I live in a museum. At least, that’s how I think of my home. It exudes pristine tranquility. I chose all of my furniture and belongings for their artistic merit. Everything has its rightful place–with a strict do not touch policy. Reverent pondering, just like inside a museum, dominates my lifestyle.
But then I fell head over heels for Kailey. Her home literally bursts at the seams with panting, furry life in the form of three dogs. I wish to focus on one of these dogs–a recent shelter rescue.
Meet Luna, the leggy Weimaraner adolescent–notable in her exuberant affection, rambunctious strength, stubborn intelligence and lack of training. She currently attends training sessions, but the lessons haven’t yet caught up with Luna’s particular brand of chaos.
Luna spent most of her life neglected and locked in a garage. Now–quite understandably–she loves to race around the house playing and leaping. Luna weighs in at 70 pounds of Grade-A muscular canine. Kailey reaches just under 5 foot 3 inches tall. So when Luna joyfully jumps up to kiss you, gigantic forepaws pinwheeling through the air to find purchase on any object–even your head–she towers over my petite girlfriend with the force of a tsunami.
Every night in bed I fight Luna for the spot closest to my lover, since Weimaraners always lounge across or wedge in tight against their people. Each morning brings all the excitement of waking up on Christmas–but instead of presents we receive bruises when Luna, the early riser, leaps on us at full speed. Without fail, she gouges me right in the baby-maker to kiss me sweetly on the cheek. Good thing childbearing isn’t high on my list of things to do before I die, which might be soon, under the circumstances.
The other day we came home after a particularly lovely outing and found the house destroyed by a bored Luna. Luna was so overjoyed to see Kailey, she jumped on her–one meaty paw batting her across the face. Now Kailey sports a Rocky Marciano-sized cut on her once delicate nose.
Of course, when her friends ask about the many bruises or her near-broken nose, Kailey will reply, “Oh, the dog did it.” And, of course, her friends will think I did it. In the meantime, I retreat to my museum and fervently hope the dog learns behavior modification more quickly than Kailey’s friends organize an intervention to convince her to give me up. Because when I’m home in the quiet stillness of my museum–without Kailey, Luna and the other two dogs–I realize what a lonely, lifeless place it is.