An hour in to my morning, I’m starting to feel guilty for not having fed the dog. It’s still early (6 am as I start this), and in my mind I tell myself “he can wait.” I hate having that power over him – what I really mean to say is that as soon as I tell myself he can wait, I counter with, I would hate to be hungry and have to wait for someone to tell me it’s ok to eat. I have the luxury and freedom of getting up and eating whenever I damn well please. I feel bad if he’s genuinely hungry… but in my defense, he’s pretty much always hungry. I admit, my dog gives me a complex. I don’t like that he is so dependent on me. There are lots of days I wish he could take care of himself. At least children gradually become independent – he will never become independent, never feed himself, never take himself for a walk.
I could feed him now – which would be fine, but I know that if I do that, within twenty minutes, he’ll start his slow whine to go for a walk. And again I’ll feel guilty over having such control over his bodily functions. I’ve tried letting him out to take care of business… which he’ll do, but he still starts to whine for the walk. Right now, I’m not ready to take him on a walk. I got up early to have time to read and write (and it’s still dark out). I didn’t tell him to get up when I did… and I feel bad that he’s camped out a few feet away from me – strategically positioned between me and the kitchen. I feel bad that every time I get up from the table he looks at me with anticipation. I don’t like having this pressure (admittedly much of which is self-imposed). I feel as though I’m a bad dog parent (and a bad person).
I have similar feelings at the end of the day. When I get home from work, he barely lets me in the door. He is so excited that he wheezes and runs into me and half-jumps as I sternly say “down.” He struggles to maintain his breathing. I’ve had times when I’ve given him something akin to a bear hug to get him to be still and I can feel his heart racing and his chest and ribs heaving – the hug never works. I let him out, he pees and comes running right back – excited to eat. And again, I have a short window of time between when I feed him and the whining starts.
This is only partly about the dog and the many ways I feel guilty. I do think I might have been better off with a cat (more independent). I sometimes think that maybe I should give him up for adoption so that he could be a with a family who is better suited to meet his needs, give him more attention. I want him to be happy and can’t always tell if he is. I sort of had a dog before… and I think that’s what I was expecting this time around. That dog slept when I got up in the morning and seemed patient when it came time for walks. She was older, better socialized, and probably better trained… she also wasn’t my full-time responsibility. I didn’t have to take care of her every need.
But this isn’t really about that dog either. I think the thing that hits me most is that my dog makes me think of my own neediness in past relationships (perhaps I’m projecting). My current desire for a few minutes of quiet in the morning or when I get home makes me wonder if that’s how an ex felt about me. I was the dog – always there, waiting, excited, needing somethign. I wanted, maybe needed attention. Text me when you get up, let me know when you’re on your way home, let’s meet up for a drink, let’s go out to eat, let’s have breakfast together. There were times she would say she just needed half an hour to herself at the end of the day. I never had a problem with that, but for some reason we struggled to put it into practice. And honestly, I never understood the need for that space and time – until now.
I don’t know what her experience was with her dog… maybe she had spent years training the dog to need her less or be less demanding. I know she hired a dog walker to feed and walk the dog in the afternoons so that her dog was less amped up at the end of the day (something I’m considering doing). But I sometimes wonder if the prospect of a new puppy (me) with even greater demands made her feel like she’ll never get enough time to herself. In a partnership, you always have to at least consider the other person. And just like I feel guilty because I can’t (or don’t always want to) meet the needs of my dog, and just like I feel pressured and frustrated when he whines (as he’s doing right now), perhaps she was dealing with similar feelings – like she was failing the relationship, or letting me down. There are times when we don’t want accountability (pets, jobs, other people).
Having made a few major changes in my life these past couple of years, new cities, new jobs, loss of pets, new pet, I’ve gained some appreciation for the mental drain and exhaustion that comes with disruption. Having spent a lot of time alone with few demands on my free time and attention (until now), I’m beginning to understand the need for space and quiet and agency over my freedom. There are times when I just want half an hour to myself, and that’s almost always when the dog needs or wants attention. In those moments, I feel pushed and pulled…. and that’s when I’m frustrated and start to tell myself something needs to change.
I can remember times when she would feel guilty about leaving her dog alone for long periods… we would schedule things around the evening dog walk, and time away had to be planned well in advance, arrangements had to be made. I suspect she felt similar demands coming from me and from her job, and these demands were in conflict with her need for self-care. Something had to give. Now, with my own pooch, I have to schedule my time around him. Even the change of seasons requires extra thought and adjustment (it’s colder and darker on those walks). And when I want to choose me over him, I feel that mix guilt and resentment. He’s great, but sometimes I wish he weren’t around… Those “I love you, but…” moments can feel like a dark admission, can feel like we’re failing. For me, it helps to believe that everyone has them – with partners, with kids, with pets, and parents. It helps to recognize that sometimes it’s me, and sometimes it’s the dog – and all of it is perfectly normal.
Postscript
Towards the end of our morning walk – one in which Kimbrough did a good job of tucking in his full-blown crazy at seeing another dog and was only half crazy – we saw a mother walking to her car holding a screaming toddler. She smiled that nervous smile that we’ve all seen and most of us have experienced. She waved hello. Her expression was a strange mix of brave face hopeful, apologetic, and tired. Between wailing sobs, the child was screaming noooooo…. We walked on. I was thankful to be past those days and honestly had forgotten about the tantrums. As adults, we keep those long screams in check, we find more “productive” and “appropriate” ways to deal with our frustrations. On some level, on our worst days, I suspect there are still kicking and screaming little toddlers in all of us, and on other days we’re the ones who need to show grace as we quietly walk to the car in our “I love you, but….” moments.