If you looked at my Google search history from September 2019, you would find something along the lines of: What dog has the shortest lifespan? That pains me slightly to admit now. At the time, my girls were 10 and 8 and had been banging on about getting a dog for God knows how long. I wanted a pool. We live in Texas, so I still maintain mine was the more rational household investment. But given the choice between a pool and a dog, they chose the dog, which still feels like an extraordinary lapse in judgment. Eventually, I agreed. But I had conditions. One: I picked the breed. Two: I picked the name. I wasn't prepared to spend the next decade shouting "Princess Pickles!" across Zilker Park. Three: it needed to have a relatively short lifespan. My longest commitment had been 12 years to my ex-husband, although I suspected a dog would be considerably more bearable. But I digress. The real reason I caved was the research. Everything I read said dogs were good for children, particularly children dealing with divorce and all the upheaval that comes with it. That was difficult to argue with. Because, to be clear, I really, really did not want a dog. I didn't want the responsibility, the expense or another living creature permanently invading my personal space. But apparently motherhood occasionally requires sacrifice. The pool would have been lovely. |
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And so began the online puppy hunt. I'd settled on a mini Goldendoodle for practical reasons. They average around 20 pounds, don't shed, and I'd grown up with poodles and liked them. During my extensive lifespan research, I'd learned that, generally, the larger the breed, the shorter the life, but I didn't particularly fancy having something the size of a small horse roaming around my house. I found a puppy on a website somewhere near Waco. His name was Amos and he was, without question, the cutest one on the site. Unfortunately, somebody had already reserved him, so I called the breeder and put in what, in my line of work, we'd call a backup offer. And would you believe it, the first buyer walked. Now, when a house comes back on the market, the questions are obvious. What scared them off? What's wrong with it? What did they see that we don't? I asked none of these questions. Instead, I popped Amos into my online shopping cart, which felt like a very "only in America" way to buy a dog, paid my deposit and, about six weeks later, drove with the girls to collect him. A level of due diligence that would get me fired by any sensible client. I'd slowly started coming around to the idea of another little body in my house and, in the weeks leading up to getting him, fantasized about a beautiful puppy bounding toward us in slow motion, tongue out and tail wagging. That vision lasted until we were handed what looked like a tiny chicken. No bounding. No wagging. Barely any blinking. Just ridiculously long toenails and fur that looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. I remember looking at him and thinking, Oh dear.… Is he quite the full ticket? Seven years later, the evidence remains inconclusive. We renamed him Percy, after my granddad, who was the greatest man on earth. His full name is Percival Montgomery D'Bracy, a name far more dignified than his behavior. He also responds to Rat, Nugget, Nugrat, Nugs, Turd, Turdle and His Fatness. In hindsight, Princess Pickles would have been fine. |
The Restaurant Critic |
The great irony of owning a supposedly hypoallergenic dog is that Percy himself appears to be allergic to almost everything. Wheat. Chicken. Turkey. Eggs. Dairy. Grass. Dust. Most of Texas. Feeding time has always been a challenge, which I put down to the poodle in him. One day he'll happily eat what's put in front of him; the next he'll take one sniff, actually snort at it and walk away. Occasionally he'll try to flip the bowl over, which feels unnecessarily personal. Kibble, evidently, is particularly offensive. I've watched him take a piece into his mouth and then heard a little "pip" as he spits it onto the floor. Then another. "Pip." Not dissimilar to a 12-year-old boy firing spitballs. And yet this same animal, whilst out walking, can spot a dried-up, flattened dead frog on the pavement and inhale the entire thing before I've even registered what's happening. This stings, because I'm a feeder. When the girls clear their plates, it makes me happier than it reasonably should. With Percy, that almost never happened, and for years I longed for it. Then one of my daughters mentioned that her friend's mum cooks for their dogs, and I thought, well, I can do that. How hard can it be? Quite hard, as it turns out. His first home-cooked menu involved 90/10 organic beef, beef liver, 14 other ingredients, several supplements and an irritating amount of precision. What sounds like “I'll just make the dog some food” somehow takes over the entire kitchen. And, of course, he loved it. For the first time in years, he wasn't inspecting his dinner like a restaurant critic. He devoured the whole lot like it was the dead frog. Finally, His Fatness was clearing his plate. For a while, it worked. But then the rashes came back. Turns out he's allergic to beef too. Which is how I now find myself buying fresh cod from Central Market for an 18-pound animal who turns his nose up at kibble but will happily eat roadkill. The cod, thankfully, appears to be working beautifully. His skin is clearing up and, perhaps most importantly, he is no longer, as my deeply inappropriate father would say, “shitting through the eye of a needle.” When Percy's stomach isn't happy, he'll squat approximately 40 times on a walk. After the first few there's literally nothing left to pick up, so I spend the rest of it wondering whether someone on Nextdoor is watching through the window preparing a post about the woman with the small fluffy dog who apparently never cleans up after him. There's nothing there, Barbara. |
The Scary Scary Nothing |
Percy has somehow managed to appoint himself both household criminal and Head of Security. On the criminal side, he steals hairbands directly out of your hair, empties bins across the floor and has a particular fondness for feminine products, which he removes from the box and shreds into tiny pieces. Thankfully unused, which I feel needs saying. As Head of Security, he takes his role extremely seriously. He escorts me to the bathroom and stays for the duration. Elsewhere, his duties involve suddenly freezing, staring into the garden, then charging outside barking furiously at... Absolutely nothing. Ever. This performance is known in our house as the Scary Scary Nothing. Percy will patrol the garden for a while and eventually come prancing back inside with his chest puffed out, giving a little gruff half-bark. Naturally, we indulge him. We tell him what a brave boy he is, thank God he was there and make a tremendous fuss about how he's once again saved his ladies from certain death. He is, as a result, insufferably smug. I got Percy because I thought he'd be good for the girls. They were little, we'd been through a divorce, and I thought a dog might give them some extra comfort and security. What I hadn't factored in was what he would become to me. This is the dog I didn't want. The dog who arrived looking like a tiny chicken. The dog who costs a fortune, is allergic to almost everything, creepily watches me pee, commits low-level household crime and now requires fresh cod. He is, in short, an absolute pain in the arse. Which is rather unfortunate, because somewhere along the way he became the little ratbag I love beyond all reason. I suppose that's the funny thing about commitment. Before you let something into your life, all you can think about is what it's going to cost you. The time. The money. And, most importantly in my case, how long I'm going to be stuck with him. Then, if you're lucky, you stop wondering how long you have to do it for and start wishing you could have more time. So, about that Google search from September 2019. I withdraw the question. |
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If you happen to know the average lifespan of a mini Goldendoodle, please keep it to yourself. Until next month, Gemma |
P.S. - If someone you know is thinking about buying or selling, I'd be grateful for the introduction. I'll take care of them. |
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524 N. Lamar Blvd, Suite 204 Austin, Texas 78703 |
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