They cure our stress, they lower our blood pressure, they help our cholesterol. They find us when we’re lost, they sniff out our diseases, they wake us up in the middle of the night when the couch is on fire. One of them even helped us get Bin Laden.
And, really, I thank them for all of that. I love them dearly.
But love is a two-way street. Generally speaking, a little unreserved and unqualified affection is the least they can do.
With some notable exceptions — like people who shouldn’t even be allowed to own a houseplant and the occasional blood-sport sadist like Michael Vick (and no, I still don’t forgive), dogs have a pretty good deal.
We have two of them. I still find that interesting, because for much of my life, I happily assumed I would never have one. A very determined little girl changed that.
Neither my husband nor I had a dog growing up.
The closest thing to a pet in the home of my fastidious single mother were dust bunnies. I used to name them. My husband grew up in a Bronx apartment so small that his bedroom was a hallway. Not much floor space for a four-legged friend.