I’ve never been a pet person. That hasn’t stopped me from irresponsibly obtaining pets over the years. My last pet, a dog I named “Bubble,” was a six-year-old shelter pooch, a chihuahua min-pin mix, I was told by the shelter staff.
I had been widowed a few years earlier, and the last of my grown sons had left home a month before. I had never slept in a house by myself before the night my son moved out. I was afraid of the dark. And I had been in recovery for just about a year. I thought getting a dog to keep me company was a good idea. Well, it might have been if I:
A.) weren’t allergic to dogs (and cats, too)
B.) enjoyed playing with animals
C.) took an interest in animals the way others on this blog do.
Face it: I’m just not a pet person! Of course, I should have faced that fact before I adopted Bubble!
Fate intervened in the form of a man I started seeing and his teenaged son. I moved in with them, rented my own house to a tenant, and started living life in the wilds of suburbia. Bubble came, too, and found a friend in that rather lonely teenaged boy.
A year went by, and although the relationship didn’t work out for my man and me, Bubble and his boy had become attached to one another. The boy gave him the love and attention I couldn’t. And Bubble gave him what pets give to the people who love them.
I learned a lot from my year in suburbia, and not all of it was very nice–I learned how irresponsible I can be when pursuing my own ill-thought-out goals, for one thing. But at least I learned, and today I can make changes–and one of those changes includes leaving Bubble with his boy. They are really meant to be together, and I wasn’t meant to be a part of their household, after all. But maybe, when the time is right, I can visit them all.
Next time I get the urge for a pet, I’ll remember–I’m not a pet person!