There is nothing in this world more important to me than my family.  I want them to be happy.  I work hard, both professionally and at home, to try and give them what they need and want to attain that happiness.  I try to cook good meals, provide reasonable entertainment, and indulge their whims and interests.  I’m open to their feedback, because if they can think of some other way I could add to their happiness, I want to know about it.  To try to provide it.

But there is at least one thing that I cannot do.

It’s not for lack of trying.  I have tried, consciously and willfully, and can’t manage it.  It will go down on my permanent record as a failure, in my motherhood, my wifehood, perhaps my very humanity.  I have accepted defeat.

What is this failure, this fault, this unforgiveable offense?

I do not, cannot, like dogs.

I don’t.  It’s not a fear or deeply rooted hatred.  I can tolerate them, if I go to someone’s house and they have a dog there.    I don’t mind the copious and constant stream of dogs and their walkers that march past our front yard throughout the day.  I can even have them in my house, as guests, if they are accompanied by their humans.  I can pet, and smile, and comfortably coexist with another person’s canine.

I just don’t want one, myself.  I cannot imagine having my own dog, cannot draw a mental picture of my life which includes both personal happiness and a permanent canine resident.  I tried once; not long after we moved to our current house, we went to the local pound to scout out the options.  I researched breeds online and read about crate-training.  I seriously considered bringing home a puppy.  And then I realized what I actually wanted was another baby, and that the idea of living with a dog full-time made me anxious and uncomfortable. 

I don’t understand dogs.  I don’t feel the same pack mentality, the same dependence on attention and interaction on a constant basis.  I enjoy being social, I seek out the company of others, but I also harbor a deep need for solitude and independence. 

We have a cat, and her level of interaction suits me.  She comes out for attention, sometimes more than I would prefer, but also spends long periods of time hiding in the bedroom thinking cat thoughts.  (Ha ha, cat thoughts, aren’t I funny?)  Once upon a time, she held a much higher place on my totem pole of priorities, but then I had children and considered it a good day when every creature in the house that was smaller than me got fed before dark.  She coped.  Someday, I would like to have more than one cat, but not until our current one has reached her expiration date; she is deeply territorial, though you wouldn’t know it unless you tried bringing another cat into the picture.  Then the rampant peeing and misery makes it rather painfully obvious.

But a dog?  Not for me.  Especially because my immediate life plans involve having another baby, returning to a full-time stay-home situation, and possibly starting up a B&B.  It would be me, in the house, most of the time, and so there would be very little mystery around the bulk of the care and maintenance of any animals in the house.  Including hypothetical dogs.  Which would bark and shed and slobber and invade my personal space and chew and smell like dog and generally upset my inner balance.   

Maybe I’m just too lazy for a dog.  Maybe I lack sufficient empathy and open-heartedness.  I can accept this.

So, by virtue of maintaining my own personal sanity – because, seriously, I don’t think I could remain fundamentally sane with a dog in the house – I am making my husband and daughter unhappy. 

They want a dog.  Not now, they assure me, but in a year or two.  At the next house.  In my dream house, which will be old and big and within walking distance to the ocean.  Just think of the delight of watching a dog run on the beach, or leap to catch a Frisbee.  Imagine the homey satisfaction of knowing we had a living alarm system, a warm and snuggling weight while we sit by the fire.  Bask in the knowledge that we could get regular exercise and have a reliable destination for table scraps.

Yeah, not so much.  My brain goes immediately to the messes that I would have to scoop up, on that beach, and the daner of a dog’s teeth within Frisbee-distance of my babies’ fingers.  To the liability of a big dog (because, thankfully, no one is even considering a tiny dog) at a functional Bed &  Breakfast, or the irritation of a wet dog nose rubbing on any of my body parts as I try to sleep.  To the misery of interrupted sleep and ongoing effort for a creature that isn’t likely to grow up and move out.

So, in an effort to be fair and aboveboard, I’ve made my feelings clear.  At first, I was flippant and reflexive in my responses: “Not in my house.”  Somehow Willem took this as a signal to unleash (see?  the dog references, they’re everywhere) a steady flow of sarcasm upon me, finding ways to inject canine humor into mundane situations.  Lots of mundane situations.  Daily. 

So I’ve tried to explain my position, to clarify my thoughts, to expose my deep core of antipathy to the mere thought of cohabitating with a dog.  And, I’m told, I’m closing a door, crushing dreams, creating unhappiness, because I’m not willing to entertain the idea that maybe, decades down the road, after Willem has retired and has nothing to do but reflect on his glory days, maybe then I will have changed my basic discomfort.  He acts as though my use of the word “never” has taken some precious, private dream away from him, and maybe it has.  I feel badly about that, because I want to do things that make him happy.  But I also want to avoid misleading him, and playing along with a “Yes, maybe someday” attitude seems unfair and untruthful.

Because I just can’t imagine, ever, wanting a dog.