord for them because I can't imagine a greater blessing as a companion. From the adorable puppy days to watching them grow, to the day they cross that bridge, they forever leave your heart touched.

I believe dogs and kids are just heads and tails beyond accurate when it comes to sizing people up....I believe life is just sweeter with a bestie by your side. Seriously, one who doesn't care how much money you have/don't have. One who looks at you in pure love and awe - even on those days when you are not looking your best....One who senses when you are upset and won't leave your side....one that would lay down their life to protect you. It just doesn't get better than having a good dog....life would really be "ruff" without them....

We spend the majority of our struggles toward maturity trying to outgrow the fine mess our mothers made of us. That's what Sigmund said, anyway.

We dance around the Freudian concerns of breastfeeding, Oedipal affection and then separation anxiety, and just as we seem to be bottoming out of this psychiatric quagmire, we're suddenly struggling to understand this whole sex thing. And don't even get me started on Dad.

We are sexual beings. Strongly sexual. From love and affection to its end-result--us. We have to imagine our parents engaged in sex, and then we don't give it a second thought because we pledge to ourselves to never think about that a second time.

So what do we get served? Hot dogs.

Now we're supposed to think how condiments work better than condoms on these phallic objects of tubular meat, hugged so affectionately by vulvar bread called, of all things, a bun. And we're supposed to eat them! Put them into our mouths. And we once again struggle to stomp that particular, more refined, parental imagery into oblivion.

Oh, my God, but we're wicked! Mouths are made for eating and for sex. It obvious from the time breastfeed to survive to the time we breast-something for sex drive.

And we are wicked enough to equate the two--sex and eating--metaphorically, visually, and gustatorally--a new word construction I shall call a venereonym (gustatory + oral = gusta-oral = gustatorally--not redundant, not understating it, nor overstating it, but stating it--Yes, Goldilocks--"just right."

And how about those who cut the hot dogs into a little stack of coins? Are they sick or what?

Look, I know it's possibly a stretch to have a hangup with the whole penile existentialism because we turn the wrong corner at the county fair, cross the wrong kiosk at the mall, or just have a hankering for a penis-shaped food for our oral fixation. And is the foot-long version real or a myth?

But think about how much better sex is with marijuana...or how much better a hot dog hits the spot after smoking it. Munchies = Horny.

Now we're on to something. Pleasure is commutative when it comes to sex and hot dogs. So savor the dog-in-bun, if you can. Before you realize just how nasty the seemingly innocent tube-steak really is.

Some people believe that a cat is better, that a cat is less work, but all the hardship is worth it because owing a dog is like having a life long best friend; someone who is there for you when no one else is, someone that you can play with and take care off. It is scientifically proven that petting a dog increases the level of serotonin and dopamine which helps in calmness and relaxation. Dogs are extremely loyal unlike cats who priorities food over their owner. I do not like dogs, I love them, with my whole heart.

It's interesting to me that you don't like dogs. I myself have the disposition of a dog... A dog-cat to be more precise. Let me tell you about the best and only dog that I have ever had, my girl Roxy <3

Let's start again....

I don't particularly like dogs. That is negative experience speaking. Growing up, we had three: a Husky mix named Husky, and a pure-bred German Shepard with dwarf legs named Stefania. Stefa for short; and a Shepard Retriever Border Collie mix, named Mela, Italian for Apple, named so for no other reason than alliteration (in our family we were all M).

Husky was a biter with a sense of humor, no malice apparent in his nature. It's just that whenever he met a passing stranger, from behind, he could not resist "the temptation" of nipping them in the butt. An Alpha-Beta thing? (Father was Alpha of the pack.) If Hushu, as was his nickname, scented food, he went stupid and would bite right through a hand. He did this twice; once during a rare visit to Grandma, and once to my sister. Both bites drawing considerable blood, piercing right though top and underside of the hand that feeds.

Stefa, was a runner during her "time of the month." She was never spayed and never pregnant, and never leashed. She was a patroller of the house but would lose all sense of duty from time to time and had to be retrieved from somewhere in the neighborhood with a dazed look in her eye of procreaterial confusion. In short, she also, went stupid.

Mela was mostly Border Collie in DNA, and separation anxiety plagued her like a long-lost ancestral hound. She could not be left alone, or she would claw and jaw at everything in sight, especially doors and floors, to try to get out of the room or house or yard. I flatter myself to think it was to find us, but most likely she just wanted out. Left for more than ten minutes, she went stupid.

But my Roxy, was a gem. She was very intelligent. Too smart for me I would say. I got her in a time in my life when everyone frowned at my decision to "tie myself down." I was isolated in the woods in the family log cabin and bear were coming right up to the doors so that I felt very insecure at every point of exit, not being able to see around the bend of what was in fact a very expansive solid wood dwelling. Wildlife had kept its distance because of the scent of dog in the past. Years had passed, and raccoons, bears, skunk, and even ground hogs got bolder and made themselves known as co-tenants of the property.

So, I did what needed to be done. No, I did not get a gun. I went to the pound and adopted a dog.

I was looking for a pit bull boxer mix that I was going to name Igor. And I found one.

My heart sank when I heard the bark. The most ear jarring yelp, one that I knew would agitate the cats who I had adopted two years prior from a shelter as feral adults, who were otherwise Bomb Proof. But this yelping nobody could possibly stand. In the compartment next to this idealized silver pit mix, was what I said I didn't want: a female German Shepard mixed with what I was told was Ridgeback, but later came to believe was actually Whippet, because she never ever had that doggie odor, even in the rain. And what a bark. Stellar. Adoption was near certain. My niece Molly would confirm for me if this was the "right dog," because I had conspired to myself that this dog would be partly hers since she is so keen on dogs.

