I am so not a pet person.

I am not interested in the responsibility. I am not interested in the work. When I forget to buy groceries for two weeks, I can adapt. A pet cannot. I am not interested in taking care of, and entertaining, a permanent 3 year old. I do enough of my own shedding. I love sleep too much to have my face licked at 6 am so I can open the door and let the fuzzy little creature out. I get enough unconditional love from my parents and, while a pet wouldn't criticize how I wear my hair or how infrequently I recycle my newspapers, my parents don't eat my shoes and pee in them when they're mad at me. If there is ever a pet in the house in which I live, it will not be mine - it will belong to someone else.

So, when I bought my house, and people started asking me when and if I was going to get a pet, I had to chuckle. My family just laughed right out loud. (My grandmother was the strange one - she was absolutely convinced I'd have a dog by Christmas). I got the question so many times, I started to wonder if there was some rule that said house=pet.

Christmas morning arrives. I'm unwrapping presents. I open up my last box, see something moving and scream (dropping the box in the process). Santa brought me a dog!



The perfect pet!

"Perfect Petzzz... are cute sleeping puppies and kittens that offer unconditional love and are maintenance-free. They look so lifelike - you can even see them breathe! "

His name is Bernie. He is, after all, a St. Bernard. He never barks, he never sheds, he lets himself out and always closes the door behind him. He spends most of his time sleeping in his little bed. The only movement you see is his little belly rising and falling as he breathes.

Last Thursday my sister was sitting on the chair across the room. She said she couldn't see Bernie breathing. I went to check on him and he was breathing fine. I figured she was blind.

Friday I came home from work. My mom (the parental units had just arrived for a visit) says "You let Bernie die!" I had no idea what she was talking about. When I went to bed Thursday night Bernie was fine. I walked over to Bernie and, sure enough, he wasn't breathing! I picked him up and shook him. Nothing. I made sure his batteries were pressed in properly. Nothing! She was right! Sometime during Thursday night and Friday afternoon Bernie died! I had killed my fake dog!! Who knows how long his lifeless body had been lying there!

The next day we bought more batteries and revived Bernie. He's been going strong since Saturday. Life is good now. Apparently my sister was on to something when she couldn't see Bernie breathing from far away. Now I at least know how to tell when he's getting sick. But this is exactly why I don't own a real pet. Well, that and the licking.