In Which We Find Our Personal Space Infringed Upon (UPDATED)

As a New Yorker, I walk around this city with a kind of invisible wall around me, to protect and separate me from everyone else.  This is a way in which New York is often criticized; in a city of so many people it can feel awfully isolating, and in other, smaller towns, strangers make eye contact, smile, and even say "Hi" to each other.  It took me some time to adjust, but I have to admit that when I was in college I eventually really enjoyed being able to walk around campus without staring straight down at the ground and ignoring everyone around me.

Nonetheless, I appreciate this invisible shield that I wear.  New Yorkers can be great, friendly people, but I really value my ability to ignore everybody when I want to.  This is not something I can accomplish on my own—it requires the implicit cooperation of my fellow citizens.  My wall doesn't actually exist, so it's a bit like I'm the naked emperor, and we all need to believe I'm actually fully clothed to make it true; the moment that someone calls me out on not actually being walled off is the moment it's no longer true.  Over the years, though, this happened very infrequently.  Since we all cherish our protection, we have a kind of mutually assured destruction pact to pretend like it always exists.

Once I got Rosie, this all changed.  Rosie has no wall, and she has no reason or ability to sense anyone else's.  When she's not busy sniffing the sidewalk for the next disgusting piece of God-knows-what to put into her mouth, then she is making eye contact with everyone and everything.

I am attached to Rosie, figuratively and literally (by a length of rope, when we're out and about), and this means that her lack of a wall destroys mine.  Most people like dogs, and mine is an especially cute and friendly dog.  When I first got her, I felt that this was a challenge and an opportunity for me: a challenge to open myself up, and an opportunity to be a generous person.  I proudly declared to myself that anyone who wanted to pet Rosie was welcome to it, including homeless people.

This quickly proved to be a stupid idea.  There are crazy people out there.  There is a reason we have invisible walls for personal protection.  First, there was the guy who started to pick up Rosie.  When I insisted that she did not like being picked up and grabbed her to put her down, he got within three inches of my face to loudly declare, "you're the only one who had a problem with it!"  Then there was the even scarier encounter late at night with a homeless man who insisted on petting Rosie with his extremely filthy hands while cooing and calling her Destiny.  When I started pulling her away from him and walking away, he followed for a bit, yelling "NOOO Destiny!  Don't take Destiny away from me!"  I was looking over my shoulder for the next two blocks terrified that he was going to attack me.  Or the crazy woman who was clothed from head-to-toe and wearing a bonnet, and tried to grab Rosie and then yelled after me, "Dog abuser! Dog Abuser!"

Was I overreacting to some of these people?  Maybe.  I mean, neither Rosie nor I have actually been assaulted at all, really, and these are only the most extreme examples of interactions I've had with strangers in the time since I first got Rosie over three and a half years ago.  Nonetheless, I learned my lesson, and eventually came to resent the way in which other people use Rosie as an excuse to violate my personal space and comfort.  Sometimes when I am walking down the street, people see Rosie from all the way down the block and immediately crouch down, make eye contact with her, and start calling for her to pay attention to them.  Whether or not they realize it, this is an invasion of my personal space.  If they succeed in attracting Rosie's attention (which, let's face, isn't that hard), then they have also trapped my attention in the process, and I am often not happy to give it.  I can't even express how proud I am of Rosie on those occasions when she ignores these people.  It's as if she has seen through their charade and wants no part of it—or, at least, that's how I like to think of it.  Also, she's spared me an interaction that I would desperately like to avoid.

I have taken steps to avoid the interactions I don't want.  I almost never walk Rosie without listening to a podcast on my iPhone.  This lets me pretend that I can't hear and don't notice everyone around me, and I just try to tug Rosie along as if everything around us is invisible.  This method has its downsides, of course.  I can't count the number of times people I know have told me that they yelled my name from across the street, but I never noticed.  Or when I was single, the number of interactions with available women I might have missed (obviously, Rosie's lack of inhibitions is pretty useful for that purpose, although she's a bit more indiscriminate in her tastes than I am).  But Rosie has made me learn just how much I value my privacy and personal space, both physical and emotional, and my ability to choose exactly who I share myself with and when.

UPDATE:
I realize that this post makes me look like a big grumpus.  I am a big grumpus, of course, but I just want to say that I'm also really grateful for the people I've met because of owning a dog.  A lot of the people at the dog run I go to regularly are crazy, annoying, and irresponsible owners, but I've also made some wonderful friends.  And I also often enjoy when strangers give Rosie the attention she desperately craves in a respectful manner (i.e. asking me for permission before petting her, &c.)  Owning a dog opens me up to all sorts of attention I do not want, but it also invites me into what is often a very generous and caring community.