Quod erat demonstrandum (dogs are worth it)
From the Pioneer Local (Chicago).
Quod erat demonstrandum (dogs are worth it)
April 17, 2008
BY RICK MOSER Contributor
There's a sign in my sister-in-law Julie's house proclaiming, Dogs Are Worth It. I think this a premise worth examining, as the inherent defensiveness of the statement conjures the contrary view and anticipates the challenge.
I feel sufficiently qualified to conduct this exercise, as my own home revolves around two dogs: Nattie, a venerable golden retriever of almost 13 years, and Phoebe, a bichon frise of six human years who will forever be a spiritual puppy. (There is also said to be a cat in the house, but that's the subject of another column if the rumor is ever confirmed).
Let us first consider the "it" of this proposition. What is the implied tradeoff that requires the assertion of worth?
Is "it" the financial burden of the dog life? Let me count the ways. The delicate noses of my housemates (the human female ones, anyway) require that the girls (I refer here to the canine ones, but the same applies to both species) be groomed frequently. Price: About $100 per month. Lisa assures me this is a bargain. One has one's doubts.
We want them to eat healthy, of course (someone in the house should), so they go through about one big bag of the good stuff per month. Price: $45. Then there's kenneling when we go on vacation (and I use the term loosely, as they're not consigned to some grim, chain-link enclosure, but get what amounts, to them, a spa vacation, staying in their groomer's home, where they can enjoy the lifestyle to which they've become accustomed). Price: About $500. Add in health care, accessories (collars, treats, the stuff they destroy), and this part of "it" is not inconsiderable.
Is "it" the hassle factor? The toll here is much greater than the dollars. There's the trail by which we can track Nattie through the house after she's gone mudding in the yard, or the melted pools after she's enjoyed a cooling, polar-bear tumble in the snow. There's the gale of barking that follows the detection of any other life form in the neighborhood — from real threats, like the traditional postman coming up the walk, to perceived ones, like the old couple strolling on the other side of the street, or the doorbell on TV. This drill inevitably begins with Phoebe's piercing yip, and leads to poor old Nattie struggling to her feet to join her at the door, generally for nothing at all, except the declaration that they're here.
There's the hair everywhere (Nattie's), the all-about-me demand for constant petting (Phoebe's), the stalking of the dinner table (Nattie), the negative learning curve (Phoebe), and the dragging you out of bed at 5 a.m. to let them out. This is in addition to the destruction of spontaneity and the ability to just go out and do what you want all day because they need food, water and walking, to say nothing of the enslavement to their alimentary lives and the byproducts thereof.
So, the "it" side of the equation is pretty full. Let us turn now to the question of "worth". These items are less easily categorized. It pretty much all falls under "intangible".
There's the fact that Nattie actually knows when you need comforting, and inevitably makes you feel better when she comes to your aid. In the presence of food — particularly pizza, a grand passion we share — she throws off the years that hobble her more all the time, and becomes a puppy again, frisking about with ears perked and tail wagging.
There's the fact that Phoebe greets me at the door every day when I come home — like Lisa did when we were first married; like the kids did when they were little — running frantically between the front door, where she can see my approach, and the garage door where I'll soon enter, daily inspiring a kind of happiness that would appear to have no complement in the human world. And, circus dog that she is — the American Kennel Club aptly describes bichons as "a merry breed" — she's 100 percent guaranteed to make me laugh every day, not just on those special occasions when she treats us to the bichon tear and runs hell-bent-for-leather (what, exactly, does that phrase mean?) in circles, going nowhere for no purpose but with absolute urgency to get there.
In other words, they're just like everyone else you love: Infuriating and delightful, frustrating and fulfilling, a pain in the neck and completely indispensable. I can't help but notice how similar all these attributes (and the feelings they inspire) are to those of the other burdens we wouldn't live without: Our children. Neither is really a very practical investment. But they're the best ones we can make, those intangible returns being the ones that ultimately sustain us the most.
Our dogs absolutely do exact costs that sometime seem insupportable. They come with a price in dollars, in effort, in annoyance. We have to give them a lot; but the things they give in return — love, companionship, insight into life and what it's about (if anything) — make us more human and, to complete the Mastercardism, that's priceless. and, ultimately, Q.E.D., so very worth all of it.
Rick Moser lives, works and gripes in the northern 'burbs. Reach him at thissuburbanlife@hotmail.com.
