Me & Russ: The Unlikely Love Story of Our Time

I’ve always hated dogs.

*Pause to wait for booing and hissing to cease*

Before you get all up in arms over this revelation, bear in mind my history with the animals. Family legend holds that a Doberman (aka flesh-chewing weaponry of the Nazi Party) attacked and pinned me down when I was two, and while it didn’t do any lasting physical harm, apparently it damaged my gentle toddler’s psyche for good.

While I have no memory of this, apparently it stuck with me. Years later, my family explained my aversion to dogs with the constant retelling of this tale, now embedded deep within me, like a microchip that releases revulsion at the smell/thought of touching a dog. I am not scared of them (mostly), and I do find the occasional canine adorable – from a safe distance, where I can neither smell it nor endure a marathon licking-and-crotch-sniffing session. I just have never wanted a dog, ever – and not in a passive way either.

Scenario: if someone dropped a dog on my doorstep and tried coaxing me into taking it, my instinctual response would be hells to the no, not ever ever, no thank you.  Everything about dog ownership repels me – the smell, the picking up and dispensation of poop, the way lawns and gardens seem to degenerate into patchy, yellowed, unappealing pockets of dog-space, the slobber, my god the slobber. So, no, just – no.

The odd thing about this glitch in my personality is that I feel a great compassion for animals, including dogs. Just walk me into an animal shelter and subject me to the doe-eyed stares so stuffed with sadness and I start bawling. This is not an exaggeration – we’re talking literal tears. THEY JUST WANT A FAMILY, for heaven’s sake, THEY JUST WANT TO LOVE SOMEONE AND BE THEIR BEST FRIEND FOREVER – great, now I’m tearing up. Something about their helplessness at the mercy of our flawed human care just sets me off like that; but I want other loving families to adopt them. I am not equipped.

So it’s vaguely ironic that a few years before we got married, my husband adopted a puppy from a shelter (a practice of which I highly approve, by the way – when you aren’t dating me). But in this case, it wasn’t just a puppy; it was a future-beast. A bear of a dog – no – a vicious breed considered so evil by suburban mail carriers the world over that many of its kind are put down on a daily basis.  A breed that is actually ILLEGAL in some countries.

That’s right, friends, an American Staffordshire Terrier. A pit bull. Not just any pit bull – a pit/possibly/Mastiff/or/something mix. As in, designed not only to kill, but also to be ginormous.

I was in for an uphill battle before the marriage even began.

– – –

However great my dislike of dogs, this dislike grew exponentially once I had to live with one.

Rusty was hyper, messy, smelly, dirty, ill-behaved, and did not listen to me EVER. I couldn’t even walk him because of his colossal strength and ability to yank free of my grasp and lunge at other dogs. Or locations for sniffing urine.

See? He’s a blood-thirsty beastie.

I did not want this terror living in my house.

When my husband insisted it was too cold outside and the dog needed to sleep inside, I balked. With cussing. And hissy fits. Dogs don’t belong inside, Mike. When my husband thought it would be “cute” for Rusty to hop on the furniture (as much as a dog of his size can), I would storm off in a rage, yelling incoherently and hurling vague threats of divorce. When my husband tried to coax us into bonding by LETTING THE DOG SLEEP IN OUR ROOM, fortheloveofallthat’sgoodandholyinthisworld, my face would turn an angry red, screaming would be involved, and I’d no longer be responsible for my actions (that’s code for an anger-blackout, a phenomenon that seems to only happen to me and abusive spouses). I would protest, “I hate that @#$%^& dog so @#$%^& much! Gaaarrrrraaangggglll! Dirty fluffenheimer kerpumple!” and then I’d feel guilty because I knew it wasn’t Rusty’s fault that I didn’t want to be a dog owner. Poor guy.

What an awful excuse for a human being I am.

My position on dog ownership greatly shifted right about the time Rusty killed one of our cats, ironically enough (dramatically gut-wrenching story for another time—bottom line, not his or anyone else’s fault, so don’t point fingers at me, angry neighbors). I knew it wasn’t his fault, but I knew this dog was dangerous in a way he didn’t mean to be, and I had to either take some responsibility or take him to the pound.

Look at this face.

I couldn’t take him to the pound.

So I proceeded to “man up,” as my husband’s charming buddies would say, and put a little effort into our relationship. I watched Cesar Milan on The Dog Whisperer, and actually implemented his techniques for handling pits. My husband bought him a pinch collar, both for his safety and mine (and others, I guess) so I could train him to obey me on our walks without his leash degloving my hand. We’d let him sleep in the house every night and hang out with the family as much as possible, so he’d feel like a part of the pack. I still am not used to the smell, but that just means I have to clean the house more frequently (must admit, that part kind of still pisses me off). Eventually, he earned the pride of place on the floor next to the bed.

I definitely draw the line at dog-in-the-bed, though. Girl’s gotta have standards

Little by little, he grew on me. I can even touch him voluntarily and play fetch, his favorite game, with him – as long as I have easy access to antibacterial soap and water immediately afterward. My bit of effort has been rewarded with a loyal dog who is (mostly) well-behaved, (occasionally) very cute and always very loving.

Damn it. I like him, in spite of myself.

So bottom line; will I ever get another dog after Rusty goes to the Happy-Hunting Ground?

No, definitely not. Unless they invent unscented dogs that pick up their own poop.

But I must admit, my heart is a little bigger now.