It’s not that Sarah’s a bad name, it’s a fine name, a great name even, but the fact that the bad 80’s love song is actually spelled “Sara” and not “Sarah” has done nothing to keep it from getting stuck in my head for the last 53 hours. Nonstop. (And now hopefully it’s stuck in yours.)

Maybe someday I’ll be able to call this girl without hearing that damn song reverberate throughout my skull. Who knows, anything’s possible — Sarah has, for instance, already gotten past peeing on my kitchen floor.

Dr. Katy listened to the fact that my daily routine pretty much consisted of coming to work late with a hangover, being unproductive and hating my work, going home and sitting on the couch, watching TV, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes to forget the fact that I just hate where I’m at in my life. What used to be bad attitude was becoming an oppressive sense of despair, to the point that I started worrying about it becoming a “condition” if I didn’t do something about it. I’d always thought dogs and PhD programs were incompatible, but having recently finished hers with a dog, Dr. Katy said it’s not only do-able, it’s outstanding. First, there’s the pure psychological benefit of the pet — the contact comfort and affection, having someone to talk to when you don’t think anyone else wants to listen. Then there’s the mechanistic effect: the dog will demand regular exercise, which not even hashing motivates me to do anymore. The dog’s food budget will also cut into my beer budget. Ultimately, I will be less able (and hopefully less inclined) to come home, flop on the couch and drink too much beer.

That didn’t stop me from trying to have my cake and drink it, too. Monday night I had a few beers at the V and a few more at home with Charlie, and a few (too many) cigarettes. This would normally result in a slow Tuesday morning, rolling in around 11am, but NOT when there’s a dog who has to piss at 6am in the next room.

I learned quickly from that punishment. This morning Sarah and I were running in Piedmont Park by 7:45am, and I’m feeling rather spritely for it. Sure, part of my good mood today stems from having gotten the pooch past her first-day jitters, so I can finally get her out of the crate in the morning or after work without getting a gleeful piddle for my troubles. If we keep this up and the piddling’s a thing of the past, I think I have one of the best dogs I ever could’ve hoped for. Two years old, apartment-sized but respectable, plays well with others, not skittish of anything smaller than a forklift (we learned at Petsmart), and already knows “Sit,” “Stay,” and “Down” really well.

Now if she’d only take to the frisbee….



Read more filed under The Dogfather