Why I Love Dogs: An Indecipherable Puzzle.

After many years of therapy and pop-psychology book consumption, I can’t really tolerate human narcissists any more.  I don’t care about their tragic self doubts, their need for praise or the roots of their pain. I’m done watching them see-saw back and forth between grandiosity and humiliation. Yet I willingly overlook every obvious behavioral red flag commonly associated with narcissism and the self absorbed when it comes to my love for my dogs.

It’s not difficult to spot the way they insist on being the center of attention every single moment we spend together. And though I willingly agree to put their needs first, not one of them has ever reciprocated by bothering to make a single inquiry about my feelings or my health. After years of spending untold hours making sure they are happy, it’s embarrassing to admit that not one of them has any idea what I do for a living. Or has exhibited any interest in learning to speak more than a single word of English. The gaslighting that goes on in all areas of our relationship is off the charts.

Yet every day I watch myself voluntarily and without complaint reinforcing the kind of narcissistic conduct that I would never tolerate from any member of my own species. If my brother woke me up at 5:30 AM by jumping on top of me, then continued to stand there on my bed, looming over me, yelling “I’m ready for breakfast. I’m starving. Are you just going to lay there sleeping forever?” it would not cause me to smile to myself. I would definitely not find his actions adorable.

If  my grandmother sat down on the floor beside me while I was in the middle of writing, firmly placing her head on my knee, and then intermittently letting out a loud moan of agony intended to remind me that I need to drop everything I was doing and take her out for a walk, I can assure you that I would want to spend less time with her, not more.

In the past, when I have had problematic house guests who upset my routine with their incompatible bedtimes and irritating menu requests, I always made sure to thwart any plans they had to stay with me again. But where my dogs are concerned, I not only overlook everything they do to make my daily life more difficult but also allow them to remain with me indefinitely, free of charge, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live. In fact, I insist on it. And I do this knowing that each of them have a very exacting set of meal time specifications, several of which are expensive and require me to make separate inconvenient shopping trips.

The irony is that I continue to make exceptions for my dogs that I would never make for their human counterparts. As you might imagine, I would NOT find it tolerable if any of my human dinner guests stood around in the kitchen while I was cooking, staring, drooling and pleading with me to give them a morsel of food. And if, after I offered them a little bite of something, just to quiet them down, their reaction was to gulp whatever I’d given them down in a single swallow without chewing, then gaze up at me making whimpering sounds as streams of whatever they’d just eaten dripped off their noses and chins, I would not be moved to say “awww” and then go grab my phone and take their pictures. (Unless, I suppose, I had a just reason to seek revenge.)

What I am trying to convey is that, when taken at face value, my endless passion for my dogs puzzles even me. Obviously there is no quid pro quo and no reciprocity. In fact, to repay me for all my kindnesses, one of my dogs (who shall remain nameless) tried, repeatedly, and without remorse, to literally dissemble my house. Once, when I left him alone, he ate past the wood interior in the living room and was working on deconstructing the dry wall by the time I returned and could stop him. In seeking to find a solution for what I was told was “separation anxiety” I briefly considered having his teeth removed. He also ate several window screens, and caused me to hire someone to put metal sleeves on all the door jams. The man who did the work for me looked at me quizzically as he was sinking concrete under the fence in the backyard so that the dog couldn’t tunnel out. “You must really want this dog to stick around.” he sighed as he looked at me with an expression that indicated he thought I was feeble minded. For once, I couldn’t think of a response.

It’s hard to explain why I put up with endless amounts of not only unnecessary expenses but also personal embarrassment caused by the inconsiderate behavior of my dogs. I can not imagine tolerating any of these intrusions from a human being. If my husband insisted on busting in through the bathroom door and running up to kiss me every single time I sat down on the toilet, then stood there staring at me, mesmerized, I would not only find it unnerving but would immediately make an appointment with a therapist where it would become a central and never-ending topic of discussion. And yet, when one of my dogs behaves like this, I somehow found a way to see it as kind of endearing.

The only explanation I can think of for my own behavior is that my attachment to my dogs has caused me to accept the fact that because they are entirely different species, we are largely unknowable to each other. So I fill the void of my incomprehension by supplying adorable motives to their actions, no matter how disruptive or peculiar. they are on the surface. When I walked in the door, my dog Beau was so glad to see me that he would pick up a stuffed animal and run under the dining room table.  I would laugh and explain to anyone near by that he did this because he was happy I was home. But to be honest…if I saw a child do that when his mother walked into the room, I’d have no choice but to call Child Protective Services.

The weirdest thing of all, I suppose, is that I plan to continue to looking past all of their incomprehensible and sometimes distasteful shortcomings because I am continually thrilled that I am allowed to have another species for a roommate. Sure, there does appear to be a communication gap so huge it’s actually a communication chasm. But then again, I have had human roommates with unsavory habits who, on balance, were immeasurably worse. After all, who really ever understands their human roommates? In most cases, who would want to bother?

Meanwhile, there is the good side too. It’s nice to be reminded that when the day hits a low point, all that is really required to push everything back into shape is a cookie.