Dogtown Diary
As I shoveled the coil of poop into my bright blue baggy a realization hit me; I’d never officially signed up for dog ownership. Owning a dog had just seemed a prerequisite for living in Portland, Oregon. When you live in a city that boasts the highest number of dog parks in the U.S. and has been ranked by Men’s Health Magazine as the Nation’s Best City for Dogs, you feel the pressure. From luxe pet hotels to chic doggie boutiques, Portland is clearly canine-crazy and my family is no exception. However, when we adopted our puppy, Inca, we had no idea we were about to become the owners of a “rock star” dog.
Using tactics I’m certain would prove useful at Guantanamo, our three sons broke down our defenses and we finally agreed to adopt a dog. The decision made, my husband and I embraced the experience with a near religious zeal, training for the dog’s arrival like Olympic hopefuls. We enrolled Inca in classes for obedience, agility and socialization. Bought dog beds, dog tags and something called “wee-wee pads” (don’t ask). We purchased toys and treats, travel crates and doggie gates. We hadn’t been this enthusiastic over the birth of our own children.
After Inca’s arrival, an influx of friends and neighbors descended upon us bearing gifts and well-meaning advice. Dog-people filed into our home to await a glimpse of our puppy with a quiet reverence usually reserved for an audience with the Pope. This was the beginning of her rock star roots.
As we settled into life with our new puppy, we adjusted our schedules around her. We organized playdates and parties for our pup. At Christmas she wore Jingle Bells and at Halloween, we wedged her plump body into costumes which delighted and amused us. One year she was a court jester, another year I loaded her into a neon-orange pumpkin costume, complete with a tiny hat. She tolerated this humiliation, but was clearly not amused. She hung her head and glared at me with a look that said “Tonight, lady, I poop on your pillow.”
I knew I’d arrived in crazy-town the day I found myself forking over $50 for an organic, non-GMO birthday cake for my dog. As I stood in The Puppy Patisserie considering frosting options for Inca’s carrot cake, I had to wonder if I’d gone full-goose bozo.
Had we gone overboard with our doggy dedication? Quite possibly. I must admit I felt guilty replacing my wallet photos of the kids with pictures of our puppy. But let’s face it; the window on “cute” had been firmly nailed shut when the boys entered middle school. Oh sure, there were similarities. They might pant and drool like Inca. They had shaggy hair that shed on our sofa and communicated in monosyllabic grunts, but there was simply no comparison when it came to the “cute quotient”.
We weren’t the only ones who were crazy about our dog. We learned early-on that life with Inca brought with it celebrity and attention that none of us were prepared for. To this day we can’t walk a city block in downtown Portland, without being approached by fans wanting to fawn over our dog. Teenage girls have been known to squeal in delight and chase us down like the Beatles (Inca’s Paul, I’m Ringo). Our dog seems to enjoy this attention, preening and posing for pictures, sometimes even performing a few tricks to delight her audience.
Last week the UPS man arrived on our doorstep, took one look at Inca and dropped to his knees for a full embrace. Inca frantically licked his face, coating him in a layer of doggy drool. I waited patiently while the UPS man made-out with my dog, wondering if I should avert my eyes to give them a little privacy. Eventually the delivery man struggled free and dug his cell phone from his pocket. It was time for the inevitable selfie. He asked if I’d mind and I nodded my approval while Inca grinned and drooled on his Timberlands. Hey, who am I to stand in the way of puppy love? As the UPS man held his phone aloft, Inca shook her coat and struck a pose.
If you live with a rock star dog, then you’re well aware of this phenomenon. Fortunately, Inca’s never been a demanding diva and has yet to trash any hotel rooms. She seems content to be our dog, our little clown and a source of great love and joy for our family. I hear Bon Jovi’s on tour and looking for an opening act. I’m not certain Inca’s ready for a world tour yet, but if Jon Bon Jovi calls, I may have to reconsider.
