dogged determination.
I want a dog.
Not just any dog, mind you, but my dog -- the dog of my dreams... the dog I know I will get one day because it's an attainable dream, unlike my dream of singing mezzo soprano at the Met.
It won't be a little dog -- they tend to bite me, realizing that I am a major competitor for them in the "short, frenetic and yappy" sweepstakes.
It won't be too big a dog either, since those tend to sit on me and smother me with their giant hairy bodies (I have had St. Bernards and sheepdogs alike try and curl up in my lap), or cause joint separation in my arms when I attempt to restrain them with a leash (Bear -- my friend's big cross-breed behemoth-- dragged me happily along the ground for about half a block. I ain't that small. He was that big.)
I want an in-betweenish sized dog, with a gentle personality, an energetic spirit, and an okayness with kids. I don't know if I'll have kids -- that could be one of those unattainable dreams -- but I know I'll be around them. So I'll work damn hard to make sure my puppy doesn't want to mangle or eat babies/toddlers/rug rats of any size.
I will be fine if it chooses to bite ex-boyfriends or telemarketers, however.
The only dog that I've ever had significant ownership of was the family dog I grew up with and -- bless her heart anyhow -- she wasn't much of a dog. She had few dog characteristics. She was more like a cross between Woody Allen, a pompom, a senile old woman, and a homing device.
Raisin (yes, that was her name, and no, she wasn't black or wrinkly -- she looked like a cream puff with raisins for eyes) was, in actuality, the off-white result of a misguided tryst between a terrier and a poodle. She came to be with us as a ball of fur at early puppy age. She didn't grow to be too huge -- still a reasonable lapdog size -- and she resembled a cotton ball on crack for the vast majority of her years, until her hair began to fall out in clumps near the end.
She was obsessed with my mother. I think my mother could have walked across coals, and Raisin would have followed her into the fire. She trailed her around the house all day like an extra, yappy appendage, much to my mom's frustration. She was also given to trembling, whether in excitement or distress, and usually appeared exceptionally nervous. She wasn't particularly, though -- she was just a bit spastic at the best of times, and downright quaky at others.
She got along with all our other pets, although she'd often be terrorized by our cats. One kitten in particular -- a neurotic calico rescuee named Jessica -- would attempt to remove chunks of her flesh with well-placed swipes. We had a dent in the radiator in our townhouse in Edmonton from the time my dad tried to intervene in an attack with his foot -- but he connected with neither cat nor dog... only with metal. Jessica was too psychotic to be dissuaded, anyhow, and Raisin would just yelp and slink away bleeding, a victim to the core.
She was a house dog and a backyard dog and an occasional walk around the neighbourhood on a leash dog. She did not run free unless we were with her or she escaped from our sometimes-vulnerable fencing. She would never go far, though -- I mean, my mom wasn't there, right? I think if my mom had taken off, too (and she was probably tempted at times!), she'd have gotten further. But you could just walk a few houses down the block when you noticed Raisin was gone, and generally find her standing idly in someone's front yard -- slightly disoriented, shaking as usual, and very happy to see you.
She would let me dress her up now and then, but she didn't look as good in the doll clothes as the cats did.
One thing about Raisin that didn't seem to fit the rest of her profile was that she appeared to be a nymphomaniac. I say appeared because she didn't get a lot of opportunities, but if she saw other dogs, she'd get an amorous look in her eye. She actually managed to get knocked up when I was kindergartenish-age and nearly died giving birth to two gong-show puppies named Jacques and Wooly.
They were incredibly cute, but one of the two of them put some serious holes in my chin when I stuck my noggin into their basket one day. If you've ever had a puppy hanging off your face, you know this can be painful. I learned my lesson about startling dogs in that instant -- a tiny scar on my face remains to this day to remind me, too.
Her puppies were eventually given away -- she didn't have much of the mom about her, preferring glomming onto my mother again to nurturing her own young. I think they went on to live great lives with their adopted families, though, and Raisin too went on to live another gazillion years.
In addition to her pronounced lack of maternal skills, she was no guard dog -- we had three separate break-ins during the span of her life and she always emerged completely unharmed from the experiences, yapping happily and scurrying about when we'd come home to an open front door and ransacked rooms. She probably greeted the the thieves the exact same way, come to think of it.
I should tell you the things about Raisin that were great, in addition to her multiple foibles. She was a great travelling dog -- she'd curl up on a seat or in a footwell and sleep entire trips into oblivion. She was a good kid dog -- loathe to bite and tremblingly okay with affection. She was pretty healthy -- not too many trips to the vet were required to keep her in relatively tip-top shape. And she loved us -- oh, did she love us. My mother will probably never find another admirer so devoted as she (besides my dad, of course).
When she was nearing the end of her years, she developed some sort of skin condition that left her looking moderately scalped. It didn't appear to hurt her, but she lost her hair in clumps. We'd come across bits of fluff lying about the house as a sort of dermo - Hansel-and-Gretel-esque evidence of her comings and goings.
She also seemed to lapse into a mild (rather strong in her last days) dementia. We'd find her standing alone in rooms, staring into space, and would have to call her a few times to draw her back into our company. She'd always look so startled to see us, too -- like she'd forgotten there were people about until we were right in her face. But, to her credit, she did seem excited that we were there when she noticed.
When her time came to go, we were much more saddened by her passing than we thought we would be. That might sound strange -- why wouldn't we be sad? But it had been an inevitability for so long, we figured we'd be pretty prepared when the actual moment arrived.
My dad cried the most. And I never really asked her, but I wonder if my mom didn't feel like she'd lost her own shadow for a little while.
To this day, when I hear the animated click-clack of toenails on linoleum, I think of her. Or when I see some fluffy little mutt doing odd running circles in a park. Or when I eat bacon -- her favourite treat, dropped in bits to her during Saturday brunch. Or when I dream about having a dog.
I'd love a golden retriever or a lab, ideally. Maybe a Jack Russell, if I have to go smaller. I'm sure whatever dog I get will be beautiful and slightly spoiled.
But I'll never have another kook like Raisin. It's a rare joy in life to have known a dog that not only made you feel like you were her best friend, but made you feel really sane in comparison.
7:27:42 PM 
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