Even as the unofficial, kinda-sorta mascot around these parts, the long-time reader may have noticed that my dog, Marty, doesn’t make too many appearances.
It tracks.
He’s not really a sports and culture guy per se but more a “Stealing Socks Right Off the Human’s Feet” monthly subscriber.
So I wasn’t sure if he’d up for helping out but surprisingly? He didn’t mind at all.
Or so I thought.
See, he’s usually pretty cool about it but over the past couple of weeks, I don’t know, I think his lawyer has been handing out unsanctioned legal advice because during his walk earlier? I was given the third degree.
You can’t blame him, though. His Off-Balance cheques, they’ve been bouncing (this operation, it isn’t very liquid) and his preferred treats, they don’t pay for themselves, you know?
I told him I’d take him to the park later but instead, he wanted a shoutout.
Fair enough.
Besides, any day is a good day to talk about your dog, especially on his birthday - after all, Marty turned three today.
Cats, in comparison, are pretty simple.
You can (more or less) trust them not to burn the place down when you’re out for the day. Dogs?
Man.
They need their own bed, naturally. You can never sit on the couch alone again and you’re on the hook for an entire, paid-a-salary assistant just to keep track of their social network.
From the Amazon delivery driver (who, in a cruel twist of modern consumerism, has replaced the stock mailman character) to the just-emerging spring cyclists, who never slow down to return his hellos (and what an outrage that is).
There are the friends he made at daycare, the friends he has at the park, the chipmunk who breezed by the window, just now, as I was typing this - expect, as I’m being reminded, they actually aren’t friends, thank you.
No, their blood feud has been ongoing for the better part of two years now and it won’t end smoothly, as I’ve been assured (Marty has refused to issue a building permit - it is his property, etc, etc).
But try as you might?
You can’t complain.
It is funny, though.
Before Marty came home, I didn’t really want a dog.
I’d never had one and I wanted nothing to do with being a dog owner. And I was insistent, personal reluctance or not, about how that stance wouldn’t change.
He got me, though.
I mean, c’mon, how could he not?
He’s a whole mix of breeds - collie, lab, retriever and German Shepard, most notably. It feeds into his personality too, I think. A total sweetheart… expect, of course, when he choses not to be.
He knows better. But shoes and hats need to be kept elevated, at a safe distance from errant snatching. And all his toys, dangerous trip hazards, from the stuffed lobster to the moose, must be returned to their designated basket at the end of the day…although, we’re still working on that one.
The mischievous little rascal.
Pet ownership though, for all its highs, can be a difficult thing.
Simply put, they’re not with us long. Ten, twelve years, at most.
It is always something, hard as it can be, to keep in mind - in a way, they’re just a chapter for us. But for them? We’re their whole book.
So the least we can do, is to give them a good story.
Even if that means living with someone who likes hiding your socks under the couch.
Hey, look at that! You made it to the end. Thanks for reading.
Up next at Off-Balance? Well, my Star Wars rewatch series is continuing but I’d rather not drive us all to the brink of madness with a deluge of Star Wars posts, back-to-back. So I’ll be breaking up the monotony the best I can.
And as always, if you have any suggestions for what you’d like to see covered here? Be sure to let me know and I’ll try to make it happen.
Until next time.
Ryan.
Happy birthday Marty!