When this dog was led out to me, alone, she showed respect and a docile-ness that was aristocratic. To revise any misconstrued imaginings, she looked like a fox. Red fur, with a little burn around the ears and muzzle, and tip of the tail which puffed accordingly. She was lithe and tall, with a narrow skull and frame of body, and exquisitely soulful amber eyes that betrayed a sadness, and a longing, the origins of which I understood in a short while. 

I should note that her name was Roxie on the certificate. If anyone knows me, you know that I have picked up many a rock in my lifetime and turned it over and over, peering at its inner essence, to draw out with paint and brush one of myriad of faces contained within... it was like a Sign to me. This was The Dog.

When I returned a second time, sure that I would indeed take her home, I brought Molly. It was agreed wholeheartedly. I asked Molly if we should maybe change the spelling of the name, as I knew she had been keen to rename, and this would be a good compromise. I did not dare change the name itself, because it was Perfect, and also because my lady was already 6 years old. It seemed unconscionable to change the sound, but the spelling was irrelevant to her though pertinent to us. Of course, Molly wanted a y; so she became Roxy. And when Roxy saw Molly, she came alive with a spark of joy that I seldom ever saw in all the years of her life. I soon understood why.

The pound knew of her full backstory. She had been owned by an elderly Missus who had passed away and left the dog to her son and his young family. The family had a little girl. Right about Molly's age. The family was at the time of abdication struggling with a newborn and having financial difficulties. Roxy was not lost. She was surrendered to the pound. Severed from her family, holding out hope... of a change of heart, or change of circumstance... She had been there only six days. The county required eight to check for distemper and other potential health or aggression issues.

I took Roxy home two days later and found to my astonishment that she was fully trained. Truly a gift. Sit, stay, heel, beg, paw, even roll over. She always asked to go out, abhorred soiling anything and was a veritable Princess. No, a Queen. Aloof as can be to me. Like a cat-dog someone might be prompted to quip. Yet whenever she sighted a little old Lady or a little girl age 6, she was beside herself with dog gone enthusiasm and that spark was back. How I loved to see her like that!!

Here is the heartbreak of the tale. Roxy enjoyed road trips and walks and tolerated me as new Master. Yet when I would say "Time to go home, Roxy," she would look about us so forlorn and lost that I stopped using that phrase. This it was clear was not home.

When I moved to Michigan, something in her broke altogether. True she was getting older, but 12 is hardly old. Life expectancy should have been 14 or even 16 years had her heart been in it. Soon after the move she lost her hearing. She began to get spells of vertigo so bad that made her look rabid, rapidly circling her own tail, heart racing unable to calm or sit down. It was like she had subsequently lost her mind and went mad. She was put on medication and that unparting sadness perpetuated her being. She began to lose her eyesight and control of her bladder. I made the wretched decision to have her put down.

I have every respect for her and for the comfort she brought to me as the smartest, most disciplined, attentive dog I have ever seen. I also know that she never loved me.

I don't like dogs with two legs and two hands.

They are the real burden on Earth.

They harm those close to them.

Bite the hands that loved them.

Men-dogs say they don't like four-legged dogs because they bite; well, I don't like two-legged dogs backstabbing sites.

They cheat and commit fraud without guilt or remorse.

Four-legged creatures are at least loyal and smart to some extent.

Why do you go to therapy?

To feel like you're resolving you problems on love? You issues with your family? Work stress?

Here is as far as I know about dogs because to be honest I don't know much. But dogs are the best things in the entire world. Because they don't give a crap about if you are happy or sad as long as they can kiss you, get belly rubs, treats, etc. they are literally the best things you can ever have because even if you get upset that they ate your shoes, they will forgive you for being upset almost instantly. I have two and I will say, I will never have regrets about a single day I've had them in my life. A man's bestfriend? Nope, they are a woman's bestfriend, but secretly I think it's because I'm the one that gives them treats.

Dog lover forever!

We can't all have good opinions; otherwise, how would we know them at all.

A Quadruped once said,"...", nothing at all!

But they sure were sweet when they lay their head on your knee after licking the tears off your ruby red face.

At that moment, in that place, they were there for just you, and they knew it, and they love you no matter what you do!

It's these silent moments when the only warmth in your world is that mutts soft furry curls slid over your hand.

It's the unblinking stare and the total demand of your attention to heard you away from the wonton feelings that got you so low.

It's that you won't freeze when it's 20 below zero on a three dog night in your tiny house you built; but failed to prioritize insulation, but dammit!

You felt it sure looked cute in the shade of green you painted it. The one that the last of your building funds got alloted to. The one you got when you should have gotten new pink panther sheathing foam to line your tiny walls with.

It's those little things like puppy breath and them breathing little barks and ruffs as they are chasing their dreams. It's their little pup-paws up in the air, without a care ,or a thought of gravity. Chasing cars in their subconscious.

I couldn't bare the tragedy

of some of this lifes flaws

if it weren't for that little brindle brown puppy with huge f-ing paws;

my Mr. Buster Brown.

And later actually his litter brother

My dog Jax

Who is "Jaxon pollock Brown" and

Now I have little Paw Paw too.

They're My boys, my friend, my dogs to the end; they are family and I'll be damned if they didn't save my life through the toughest times yet.

So follow me when I say

forgive me please

Dont forget I mean not to be rude.

I'm not normally so braisen to say;

With so much attitude;

That your opinion (no one asked for)

is more than welcome to

join the food i had for lunch

down the drain and flushed.

It's what I do

with all the shit I process

Though what to do with you, Deficating from where your mouth is,

To really screw the pooch.

"Ain't that a bitch; I got this."

I say; handing you tissue.