I thought I was ready for a dog

I sat in a bed of my neighbor’s peonies, stifling a sob. My four-year-old daughter called from the sidewalk, one foot propped on the deck of her scooter: “Are you OK, Mommy?” A moment earlier, I had watched her walk, teaching her to watch out for fallen branches from a recent storm. Behind me, our seven-month-old puppy, Max, sniffed the grass on the leash I had given him. It was a mistake. A big mistake.

At the sight of a squirrel bounding across my neighbor’s lawn, Max launched himself, all of his 60 pounds, over a brick retaining wall flanked by beautiful flowers. Since he was still attached to the end of the leash, I flew backward until my right thigh hit that same wall. I pulled myself together and told my daughter that everything would be okay—it was just a bruise. But once we reached the driveway back to our house, I lingered a few paces behind her and whispered very softly, “Sometimes I hate that dog.”

Two months before the squirrel incident, I watched Dr. Becky, the ubiquitous child psychologist, explain in an Instagram video why she wouldn’t get her kids a dog, even though they asked for one almost daily. It’s not that her kids wouldn’t benefit from a dog, she said. It’s that she was “at the peak of her abilities” in her life. “Knowing your limits as a parent is a sign of strength, never weakness.” Her words haunted me that month, as Max grew old enough to grab plates of bacon and spaghetti off the kitchen counter. Things really came to a head a few weeks later, when Max relieved himself twice in the kitchen in quick succession, triggering my toddler’s generous gag reflex. In short, there was a lot of mess to clean up, and I was starting to worry that I had taken on more than I could handle.

I have to say that I have been warned many times about how much work dogs can be, especially a high-energy, greedy breed like the Labrador Retriever. I grew up with two Labradors, Milo and Otis, who spent their time escaping the yard and eating things they shouldn’t. Despite all their mischief, Milo and Otis were great company, so much so that I always hoped that one day we would have a family dog.

Fortunately, I was so overwhelmed by my first decade of parenthood that I deflated our three children’s requests for a dog like a pin on a balloon. But after our youngest was three, my husband started sending me pictures of dogs. They were very cute, but I was still nervous about the responsibility. I knew the kids weren’t going to help me in any meaningful way. And even though my husband promised it would be “his dog,” going so far as to assume responsibility for all the nighttime waking, I realized that was like saying the kids would be my kids or his kids. We would all be involved at some point.

As my child’s primary caregiver, a stay-at-home mom, a flexible caregiver—whatever you want to call it—I had to manage the mental load: vet visits, worrying about whether what he was eating would kill him, struggling with the guilt of leaving him with me too long. Our toddler was just starting to sleep more regularly and was in preschool four days a week, which allowed me to have a workable routine that felt like a good balance between family obligations and my creative ambitions. My plate, it seemed, was just full enough: didn’t I deserve to enjoy it without being completely stressed out?

Despite all of these reservations, I wanted a dog and I found creative ways to ignore the little voice that told me it wasn’t the right time. It may not have been the best time, but was there ever a right time to drop everything and bring a new member into your family?

Just as I had studied literature on life milestones, sleep training, breastfeeding, and how to convince your own children to eat vegetables like French children, I found myself immersed in a book that monks had written about dogs. But just as parenting books can’t do justice to reality, dog books can’t really prepare you for what’s to come.

My life has changed more than I expected.

At first, Max ate three meals a day and needed constant supervision when he wasn’t in the cage. Toys, rocks, furniture—he wanted to eat everything. And despite my hovering like a helicopter, he had several accidents inside the house, as I expected. I was surprised to see the vet as often as I did: at least six times in those first two months. It seemed like Max was constantly suffering from stomach problems. The vets ran parasite tests and ordered X-rays to rule out infection or intestinal obstruction. I repressed any serious complaints, however, because I thought this phase would soon pass.

But with my schedule revolving around Max, time seemed to drag on. It was becoming difficult to do simple things like attend writing classes, exercise, or run back-to-back errands before picking up our youngest from school. And the morning routine was becoming even more chaotic. I would run around the yard with Max trying to convince him to pee while my toddler screamed inwardly because he didn’t want to wear socks. Who knows what my older kids were eating for breakfast or wearing to school? I was too busy cleaning up a broken Pyrex Max had knocked over or a puddle of pee he had made.

Months later, as I limped up the driveway after Max chased that squirrel, it became clear that I had overstepped my bounds and I felt so guilty for blaming him. None of what I felt was his fault. I worried that, like Dr. Becky, I was at my peak and had sacrificed what little time I had set aside for myself to find myself once again in the role of intensive caregiver. I had forgotten an important principle: Puppies are puppies, no matter how busy you are. And while they are busy doing that, they are going to test the weakest points of your entire family. Barely on time? You will surely be late by now. Laundry pouring out like lava from a mountain of couches? You will be under constant observation for a bowel obstruction. (Socks are particularly pernicious!) Max also exposed a personal weakness: I was unaware of my limits or unable to respect them. Just like with the school volunteer position and the too many extracurricular activities I had signed my kids up for, I had ignored the alarm bell that said: Not now. I would be more careful not to make the same mistake again.

Recently, my husband and I were sitting on the couch with Max curled up between us. As I snuggled up to the dog, my husband said, “See? You love him.” He was right. I love the way he greets us in the morning, the way his energetic needs drive us to go for walks in the evening when we otherwise wouldn’t. I love the way he plops down at my feet when I’m doing the dishes. But I never questioned the fact that I loved Max. The question was whether I was willing to make that sacrifice, that painful time, at that point in my life. I can say now that I probably wasn’t. But that’s also not the question.