The Carrying On of A Wayward Son

I miss my dog.

Her body may have grown since she was a puppy, but her head has stayed about the same size.

When signing my lease last year, I made the decision to leave Foxy, my dog, with my parents.

My choice was the result of several factors — the most pressing being that my dog was over the apartment complex’s weight limit and a mix of two breeds, Chow and German Sheppard, that were specifically outlawed by the complex.

Even if my dog had been OK’d by the apartment complex or I had chosen to fight the rules, I would have probably made the same decision — my dog will be happier living with my parents in a house with a big back yard and plenty of space to run. While my brain tells me that Foxy is happier where she is and that I can (and do) go to visit her as often as I want, I still miss my dog.

I didn’t meet Foxy until she was several months old. My parents bought her while I was living in College Station, urged on by my sister during the last summer she lived at my parents’ house. When I finally was introduced to my parent’s new dog, Foxy had outgrown her awkward puppy phase and was a full-fledged galloping horse of a dog — all long legs that seemed to be perpetually running. Full of youthful energy, she would speed around the living room, jumping into anybody and everybody’s lap — despite the fact that she was the size of most full-grown dogs.

For the first few years of her life, I kept my distance from Foxy. This was the first dog my parents had bought since I left home. A replacement if there ever was one, Foxy was often the main topic of conversations with my parents; stories told in the same tone of voice one would reserve for bragging about their kids.

I heard about how smart the dog was or what cute thing she had done that week. I would come home and find that the dog had clamed my favorite spot on the couch for herself. I truly felt that the dog was slowly edging me out of my parents’ lives.

After I graduated from college and went to live in my first roommateless apartment, my parents asked me if I would like to adopt Foxy. My parents thought I would appreciate the company – even if it walked on four legs and liked to drink out of the toilet bowl.

There was also the fact that my parents were getting older. No longer able to keep up with Foxy’s constant craving for attention or love for walks, my parents were all too happy to hand her off. So, with a passing of the leash, Foxy ceased to be my parent’s dog and became mine.

It took some adjustment during the first months of having a dog. I was no longer able to sleep in late unless I wanted to wake up to a wet spot on the carpet. Since my apartment was too small for a kitchen table, I often used to eat off of my coffee table while sitting on the floor. Foxy soon became aware of the fact that this proved to be the perfect height for run-by food theft. If I took my eyes off my dinner at any point, I could be assured that I would turn back to find it in my dog’s mouth.

Not having the heart to lock her in her kennel at night, I would let her roam free while I slept – figuring she would find a nice spot on the couch to sleep. Foxy had other ideas. Every night she would jump onto my bed — leaving little room for me on the twin sized mattress. I would push her to the foot of the bed but during the night she would slowly make her way up until she was sleeping on top of my head.

Foxy could be as spoiled as she wanted to though. She earned it the night she saved my life.
To be continued…