So, I’ve been home a little over a week now and it’s been lovely. There is nothing like the wonderful love of Mom and Dad to make any crazy person go sane (and from what I’m told, I’m a little more crazy and a little less sane). It’s nice to come back to home cooked Filipino food and be able to debate the merits of Twitter, American Idol and Dancing with the Stars with my Dad. We have dinners at the table and go for weekend errands together. They’re happy to have me home, I’m happy to be home and it all feels so nice. Mom, Dad, Dj. Family.
And then there’s the dog. Bear.
Technically, she’s my dog. I picked her up from the cargo depot at the airport when she was 8 weeks old and brought her to work with me everyday when she was a puppy. She peed on the carpet in the building stairwell and farted in the office that I shared with my boss and two colleagues (yes, that’s the sacrifice a Mama has to endure for her baby – her reputation!). I took her out at 4 AM every morning during potty training and tried to get her through the first level of obedience school, with little success. On paper, she graduated. In reality, four years later, she still won’t listen to the commands “stay” or “come” or “sit” unless there’s something in it for her. We bought her because she looked cute in the pictures and had no idea what we were getting ourselves into by getting a Shiba Inu for a first dog.
The American Kennel Club describes the breed as “fastidious, intelligent and independent”. They should be sued for false advertising. In real life, these dogs are “beyond stubborn, disobedient, selfish and aloof”. And can someone please do some due diligence to ensure that shibas aren’t really cats?! Because they sure act like cats – licking their paws, hating on dogs, plotting diabolical evil against their owners. Bear is like the girlfriend from hell – plays hard to get, never satisfied, never listens and so hyper-independent that you never really know where you stand. When I came home, opposite from the rest of the family’s reaction, she took one look at me and then pretended I didn’t exist.
Mom and Dad say she’s got issues because she’s a child of divorce. My then-boyfriend and I raised her for a year in our apartment before the child-damaging split. I think she’s got issues just. because. she’s. she.
When we go to the park, it seems like I’m the one playing fetch with myself. I’ll throw the ball, she chases after it and then sits there waiting for me to throw it again. When she enters the room, we all say “Hi Bear!” and she ignores us. At one point, I was actually concerned that she’d gone deaf because she was so unresponsive. Didn’t this dog learn her name like 4 years ago?! Isn’t it Pavlonian instinct to, at the very least, flinch when someone calls out at you?! Apparently not. And does she ever, just once, give us the small pleasure of watching her sleep while we’re all sitting in the living room on a quiet evening? Of course not. When she’s ready to sleep, she runs into the bedroom and hides under the bed. No goodnight. No thank you. End of story.
And yet, we are all so illogically in love with this dog. She can do no wrong. She is spoiled beyond measure. We give, give, give and she takes, takes, takes and somehow that makes us all smile. Masochism? Insanity? The thrill of the chase?! I do not know. She’s a real-life incarnation of the women who inspired that crazy book titled Why Men Marry Bitches
. Because supposedly women who play hard-to-get, who are stubborn, who are independent are oh so hot and sexy and lovable. Riiiiight.
Today, while I froze my ass off on the patio of Peet’s Coffee having a chai latte just so Bear could get out of the house for a few hours, I tried to take a picture of her cuteness. And just as the flash was about to go off, she turned away as if to say, “No pictures please. I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it huuuuuuuurts.”
