I want a yard with a dog in it

I know now what it is that I want in life.

I really want a dog. Not just any dog, a Border Collie. For that, I also will need a yard.

Perhaps that isn’t the right thought to begin this scribble that no one will read with. Maybe you, my imaginary reader, wants to know more about my past to give yourself some foundation or background to work with. More than likely you don’t care but if you do I have some sad news, I’m not going to oblige you with a case history.

Alright, a brief one: I was born, I grew up and worked a bunch of jobs I didn’t like for very long and then some heavy shit happened and I dropped out of the world.

I woke up a few days ago and decided that not doing anything is great for a while but as the days behind me pile up and the days ahead shrink I begin to wonder what I’ll be wishing I could talk about at the rest home. Certainly “I watched a lot of TiVo” won’t fly for very long with the other residents. I do watch some pretty good stuff on TiVo, though.

No, a man needs goals. This lesson would perhaps be best learned by the time I was thirteen or something, but that didn’t happen. For many folks that might be super job for the super house and super car. For a time I held this wish too, but I soon discovered I don’t like sacrificing all my time to get nice things that I can’t enjoy because I work so darn hard for them. I could also be lazy as hell. I think the answer is a little of column A and a lot of column B.

I’m tired of being a lot of column B.

I could go on for days about all the why’s and perhaps over time I will take a closer look at them, but it’s late and I promised myself I would start this thing to keep me motivated a week ago. So enough with the self indulgent diary writing for now.

I want a dog. I really want a dog. The problem, you see, is that I live in an apartment. I live in one not because I enjoy it, but because that’s all I – all we – can afford. Someone somewhere in the greater Seattle area decided we were all millionaires and can buy three-quarter million dollar ramblers. They made this decision a few years ago and didn’t really tell anyone why. This trickles down to apartments, too. I paid $700 for a one bedroom five years ago, and now this same place is close to $1300. We could get cheap apartments or cheapish houses if we really wanted to. All we have to do is move out of King County and commute for 80 minutes each way every day.

As fantastic as that sounds, I think I’ll pass.

Sure there are dogs that do really well in apartments, little dogs that yap and fit in handbags; little dogs that my demon cat could eat whole and then poop out onto our pillow cases while we are at work. My grandmother had one of these, some kind of poodle/hellhound mix. I guess these days it would be called a satandoodle. (What the hell is up with doodles anyway?) I’ve known people my whole life that had little dog breeds and while I don’t hate all of them (a Jack Russell my best friend had called “Vuarnet” was a pretty cool little scamp) I don’t like most of them.

I want a buddy, a pal that will go get things I throw and bring it back to me. I want a dog that I can teach a new trick to as soon as he masters an old one. I want a dog that I won’t feel ashamed of at the dog park. I want a dog that will go WOOF and not yap-yap-yap. I want a dog that I have to go walking with morning noon and night (remember, I’m tired of being a lot of column B)

My girlfriend (whom I shall call Lady Heather from now on because I can), wants to have a kid. Suddenly our goals have merged in a strange way. A house is better for kids and coincidentally my future dog. I can’t in good conscience bring a kid into the world working where I work and living where I live. I also can’t put a Border Collie into a one bedroom apartment. I would be asking for chewed up furniture and dog pee in my sheets. I would DESERVE it, too.

Don’t think I want one because just because of the looks, or their brains, or because I hung out under scotch fueled hangovers while watching Animal Planet Dog Championships and a thousand agility and disc dog competitions. While those are all good reasons just on principle alone for many, I decided to do some research.

I know what is expected of me for this dog. I’ve been reading about them, TiVo-ing anything involving them, and talking to any owner I see with one. This isn’t some whacko New Year resolution from hell to reshape my life; this has been boiling up in my head for three years now. I want a dog, I want THAT dog, and to have it I need a yard. Yards come with houses so I need one of those too. I need a better job for that, and somewhere in all of that Lady Heather wants a kid. The kid, I’ve been told, is easy to make happen, the dog not so much - at least not in a responsible way. Considering my personal ethics, placing so little weight on a human being I might make up and yet altering my life to get a dog is enough to make my head explode into a shower of pink mist and pizza.

I eat a lot of pizza so I suspect that I’m primarily made of pizza dough and toppings.

But there it is. I have a goal. Now I need to go get it done.