I miss my German shepherd. I’m a dog guy. They’re good company and the house felt safer having four-legged security. But I do have a dog, kind of. It was a package deal when I got married. “Flower.” And as you’d surmise from the name, she’s bunny-like small, needing an escort to venture into the yard for a duty-run. This is a critter that shivers, peeking both ways out the door for an all-clear before stepping into the daunting jungle that is my manicured back yard. But when you’re three-pounds-tiny I suppose even robins and squirrels are terrifying. (In case you still haven’t conjured a complete mental image, this is an animal that jumps and runs to the next room and hides behind a chair when the toaster pings.) But she’s cute. And like naughty toddlers, cuteness helps me overlook the fact that she wears a pink diaper and smells like an old sneaker.
As a dog owner I try to be a good adoptive “parent.” After all, pets are like little kids, needing attention, care, love, and patience. I get it. What I don’t get is the recent pet role-reversal I’m seeing now everywhere I go. What started as service animals for the handicapped has morphed into “emotional support animals” that supposedly help the unchallenged cope with the stresses of life; you know, like going on a plane ride or getting a burger, calmed by their “support hamster.” And here I thought “safe space” coloring books and Play-Doh were the nerve-calming antivenin for daily ravages endured by the millennial snowstorm.