canine concession

I've blogged before about my insistence that we are entirely too much of a dog-obsessed culture. Man's best friend should be human, not a drooling smelly canine who eats the table leftovers and falls for the fake ball-throw every time (unless your human friend drools and smells, at which point you should just say hey, dude, get a hold of yourself).

But this past weekend while visiting a human friend in d.c., I found myself swooning for her Cocker Spaniel roommate. By the end of the second day I was even wrestling Barney for his ball right out of his mouth, a task previously considered absolutely beyond my capacity. I don't know what came over me, but the combination of his ridiculously soft black fur, oversized paws, and bark that sounded like me whining for another piece of cake melted my heart. But still, I'm hesitant to say I've been made a believer. I take the same stance with dogs as I do with children: sure, their are diamonds in the rough that make you oooh and aww and feel yourself suddenly inspiried. But then there are the other 99% of encounters that leave you covered in unwanted snot/slobber, hearing impaired from excessive cries for attention, and exhausted from telling it to get out of the cookie jar.

I've always considered myself more of a cat person, for their sheer predictability of self-reliance. Cats do not need a mother, nor do they need a best friend at all times. In fact, Sloane Crosley's essay for the New York Times was a hot emailed item to all my dog-washed friends. And while I'm currently without any sort of non-human housemate, I can see myself buying friendship in the next year or so. We'll see which camp I commit to.