"Oh my god, oh my god! You're like one of those terrible teen moms on MTV!" exclaimed my friend Gizele when I explained why Miles, my roommate that woof-ed, was away for the summer or ever. I paused to contemplate the unsued bowls, fetid bed and furry corner that all belonged to him, realizing Gizele was right. I was a reality show waiting to happen.
Dogged by deadlines, too much travel and a sometimey bank account I'd decided months before to drop Miles off at my mom's house in Atlanta. I live in Washington. She pretended to be put out at first, but pretty soon I was getting calls like these, "Let me tell you what he did at the dog park today." and "What's wrong with pouring bacon grease over his food. He liiiikes it."
Once she even put him on the phone, commanding a dog Cesar Millan can't wait to get his hands on to "Talk to your mommy!" Three tortured seconds of silence ensued. She claimed Miles would run around the living room looking for me when he heard my voice. What she didn't know is that I never said anything.
It was too much! I was a bad mother, enjoying sleeping in past Miles' regular 9 am walk time and not having to rush home in the middle of happy hour lest his tiny bladder explode all over my expensive stuff. He needed constant unselfishness from me. Consistent giving a care.
"You young girls nowadays, you'd rather get a puppy than a baby." That's what my mom said when I first told her about the newest addition to my previously short list of responsibilities. Heretofore it'd been all about me. Then Miles happened and we were very happy and then I couldn't "have it all." I couldn't Sarah Jessica Parker my way into pet ownership. So, I pawned him off on my mom -- for a time.
But eventually the memory of this face did me in.
Miles has been back with me since April. God, that makes it sound like the state came in an got 'im. Anyway, I'm trying to make up for lost time. Also, I'm on a mission to destroy Boo, the world's cutest dog according to CNN and anybody who hasn't met Miles yet. Okay, not destroy destroy, but at least knock down a paw. So Miles has been hitting the town, going to street festivals, licking babies and posing for camera phones. Best of all he's just been home, funking up his corner of the living room with all that unconditional love and neediness I wasn't ready for until it wasn't there anymore.
Last weekend I spent upwards of an hour talking to a total stranger about Miles' poop, dog parks with gravel, assholes with chocolate and those crazy people who obsess over their cats, can you imagine? It was a terrifying glimpse at what life will look like when I decide to spawn. Dance Moms around the globe will be happy to know that I'll be joining them behind the curtains one day because I'm now one of those parents. The ones who are so taken with the awesomeness that is half their genetic material (or maybe not) that they can't shut up about it. Hence this post.
What's funny is that my mom still thinks Miles is somehow displacing my previous latent maternal instincts instead of encouraging them. For now, what she doesn't know won't hurt me. For his part Miles, the black pug the people of my block refer to as "Eh, there goes that dog from Men in Black again," is content with being my canine life coach.