Elvis Presley

Well, the quest for a pet is ongoing. Kids and wife want a dog, I want a cat and a dog or a dog.

The problem with cats is that Carrie is allergic; we'd have to add to the pet expense a daily supply of Claritin, plus I'd have to vacuum at least once a week. I have no problem with those requirements, especially for the joy that is a mini-tiger.

I know the cliche is that guys dislike cats, but I think it's like having the savannah right in your home. They do everything their larger cousins do, without the fear of them eating you. I had two cats when I was single, and we tried to make that work when I moved in with Carrie, but I wasn't willing to clean as much as Carrie needed me to, and we gave them to the county shelter, where they were probably euthanized because people don't want eight-year-old cats who grew up together.

I cried that day, and Carrie will tell you that far from being a sign of my humanity and soft center, that only proved that I'll cry about animals and not people.

But I digress.

I decided against a cat right now because of the kitty-litter situation: we have no good place to put the box, and I'm just not going to leap over tall buildings to make this work. Let's face it, unless you have a great out-of-the-way place for the box, you can't subject people to a carton of sand-covered lumps of poop and pee.

We go back and forth on the dog issue. We have a townhouse with only a slight backyard, not fenced in. We have three kids easily knocked over. We have one person pulling in income, so dollar-priority should go to humans. We have one Senyor Madre watching all the kids, and if we get a puppy, which everyone wants because they're oh-so-cute (as they chew furniture and pee and poop everywhere), it will be similar to having another toddler. As has been recorded on this here blog, just three days ago, SM has yet to potty-train the 2-year-old twins.

Hey, what's one more?

Not exactly. So we won't mind getting an older dog. Thus, with our options expanded, Carrie took Maggie and Connor to the county shelter a couple weeks ago and was over the moon about a 1-year-old Shepard mix. The ideal dog for us will be no larger than medium, short-haired, quiet, friendly and laid-back. The shelter requires a family to all meet the animal before adopting, so I went, fearing that this Shepard would be a German black and brown monster with a Luger and cross-eyes.

In fact, Kirby was the kind of dog you see riding in the back of a single, unshaved guy's 1963 Bronco, as they head out for an adventure in the canyons during a jeans or deodorant commercial. He was beautiful, handsome, smart-looking, friendly.....and oh-so-energetic. No one but me would be able to walk it, and the lady at the shelter said she had a feeling that without a fenced-in yard and 4 kids, Kirby would be hell, bursting through the door as soon as there was a crack, and heading for the, well, the canyon.

It was hard to do, but I had to say no. He would knock down all of the kids in his amiable glee, and it wouldn't be fair to him to spend more than 15 minutes straight indoors. Plus, at 70-80 pounds, he would eat more than the twins combined. Next. Thankfully, only one of the kids is old enough to care much--in fact the twins never even knew about Kirby or the pet search.

I'd love an old hound dog, the kind from the movie Best in Show; it will have a southern accent and say funny things like "I'm gonna trade you for a dog and shoot the dog," and "It's raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock." It will move only when hungry or needing to go outside to do his biz. We will call him the name reserved for whatever pet, which is Maggie's favorite word: Bamboo.