Illustration by Catherine Chan
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I’ve never felt comfortable around four-legged animals and was never interested in joining the ranks of a pet owner. But dog-gone-it! I’ve been dog-napped by my grown son. He didn’t use animal-control netting or a getaway car; he used a five-year-old poodle with a laser-stare capable of cutting diamonds.
Given how easily I startle, living under the same roof as a dog was a ridiculous notion. When the kids were young, I wasn’t interested in cleaning-up and potty training a pet. My son tried repeatedly to change my mind. “When are we picking up the bunny rabbit?” he once asked, changing tactics.
My discomfort with animals dates to childhood. My siblings told me I ran screaming and clambered up a picnic table when an older sister taunted, “Doggie is going to eat you!” I was taller than the yappy canine but I believed her. Her hilarious joke was my early trauma.
Canine fear followed me until adulthood, weaving in and out like a menacing shadow. With my firstborn, I recall a spring walk that haunts me still. My daughter was tucked into a snuggly carrier against my chest, her soft, cotton-wrapped legs dangling against my body. The scent of damp earth was refreshing, yet I felt a cold wet pressure against my thigh. A large Doberman, his coat sleek as a racehorse, decided I wasn’t strolling briskly enough. His snout gave me a muscular authoritative nudge right off the sidewalk. I froze, my heart pounded in my chest, my teeth chattered. Hands trembling, I hooked my fingers around my infant’s ankles, protecting her should Mr. Doberman chomp on her delicate limbs. While I didn’t detest dogs, a primal realization crystalized in the crisp air – I was at the mercy of those four legs and a set of teeth!
So over the years, I never contemplated dog ownership. Too much work, too messy and too stressful, I professed.
But just before Christmas, my now young-adult son adopted his first dog. Since he’s moved out, I don’t see him as much. And since I didn’t want him to eat-and-run to let his dog out after Christmas dinner, I surprised myself and invited Murphy, too.
“Can I?” he asked, perplexed by my willingness to let a dog roam my home. “He’s a really good boy,” he claimed. “More of a couch potato.”
Apprehension lingered. I’m five-feet tall and a large dog jumping on me would likely knock me to the ground like a first-rate boxer.
“Does he have doggie-socks?” I asked, imagining snowy paw prints trailing across the carpet.
“He can wipe his paws at the door,” my son insisted.
Even now I cannot say whether my guard was down or whether my son’s excitement influenced me, but Murphy was welcomed to the family.
If I’m honest, I have to admit he’s been a courteous bundle of curls. Murphy has collapsed the steadfast dog wall that I constructed over the decades. He’s been more respectful than some other house guests. This super-sized poodle rarely barks, has excellent posture when he sits quietly, and is so obedient I suspect he likes structure and social graces – same as me. I’ve had dinner guests more whinny than Murphy. And unlike a bad roommate, he hasn’t left any messes for me to clean up. Murphy doesn’t beg for food, criticize my décor choices or hold me to unattainable expectations. When he gazes upward, his big brown eyes are like delicious drops of melted chocolate and, in turn, melt me.
His hypoallergenic, velour-like coat is a warm quilt draped over my knee when he nuzzles closer. The sharp edgy memory of that childhood picnic table assault fades with every swish of his fluffy tail.
I’m as surprised by my reaction to him as my children are shocked. Seeing me pet the docile poodle lounging at my feet, my daughter murmured, “Seeing mum cuddle with Murphy – why it’s a Christmas miracle!”
“You’re breaking in your mother,” I told my son. Secretly, I recognize that it’s my motherly instincts that have come into play. Watching my son interact with his sweet pooch makes me happy. It’s the ultimate parenting goal to stand at the sidelines and observe your children’s happiness in life.
But I’m astute enough to note my new affection is not an intention to adopt a pet of my own. I’m at the grandparent stage, happy to enjoy the stolen moments, making memories and at the end of the day handing back the full-time care to the real parent.
For now, Murphy has wagged his tail into my home and heart. A good first impression goes a long way, even in dog years.
Desiree Kendrick lives in Edmonton.