Today I walked by a pet store, the kind that sells actual pets, as opposed to just pet supplies. This particular pet store is a fancy-pants Upper East Side store, so they come with a high price tag and all sorts of guarantees that the dogs are not from puppy mills but are, in fact, well bred and highly socialized pups from reputable breeders. I spent a lot of time staring at one display in particular that featured a small Havanese and a small Chihuahua puppy, who were having some fun bouncing around each other as they ate their kibble.
When I first got Rosie, she was approximately a year old, and she definitely still had a lot of puppy in her, but she had also already had a year of life that was largely unknown to me. Maddy came with still greater mysteries, being of an even less determinate age, but undoubtedly at least two years old. And Maddy also has physical mysteries of her past—a piece of her ear that is missing, and a little red scar on the top of her nose that has since disappeared—evidence of a life in which she felt the need to scrap and wrangle for her life.
My experience with Rosie taught me that it was a good idea to have my first dog be at least a year old. She definitely still had plenty of energy (sometimes she still does) and there was enough to deal with in terms of training without starting from scratch. Still, whenever I see little puppies, usually 8 to 12 weeks old, I feel a pull in my heart. Firstly, puppies are plainly irresistible, with their tiny little bodies, great big eyes, and boundless energy and heart. My longing runs deeper than that, though; I have a deep desire to be more completely in charge of my role as a shaping mechanism to a dog. I want to be there from the very beginning to the very end.
People who advocate rescuing dogs talk up the idea that a rescue dog will love you more than a puppy you buy, because the rescue dog will be so grateful to you for providing him with this life. I have always doubted this attitude. Dogs love fairly indiscriminately, and I'm not sure that Rosie or Maddy have any greater perspective on the depth and importance of the love and life they receive just because of what may have preceded it. Any greater affection we see is probably just anthropomorphism—projecting our unique human perspective on a dog. That's not to say that it's not important, quite on the contrary. The great depth of emotion that we project onto our pets may not be reflective of anything the pet is feeling, but it is no less powerful and meaningful; it's power just lies in the way that it makes us feel. And I certainly get a great swell of joy and pride when I think about what Rosie or Maddy might have gone through in contrast to what I am able to help provide them with now. It is both the most selfless and selfish act of the pet owner: to feel completely the happiness you provide your animal.
The sway I feel to be in a dog's life from the very beginning is probably reflective of an equally false projection onto the dog. Any dog I own will be influenced by me whenever in his life I adopt him, unless I am a completely absent owner. I don't think that my role as a shaping mechanism in Rosie or Maddy's life is diminished by my lack of presence in their early years. Still, it's also quite clearly reflective of a way that I feel about them, and powerful in that way as well; those years in which we existed separately from one another loom large in my mind if not in theirs.
I'm not sure if my next dog (and, yes, I plan on getting many dogs—I don't know where I will want the size of my pack to end) will be a puppy or an adult, but I do know that he will be a rescue dog. The great joy and pleasure I get out of saving a dog far outweighs the complications and concerns. Perhaps it is my anthropomorphism of the, but my rescue dogs always remind me of this quote from Winnie-the-Pooh:
"Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. 'Pooh,' he whispered.
"'Yes, Piglet?'
"'Nothing,' said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw, 'I just wanted to be sure of you.'"
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