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Living With A Con Artist
They say owning a dog relieves stress, but I’ve been trampled on, bitten, and evicted. Have you?
My first Havanese I bought on a whim. I saw him in a pet store on Lexington Avenue and thought he was the most adorable, irresistible thing. I took him into the play area and watched him run around in circles at a million miles an hour. My father looked at me and said, “He’s gonna be a handful.” I named him Jackson and carried him home four blocks in my arms.
“So what do you know about the breed?” my friend Lisa asked later that afternoon at my apartment, while she typed something on my computer.
“Nothing,” I said, feeling like an idiot that I bought a fifteen-year commitment with no prior knowledge of its demeanor. I mean why would I do a silly thing like research a dog breed before buying it? I picked him for the same reason I picked men — he was cute. It’s not like I could interview him and ask if insanity ran in his family.
“It says here that they’re very hyperactive,” she said.
“Well I’m not returning him,” I said. “So get out.”