He's a Buddy

So I never thought I'd be crazy about plastic grocery bags. Never, that is, until we got a dog.

Honestly, I never thought I'd be crazy about a dog.

Here it is, my true and probably not-so-surprising confession: I am not a dog person.

I'll concede that there are dog people and then there are Dog People. Shall we say that...dog people just love dogs, all dogs. But Dog People love their dogs, who are in fact small furry people who speak to them and have a dresser full of outfits and have prescriptions that need filling courtesy of their Doggie Therapist.

As a new convert to the world of wet-nosed appreciation, I do not mock any of these people--non-dog people, dog people, or Dog People. (Well. Okay, maybe I'll snicker about the Doggie Therapists. I'm trying to be open-minded, I swear.) Having recently had drastic changes in my feelings toward these creatures, I should grant that everyone's feelings toward dogs must be in some way well-founded.

Slobber. Still gross.

And here were and are mine. I used to not like how dogs smell, how their wet noses leave those gross marks on your clothes, the feel of their slobber, the itchiness of their fur all over the furniture, and their propensity to chew/pee/poop on your property.

And I still don't like those things. Yet...when I come home and Buddy almost pees himself for all the excitement he feels at the site of me, I am...happy.

When I run with him in the mornings and he occasionally (and yeah, kind of stupidly) looks up to confirm that it is still Shannon who is running next to him, I am content.

When he does that joyful leap into the futon at night to go to sleep out in the other building, I am thrilled to know that I am integral to his favorite daytime routine.

What happened? He licks my face sometimes and I actually have to remind myself that that is also his butt-licking tongue. How did dog ownership so quickly get me to a place where I must cue myself on getting grossed out?

How did I suddenly become obsessive about having enough plastic bags to comfortably and regularly pick up my own dog's fresh piles of poo every morning? And I am...satisfied every time he promptly makes this pile at the stop sign on our street. Happy to have the bags, happy that his little body is working as expected, happy to be cleaning up that stink.

This is not the Shannon I used to know.

It's got to be the tongue. That stupid tongue, always hanging out of a mouth that seems to be smiling. The tongue that laps up water in his baby pool while he lounges in it, the tongue that drops the squeaky ball in the water before returning it to me during fetch--as if he is washing it off for me before I throw it for him again.

Or maybe the eyes. The rolled eyes that show the whites and turn him into our "Demon Dog" in the evenings as he squirms on the bedtime futon. The eyes that stare up under his furrowed brow in that freakishly human look of sweet expectation.

Hello, Demon Dog

I just don't know. Am baffled at this change of heart. I put on my "dog clothes" when I come home from work and am fine with getting hot and muddy as we cavort around the backyard. My favorite time of day is also when we sit down before he goes to bed. I pet him while he converts from Demon Dog to Sweet Sleeping Puppy. I giggle as he suddenly remembers that he's thirsty, just puts 2 feet on the ground, and streeeeetches to drink his water without fully descending from the couch.

He follows both Brendon and me everywhere. He doesn't try to run off or chase things. He just wants to be where we are, whether we're taking the trash to the street or building a chicken coop in the backyard or discovering the volunteer sunflowers around the property.

Like a little shadow, he's just a buddy.

So blame Buddy for this sappy confession of conversion. WoMan's Best Friend has brought me to the other side, and I feel it's appropriate to explain the change.