I was never much of a pet person. Our family had a brief fling with a dog, but Lucky bit a neighbor’s hand, and had to be sent back to the “farm.” Now that I think about it, Lucky was actually the name of our bird, who was the first to teach me about heaven, when, one day after school, I found him on his back with his legs up, stiff as a board. We buried him in the backyard. Ever since, I’ve been dander free.
Along the way, I learned to be a pet diplomat, by never ignoring my friends’ animals, and lavishing attention on the dog or cat of any man I was interested in. But my heart wasn’t in it.
And then, I adopted Lily and Rose, and fell head over paws in love with them. (See what happens when you’re smitten. You get corny, and show their photos to everyone. Incidentally, that’s Lily. Isn’t she precious?) Now, I can sit for hours and watch them sleep. I arrange play dates, take them to the vet, put away their toys, wipe their butts. I could go on about my beautiful girls, why I’m happier because of them, and how a lonely Saturday night isn’t lonely anymore. But I gotta go. Rose is barking, and it’s time for her walk.