I got a dog.
It’s hard to believe that I got Sir Brian Didymus only a little over six months ago. He so devastatingly turned my world upside down that I don’t even remember a time when I didn’t have him.
I picked the little fart monster up from the US Airways cargo terminal at DCA on May 29, 2009. He was four months old at the time. The baggage handler brought him out and said he looked like Barney, George W. Bush’s Scottish Terrier.
As soon as we made eye contact through his plastic crate, we both knew. This was it. He was going to be my dog. And I was going to be his dude.
I had plenty of pets growing up (dogs, cats, rabbits, turtles, parrots, parakeets, and a chick that grew up to become chicken salad), but this is the first time I’ve been wholly responsible for an animal that’s not a fish. The notion of responsibility didn’t scare me. What scared me was the realization that every day after May 29, 2009 would forever be changed by this 20-pound hyperactive ball of fur.
In hindsight, the mutual adjustment period was a blur. There were plenty of potty accidents and walks in the rain. There was furniture chewed on and carpet eaten. And there were hundreds and hundreds of dollars spent on vaccinations, pet sitters, haircuts, and toys. (And yes, at one point I did consider that the amount of money I spent on him could have made a sizeable down payment on my condo.)
But then there were those moments—the ones where he quietly snuggles up next to you on the couch as you’re watching a Law & Order marathon—that makes welcoming another living, breathing, and pooping creature into your life such a joy.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.