Thursday, June 10, 2004
The love of Dogs
DOGGONE SPOILED
BY JUDITH NEWMAN
I just bought my dog, Monty, his own couch. It's plush, brown, faux-suede, and it cost $450. It is, in fact, the couch I want for myself, but unfortu-nately it's only 20 inches off the ground. I feel a little uncomfortable admitting I've bought my golden retriever his own piece of furniture, so I'm thinking of telling visitors I've got a roommate who's a midget. I actually do have 2-year-old twin boys, so that's not such a big lie.
People said that once I had my own kids, Monty would resume his rightful place as a lovable, smelly, not-so-swift mammal. He is a lovable, smelly, not-so-swift animal, but then so are my boys. If anything, having kids has only made me want to spoil Monty more, because I feel guilty that he now has to share my attention with two creatures who are brushing him backwards and sticking pacifiers in his ears. And saint-with-fur that he is, he passively puts up with it all.
Please, do not think me a pet nut. Pet nuts are people who are trying to turn their animals into humans, who think of their beloveds as furry reflections of themselves. Yes, I am sorely tempted by the $100 Swarov-ski rhinestone-encrusted collars (ad-mittedly, a little fey for any animal that can't fit into a handbag) and $10 bottles of dog mineral water (Champ-pagne!) stocked at a nearby pet spa. Yes, I have considered hous-ing Monty at the Ritzy Canine Car-riage House, an ultra-luxe dog hotel where the swank Presidential Suite costs $175 a night and has its own VCR for canine movie viewing.
But I have resisted all those niceties that I, and I only, would ap-preciate. Monty does not have a trendy wardrobe, for example. Large dogs just look embarrassed in clothing-though I do adore the skull-and-crossbones sweater my hip-hop neighbor just bought his wee Tibetan terrier, French Fry. I be-lieve in pampering Monty to the fullest, as long as the pampering suits his doggy nature. So, while I may not take Monty to Ruff Yoga, the dog/master yoga class at my gym (does a golden retriever need to learn how to stand on his head?), all right, I've thrown him a party. But only once. He got many nice chew-toy balls for pres-ents. We called it a bark mitzvah, and that was probably a little wishful thinking on my part.
Indulgent? Maybe. But consider this: When I thought I would never be able to have children, I got Monty. He was abandoned at a shelter by a woman with three children under 5. She had bought him as a puppy, thinking the kids and the golden retriever would make a lovely picture at Christmas. Monty proved a little ... needy. But some of us like needy. I hope her kids never prove too needy, I thought churlishly, as Monty drenched me in kisses on the ride home.
Anyway, during those roller-coaster years of infertility drugs and needles and hope and disappointment, there was one thing I could always count on: a sneaker shoved in my face at 4 in the morning. This was Monty's way of telling me he was thinking of me. It was his way of pampering me. I'm sure that if he could have gone out and brought me a new pair of Manolo Blahniks, he would have.
Monty never thought I was a failure, even when that's exactly how I thought of myself. So now that I have what I want-the love, the craziness, the mess of a life that spells happi-ness-how can I fail him now?
Last night Monty's couch arrived, and he jumped right on it. Then the children jumped on top of him. And he let them.
That's worth $450, don't you think?
1 LADIES' HOME JOURNAL I JUNE 2004
BY JUDITH NEWMAN
I just bought my dog, Monty, his own couch. It's plush, brown, faux-suede, and it cost $450. It is, in fact, the couch I want for myself, but unfortu-nately it's only 20 inches off the ground. I feel a little uncomfortable admitting I've bought my golden retriever his own piece of furniture, so I'm thinking of telling visitors I've got a roommate who's a midget. I actually do have 2-year-old twin boys, so that's not such a big lie.
People said that once I had my own kids, Monty would resume his rightful place as a lovable, smelly, not-so-swift mammal. He is a lovable, smelly, not-so-swift animal, but then so are my boys. If anything, having kids has only made me want to spoil Monty more, because I feel guilty that he now has to share my attention with two creatures who are brushing him backwards and sticking pacifiers in his ears. And saint-with-fur that he is, he passively puts up with it all.
Please, do not think me a pet nut. Pet nuts are people who are trying to turn their animals into humans, who think of their beloveds as furry reflections of themselves. Yes, I am sorely tempted by the $100 Swarov-ski rhinestone-encrusted collars (ad-mittedly, a little fey for any animal that can't fit into a handbag) and $10 bottles of dog mineral water (Champ-pagne!) stocked at a nearby pet spa. Yes, I have considered hous-ing Monty at the Ritzy Canine Car-riage House, an ultra-luxe dog hotel where the swank Presidential Suite costs $175 a night and has its own VCR for canine movie viewing.
But I have resisted all those niceties that I, and I only, would ap-preciate. Monty does not have a trendy wardrobe, for example. Large dogs just look embarrassed in clothing-though I do adore the skull-and-crossbones sweater my hip-hop neighbor just bought his wee Tibetan terrier, French Fry. I be-lieve in pampering Monty to the fullest, as long as the pampering suits his doggy nature. So, while I may not take Monty to Ruff Yoga, the dog/master yoga class at my gym (does a golden retriever need to learn how to stand on his head?), all right, I've thrown him a party. But only once. He got many nice chew-toy balls for pres-ents. We called it a bark mitzvah, and that was probably a little wishful thinking on my part.
Indulgent? Maybe. But consider this: When I thought I would never be able to have children, I got Monty. He was abandoned at a shelter by a woman with three children under 5. She had bought him as a puppy, thinking the kids and the golden retriever would make a lovely picture at Christmas. Monty proved a little ... needy. But some of us like needy. I hope her kids never prove too needy, I thought churlishly, as Monty drenched me in kisses on the ride home.
Anyway, during those roller-coaster years of infertility drugs and needles and hope and disappointment, there was one thing I could always count on: a sneaker shoved in my face at 4 in the morning. This was Monty's way of telling me he was thinking of me. It was his way of pampering me. I'm sure that if he could have gone out and brought me a new pair of Manolo Blahniks, he would have.
Monty never thought I was a failure, even when that's exactly how I thought of myself. So now that I have what I want-the love, the craziness, the mess of a life that spells happi-ness-how can I fail him now?
Last night Monty's couch arrived, and he jumped right on it. Then the children jumped on top of him. And he let them.
That's worth $450, don't you think?
1 LADIES' HOME JOURNAL I JUNE 2004
// posted by DLB @ 2:18 PM 
