This is not to say that I like the fact that my life revolves around my dogs. They tell me what time I get up in the morning- a perpetual alarm clock of whining, crying, and subsequent urinating if I don't get up (although I have been known to sleep through fire alarms and fall asleep at house parties, the disturbing sound of a dog quietly peeing on the floor in another room can wake me from even the deepest sleep in a cold sweat). Dogs determine when I run errands, when I go to the movies, how long I can stay out with friends, and even when I go to bed. They dictate what I wear, since what's the point of wearing normal clothes when they're just going to be covered in fur and drool within 30 seconds?
Having two huge dogs in the city is hard, but the good outweighs the bad. They force me to get up off the couch and get outside; when 100 pounds of dog is racing and jumping around you on the couch, the motivation to go for a walk suddenly appears like a fairy godmother. They also make me laugh all the time (when I'm not yelling, that is....). I love their wrinkly faces smashed into the couch, their muscular little bodies contorted into horribly uncomfortable looking positions in a pile on the bed, the snoring that sounds suspiciously like fighting pterodactyls, and the swishy full body wiggles that greet me at the door. I think it's hilarious that whether I've been gone for 3 days or 3 hours I get the same "Thank God you've come HOME!!!" reaction when I appear.
Having a dog means making saccrifices, but I don't mind. In a way, they are making saccrifices too, to be with me. They live in a tiny one bedroom in New York with two silly humans. They put up with us, all of our crap, and still love us with an unconditional and exuberant amount of joy.
