Fantasies about all of my sweeties.
Because I live in an apartment in Brooklyn and because I am a repressed nerd who struggles in ways both big and small to allow herself to feel pleasure in this world, I do not own a pet. I grew up with pets. I love them. When I’m with other people’s I feel decidedly happier and more calm, but my current lifestyle doesn’t allow me to provide the kind of amenities and resources I’d want in order to care for another complex mammal, so I’m waiting.
Some of my friends are in similar circumstances, and a few months ago, I found a really effective way to jerk all our hearts off that I’m going to share with you now.
If you download the (free! widely panned!) Petfinder app, it allows you to search for adoptable pets using criteria like location, breed, age, and species. In addition to browsing the personal profiles of any relevant animals, you’re also able to save them into a folder called Favorites and revisit them for as long as they’re still adoptable. So if it’s 11:45 p.m. on a Tuesday and you’re suddenly bursting out of your skin because there isn’t a dog within your physical proximity, this might be something to look into.
It gives me what I imagine swiping through Tinder does for other people: a sense of engaging and masturbating with the idea of a future you’re not beholden to follow through on.
Yeah, I rescued him two weeks ago from Puerto Rico. He was listed under my zip code for some reason and I was too emotionally devastated by his face to care about the cybermanipulation. It only cost $7 billion to fly him up here to his forever home, and honestly every dollar has been worth it. I mean, how tragic is his body size? Papi. Babi. My building’s not overtly dog-friendly, but I figure we’re in the clear since his weight class after puberty will still be “large bug.”
Was moving alone to rural Maine to own land and be a freelance thought-haver a drastic personal decision? Maybe! But we don’t think about things like that here on the farm. When I wake up naturally at 5 every morning to let the elderly rescue donkeys out to pasture, Harriet’s right there beside me, circling around my feet, raring to sprint the full length of The Big Field (But hopefully not into the neighbor’s yard! She’s learning!). Harriet can be a handful during the day, but at night on the secondhand couch under the thick pine beams of my 18th century farmhouse streaming this week’s episode of Ru Paul’s Drag Race: All Stars, she’s just my lil Hairball. Hairygirl? We’re working on it.
Hello and welcome to my midcentury suburban Connecticut home. As you can see I’ve updated the hardware and appliances, but was careful to preserve the house’s quintessential colonial charm. Oh, don’t mind Honey, she’s great with strangers. She’ll probably zonk out on her Forest Moss L.L. Bean Therapeutic Dog Couch in a second. We were on the plane last week and she was snoring… so loud. Did you see my Instagram of it? Don’t pull it up, I’ll explain it to you.
Sure, he jumps up during greetings and scratches the door when he wants to go outside, but Stew Leno’s really calmed down since we started with the regular hikes. Guess we’re both LA bros at heart! And we’ve been living for this desert sun. He walks with me everywhere at this point: to get coffee, to run errands, other places. And I don’t wanna jinx it, but I think he’s starting to come around on the obedience trai—Ah. One sec. He’s tunneling under the fence.