On NaBloPoMo failure and canine conception
Ugh. Internets, I suck. Besides missing the very first day of NaBloPoMo, I missed another. And now, another. It’s like a metaphor, for my life. But like a smoker, I can start to quit anew every day…hmm, wait.
Anyway. Today, November 19, 2011, is the day we attempted to get my poor dog knocked up. I wasn’t there for it, but I’m told there was all kinds of weird stuff going on in the room: parts were massaged, positions were tried, things were injected into places.
And honestly, I feel like a sell-out. I worked at a humane society a long time back — I know how hard it is to get dogs adopted out. I know how much it sucks to see animals die because people are jerks. And I guess I’m one of the jerks bringing more unnecessary dogs into the world.
Except.
Except — ugh. I really want there to be an except, so I’ll make one: Except the dogs I’m responsible for bringing into the world won’t be unloved or unwanted. They’ll go to homes that are well vetted (by me, personally); they’ll be taken by people who can afford to pay not only for the dogs, but for the sometimes expensive care that ownership entails.
Except.
The people who buy these dogs wouldn’t be going to a humane society, anyway.
Except.
I love this breed: I love their energy, enthusiasm, curiosity, their contentment and love and slobbers and wrinkles. I love the way they breathe and snort and run out of energy at inopportune times and you have to carry them halfway down Tomer Butte and another mile up to your house, all fifty pounds of him, his slobbery mug resting on your shoulder. That’s a bulldog. They’re funny and loving, great with kids, not territorial, they don’t bark, they don’t bite, they don’t need long walks every day (though that’s fine, too); they just want love. And did I mention the wrinkles and cuddles and exuberance.
So, there. There’s my rationale. It’s flimsy and it sucks, and yes, part of why I’m doing this is for profit. And to pay the expenses of breeding and potential C-section, and to ensure the dogs go to homes that can afford them. But really, I love this kind of dog. And I love my Lucy, and Julius and Cleo before her, and Theo before them, and Angus before him. I’ve loved these dogs all my life and I hope that maybe other people can get that experience, too.
This reminds me of when we decided to get The Most Expensive Dog in America. We had lots of debates and ultimately bought him from a breeder who has raised labs for thirty years. Several times in San Francisco, we’ve had people ask if he’s a full-bred dog. Always awkward, especially when one guy added, “Wow. You hardly ever see dogs that aren’t rescues in the city.” This is the same city where people pay up to $1000/week for doggy boot camp, so I refuse to feel bad. Lucy is a fabulous lady and if we didn’t already own The Most Expensive Dog in America, I would sign up for one of her puppies.
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I should clarify–when I say the “most expensive dog” I refer not to his actual sticker price, but to the cost of maintaining him and the swath of destruction he leaves behind. But I wouldn’t trade him in for anything.
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