Dog People

"I wish we had tails to wag," said Mr. Dearly.
— The 101 Dalmations, Dodie Smith, 1957

We've never been Dog People. Sure, I like dogs, but I've also been known to cozy up to a cat or two. Dog People don't understand cats — or Cat People. They're devious, loners, a mystery, and a fright. (Cats, that is — not Cat People.) I rarely hear that Cat People have an equal opinion of dogs and Dog People, but I can imagine their arguments against them...

They drool.
They chew.
They bark.
They poop.
They're man's best friend.

Or so we've all been told. My family will soon find out. Last night I ventured with Mom and Dad to the Milwaukee County Humane Society to have a look-see. My mom has had puppies pouncing through her daydreams for months now, and Dad finally caved. We ate a quick dinner and piled into the minivan — Dad moaned and groaned about traffic, roadwork, and the price at the pump... but once we arrived and saw all those darling little mugshots staring up at us, we were goners. "We're not coming home with a dog," my dad had said. "Wrong-o," I thought.

When we first saw Shmuley (that's right. Shmuley.), he was sleeping in his pillow-bed — and mostly lolling off one end. He eventually woke up and blinked in our direction, but no amount of coaxing or Altoid-rattling from beyond the glass could get him to venture to the door. We moved on to the next dog. And the next. Big dogs, little dogs, mixes, and mutts. A dog with one eye. A dog with caramel spots. A dog with bat-ears. We came back to Shmuley and asked for a meet-and-greet.

Shmuley cowered in the corner when we first walked through the door, but in minutes he had made the rounds from lap to lap — nuzzling my mom, licking my dad, and cuddling up to me. Did any of us even listen to the Humane Society expert give his little shpiel? Doubtful. But when our visit ended, we did take a moment to deliberate. Simply put: my parents were hooked. I left it up to them. As they were discussing the standard "it's a big responsibility...", a fellow-shopper stopped to ask which dog we were considering. "That one," we said, pointing at Shmuley. She paused, looked from us to the little dog, and said, "Your energies match up." I smiled (I love that "energy" stuff). "Don't take this the wrong way," she continued, "but you even look like each other." Mom chuckled, then said, "Really?"

"Really!," the lady exclaimed. "He belongs with you. I know, you think I'm the crazy lady — but I'm a Healer. I probably talk too much. But your energies... He's made for you!" The Healer was visibly thrilled at the thought of Shmuley belonging to us — the family with matching energies. Dad laughed and shot back, "They pay you to say that?" She mimicked his laughter, and apologized again for coming off crazy, then went on her way. "I love that 'energy' stuff," I said, backing the Healer up. But she didn't need backing up — not really. Because Shmuley was a done deal — Mom was smitten. Dad was sold.

Tonight I get to go home to a puppy. I get to find out what it's like to be one of the Dog People. Maybe Shmuley will drool. Maybe he'll chew or bark. He'll undoubtedly poop. But he might just become our new best friend. You said it just right, Mr. Dearly — I wish we all had tails to wag.