All Dogs MUST Go To Heaven

 The two dogs I look after are funny creatures.

I don’t particularly like dogs – if I had to choose, I would pick a feline any day of the week. They are more independent – they don’t beg for your attention, they don’t wag their tail like an animal addicted to speed, they are content lying in your lap without needing constant attention.

But these dogs, well, color me hypocritical. They have won my heart. They spend the whole day laying around and have the ability to continually be stroked and/or petted, without pause, for what I’m sure would be several days. Their high-pierced and horrible noises – what I’ve been told are commonly referred to as “barks” – routinely wake me up way before my body had been planning on rustling out of bed. When they come in out of the rain, they stink, carrying an odor that is somewhat akin to “wet dog”. Gus, in particular, has breath that could take the paint right off a Mack truck.

In short, they’re dogs.

And I love them. I don’t know why, but I’ll miss them, too, when I get on the plane back to Chicago.

Maybe that’s what I’m missing. Someone who will always be excited to see me, and always be ready to show me some love. It’s like a relationship without all that extra stuff, those annoying and unnecessary aspects, like sharing the same species and having to talk to each other.

Sign me up!