Welcome to my dog hotel. Going on vacation? Leave your dog with me. Seriously. Go. We have fun here. Brie, golden retriever: shy, needs time, don’t approach too quickly; once she trusts you she wants basically all the physical affection available. Sonya, anxious, avoids groups, hates rain, loud noises and apparently several perfectly normal household appliances. Roy, confident, good with everyone, natural leader; terrified of plastic bags moving in the wind. Yes. Plastic bags. Shy. Anxious. Brave until — wait. I wrote these like intake notes. These aren’t dog descriptions. That’s everyone I know. Some of them are me. I WANNA BE A DOG— not the fur, not the leash—ah, FUCK, you know what I mean. I wanna walk into a room and love what’s in it before my head can tell me why I shouldn’t. I wanna miss you when you leave— lose my fucking mind when you come through the door. God—I wanna be THAT ALIVE! Ayla, Australian shepherd: unlimited battery, circles the group, keeps everyone together, becomes visibly stupid with happiness if you scratch behind her ears. Donuty, Dalmatian, autistic: other dogs can be difficult, new situations can be difficult, sometimes just being Donuty seems difficult; give her space and let her decide. Diva, tiny maltipoo: meals, walks, sleep and possibly planetary rotation are expected to follow her schedule. A real bitch. Too much. Too scared. Too particular—fine. Nobody asks them to be easier before we love them. So why the hell do we ask that of each other? I WANNA BE A DOG— not the fur, not the leash—ah, FUCK, you know what I mean. I wanna walk into a room and love what’s in it before my head can tell me why I shouldn’t. I wanna miss you when you leave— lose my fucking mind when you come through the door. God—I wanna be THAT ALIVE! Some hungry wolf, thousands of years ago, got close enough to somebody’s fire to stay. They learned our hands, our faces, the exact sound of us coming home. We spent all that time going sit, stay, heel, good dog— and they somehow learned the one thing we keep fucking up. I WANNA BE A DOG— I wanna meet one open hand without making it answer for every fist I’ve ever seen. I wanna love what’s alive— while it’s still here. Still here. I wanna lose my mind when somebody I love walks through the door. God— I wanna be— I wanna be THAT ALIVE! Last week Brie stood in the doorway while I held out my hand. She looked at me, looked away, then came over and put her whole head in my palm. For thirty seconds, apparently, I was safe enough. I keep thinking about that.
