Doggone It

I’ve been homesick lately, though not the knife-in-the-gut Freshman year variety. Instead, I miss the small things—the Picasso poster on my bedroom wall, or the Tribune crossword puzzle spread across the breakfast table. But most of all, with a constant ache in the cavern of my chest, I miss my dog.

Sammi is my best friend for the sole reason that she is boundlessly willing. She doesn’t care if I’m having a bad hair day or if I haven’t showered or if I’m screaming obscenities because Facebook chat has crashed for the 96th time that night. No matter what, she still wants me to scratch her butt.

I was the sort of kid who slept with mountains of stuffed animals, and kept even more invisible pets floating around like phantoms at a pet cemetery. My parents tolerate animals, even like them to a degree, but when I started packing for college they realized that I was ditching them with two surly cats and a sloppy lab mix who once opened the fridge door, devoured an entire turkey, and buried the evidential bones in a houseplant. Clearly the animals were all my idea.

I miss Sammi the most because she misses me the most. The cats treat me with cool indifference most of the time, and my brother barely pulls his attention away from his X-Box. My parents miss me, but I can’t whip them into a pee-inducing fervor when I walk through the door (which is, for the record, a good thing.) Nobody wears enthusiasm as well as a dog, especially a dog who hasn’t seen you in a matter of months.

Keeping dogs as pets is a strange phenomenon. Sammi has enough bulk to kill me if she really wanted, but she’s more interested with sneaking onto the couch for a nap. Our pets have come a long way from their proud wolf ancestors (especially my friend Eva’s dog, Phineas, who is essentially a glorified guinea pig on speed.)
Still, the historic bond seems natural—a constant buddy to sit by the fire with, to hunt the Wooly Mammoth beside, to throw the tennis ball to until your arm detaches itself from your shoulder.

So yeah, I miss Sammi. When I see anyone in Elmhurst walking their dog, I can’t tear my eyes away. “Ooh, can I pet your dog?!” I sometimes can’t resist asking, hands shaking like an addict craving a fix. What I really want to ask is “Oooh, can I borrow your dog for a couple hours?” We’d have such fun frolicking through the college mall, bounding after Frisbees and wagging out tails. For some reason, people will never hand over the leash. What we really need is a Rent-a-Pup station where needy college students can get their canine companion fill.
I’ve never met any dog owner who wasn’t passionate to talk about their pet. I trade dog stories the way some people trade Pokemon cards. And one thing’s for certain: everyone thinks that their dog is the smartest, bravest, funniest, and best. And they’re all right.

Sammi isn’t the smartest. She’s not purebred. She strews garbage throughout the house constantly, and goes into barking fits at 3 a.m. when nobody is at the door.
But she loves me the most.

So when I pull into my driveway and hear her joyous howl, I’ll hurry to the front door. We’ll perform the butt-dance of joy as she drenches me in her saliva. Then I’ll know I’m truly home.