I’ve always loved dogs. My family has always been one that had one dog, and they were a member of our family. Cats were okay, at least as I was growing up. We had two barn cats that I loved dearly. They were smart enough to come in the house yet not need a litter box; they would just go back to the sliding door when they wanted outside. Indoor cats are fucking repulsive (their litterboxes are, rather). Also, cats are selfish assholes. They stick their butthole in your face, they think their disgusting poop paws belong on the counter, and once my friend’s cat put its entire head in my drinking glass, to get some water. So rude.

Anyway, I’m a dog person. So when I was on spring break in Virginia visiting Jess and my mom called me to say that she had just gotten two Australian Shepherds, well, I almost died of jealousy. Luckily things worked out where I got one of them– though I’m not sure how, now that I think about it.

My first dog, one of the said Aussies, is a 5 (almost 6) year old named Wolfgang. Wolfie, or Wolf, for short. He’s named for Mozart, which was our first bond. The second is that we both have eyebrow scars. He is the nosiest motherfucker on this planet, obsessed with food, a complete asshole when anyone knocks at the door/enters the house– but I love him as though (because he is) my own child. As I write this, he lays about 6 inches away from me, red-eyed and adoring as ever. There are four things in this world that Wolf loves, in this order: food, me, car rides, and laying upside down. 

He grew up in a kennel, and didn’t really know how to play with other dogs, or really do any dog things. The first 8 months that I had him, there were no other pets (save two asshole cats), so his only form of playing was with me. When I came to VA, I moved in with my best friend and her dog, Juliet. Wolf & J-bone became fast friends, and as they learned to play together I felt (and still feel like) a proud mother. They are the most adorable thing on this planet. Other firsts include first squirrel chase, first time sticking his head out the car window, and first time almost fetching a tennis ball (which, btw, was today). 

Though he’s not the brightest crayon in the box by any means, he can sit, lay, stay, wait, and shake. Fuck. Isn’t that about all you can ask for? On top of that, he’s happy to see me every single day. Shit, if I go out and get the mail for 30 seconds, he’s happy when I get back. In all seriousness, I can’t imagine a love any better than that (as much as it can piss me off once in a while). 


This could maybe be tied in with how much I hate kids/don’t want any/despise the notion of motherhood. Taste of irony. -_-