I was always warned about the “crazy cat ladies”. These women were old, single, pathetic and always owned a minimum of 20 cats. In the past they were called old maids, and exiled to a decrepit home in the East Hamptons where they donned weird hats and sang to themselves. Now they are put on TV on what should be a TLC show, but is actually on Animal Planet, Confessions: Animal Hoarders. (Why not just call it Animal Hoarders? Is there a series of Confessions shows on Animal Planet? What other confessions related to animals could there be? Confessions: I’m into besitality. Confessions: I think I’m a dog. Okay, so I guess there could be other animal related confession shows. But I digress.)
What no one warned me about was the possibility of being a crazy dog lady. So of course, that’s what I am. I have three dogs in an 1100 sq ft, 1 bedroom apartment. Granted, unlike most cat ladies, I do have a boyfriend, but at times I consider him to be more like a fourth dog. He scarfs down a bowl of food and then curls up on the couch to take a nap.
When someone I’m talking to mentions their dog (their 1 dog, mind you) I invariably mention one of my dogs (as I am want to bring the conversation around to being about me no matter what the topic). They then say “oh, you have a dog? what kind?” When I respond that I have not 1 dog, but 3, a look of concern, disgust and sometimes even panic appears on their face. I am something not many people come in contact with. The crazy dog lady.
Once they have learned this fact about me it becomes the only fact worth knowing. From that moment on all we will ever talk about is cute things dogs do. And for the most part I’m fine with that, as I hate most everyone I meet and want nothing more than to never speak to them again. But then I feel pressure to out-cute them and let’s be honest, there are really only ten cute things a dog can do. They can’t talk, which means they can’t say something funny, so every discussion is just a variation on one of those ten cute dog things.
And that’s people with dogs. People without dogs find my stories unbearably annoying. I can tell. You’re getting annoyed right now, just imagining me telling these stories about my dogs. You’re thinking “shut the fuck up about your fucking dogs” and you’re right. Because while no one has ever said that to me, I can tell they’ve been thinking it. I can see it in their eyes. THEIR EYES.
But things just get worse. The other day I made up a rap about being a dog that I then pretended my dog was singing and dancing to. It went a little something like this “I’m a dog, I’ve got paws and I do the humpty dumpty. Get up off of my rug. Get up off of my rug. Get up off of my rug or I’ll show you what I’m made of.” I later cut it down to just one “Get up off of my rug” for the radio version. The saddest part is, I don’t even know what the humpty dumpty is.
I’m basically unable to travel since I can’t afford to board all three dogs. I can’t be spontaneous and go out at night and think so what if I end up passed out drunk on a friend’s couch. I can’t even go out to brunch without feeling guilty that the dogs can’t go out to brunch to. (Little known fact: Dogs love eggs benedict. Also their own vomit and shoes.) It is pretty much inevitable that I will become that woman on Confessions: Animal Hoarders that lives in a trailer with 20 pets while her husband lives in a separate trailer because he can’t stand the smell of shit anymore. It’s too late to change things now, but let this serve as a warning for all young women out there. There is such a thing as a crazy dog lady. I am her.
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