So, after yeeeeears of hearing, “Can we get a dog?” we did it. Two weeks ago, we got a dog.
Our new babe is an 18-month-old rescue, a Boston Terrier mix with twitchy origami ears and a slight underbite that makes her look melancholy. Her name is Nicki Minaj.
Nicki is polite. She waits to be invited onto the couch. She leaves her kibble until she’s told she can eat. She walks silently past neighbor’s dogs who bark at her.
Nicki is playful, but doesn’t get the concept of fetch. When dogs at the off-leash park go chasing after tennis balls, she runs alongside them to see what the thrill is all about.
Like many other pups, she vibrates when she hears the word “walk”. Sometimes she also body slams into the front door to show her excitement. I’ve also seen her sit up on her hind legs (does anyone else remember the cover of Harry the Dirty Dog?)
Kai says, “Nicki is ADD, like me!”
Pete says, “Nicki cares about manners, like me.”
And Reina says, “I thought getting Nicki would change us. But it’s more like she filled a missing part.”
Now, I have to tell you something.
When I was about to have babies, I read in books that you may not feel a rush of love for them right away. That didn’t apply to me. Not even when we adopted the cat, and back then I was 100% not a cat person.
But it did apply with Nicki. Day after day after her arrival, there was no serotonin rush.
Instead, I ached. Her presence transported me to the past.
The first time I changed Kai’s diaper in public, we were in a Target restroom. As I laid his 20-inch-long body down on a crunchy nylon mat, a random older lady stood by, so close she was literally breathing down my neck, scolding me for being out with a baby so young and critiquing my every move.
I walked away feeling tender and guilty. I wanted to hide.
Last Sunday, Pete and I tried a first with Nicki: sitting (leashed) while we enjoyed a fancy hot dog in a croissant at a sidewalk cafe table. It went well until out of the blue, Nicki did something she definitely shouldn’t have. And an old lady schooled me once more about how I’d done wrong.
I walked home with my figurative tail tucked between my legs, the dog and me having been seen in public in such a negative light.
I soon realized I’d been tense with Nicki from day one because I was anticipating that something shameful like this would eventually happen, no matter how hard I tried to prevent it.
When we got home, Pete said:
“Nicki’s had hundreds of good social interactions since we got her. And one bad one. She’s still a good girl.”
She’s still a good girl. Yes, of course. But in that moment, I wasn’t believing that about Nicki. All because of her one mistake.
Just as I’d stopped believing that I was fundamentally good long ago—likely because of one thing I did when I was so young I can’t recall.
It’s so easy to put other people’s opinions of us above our own, and to feel insecure when we step out of our familiar routines. It’s so easy to stop ourselves from taking chances because we’re afraid that our flaws will be exposed in public.
Even when the new thing we’re taking a chance on is a super socially acceptable choice like getting a dog.
And you know what? You’re not wrong for being afraid. Your worries have a decent likelihood of coming to pass, just like Nicki and I ended up exposing our flaws.
But would that matter if, no matter what, you were a good girl/boy/human/sentient being?
Would you take more chances if you knew without a doubt that whatever flaws you expose can’t be fatal? If someone told you that you’re still good?
Because you are still good.
