Your Dog Doesn’t Care If You’re a Lesbian
After the end of a long-term relationship, I found solace in the easy love of pets. Lots and lots of pets.
When I was very young, I was afraid of dogs. Not just a little scared. I was petrified, the kind of fear that made me shriek and clamber onto the nearest table or chair or up a grown-up’s leg until I felt safely out of reach. Nothing had ever occurred in my life to warrant this reaction. In fact, I’d never really been around dogs. We owned a 50-gallon aquarium full of fish I didn’t much watch or care about, and the only people I knew with pets were families on TV. I knew Lassie from watching reruns on Saturday mornings. She was a dog, but not really. She felt more human than I was; definitely better behaved. Lassie had enviable hair. Lassie helped out around the house. Lassie was a hero. A pal.
Lassie didn’t make trouble for anyone.
When I was growing up, my neighbors had giant Dobermans that wandered freely. Our central Florida backyards all butted up against a retention pond, no fence for anyone, and my mother never wanted us inside the house. My brother and I spent most of our time sweating out all our body weight and facing massive dehydration and sunstroke in the relentless heat. We never knew when those dogs might show up. When they trotted…
