We Need to Buy the Dog a Horse

and other things you can say to end your marriage.

I am the person in our family who wanted a dog the most. I begged, cajoled, and bullied my family into dog ownership. I am also the person who can’t complain about what a pain dog ownership is now that we have one. It is both a literal and metaphorical pain, especially if you own a very active and independent minded (stubborn) dog like Emma.

As a puppy, she would literally bounce off the walls if we didn’t get her out for morning walks in the forest, afternoon runs on the beach and evening romps in the park.

Emma has aged into a two-year-old dog who appreciates the joy of day napping, but we still go on twice daily hikes.

“The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine,” I think to myself as I’m slipping and sliding down a muddy hill in the pouring rain, on yet another long hike while my husband sips tea at home and munches cookies.

I used to enjoy hikes in the redwoods of Northern California, but when you make them mandatory, it starts to feel less like a fun hobby and more like a grueling, severely underpaid job.

Monday: Three mile Pogonip Fern Trail hike, check. 
Tuesday: Six mile Land of Medicine Buddha hike, check. 
Wednesday: Four mile Twin Gates Loop, check. 
Thursday: Six mile Chaminade Loop with an even crazier Border Collie friend, check. Friday: So very, very tired, but rally for a walk on the fire road. 
Weekend: Laze on the couch eating snacks and watching Netflix? Not on your life. Even longer weekend hikes!

To complicate things, I’m doing all this on one leg. Technically the prosthetic leg helps, but barely. I’ve always thought of myself as an active amputee, but I have never felt as disabled as I do with this dog. Amputees were not made for long daily hikes in the mountains. Luckily, I’m friends with a wound nurse, who slips me Tegaderm and hydrocolloid dressings and gives me concerned looks.

My other, “real” leg starts to give out. My achilles tendon is tetchy all the time and I get alarming twinges in my knee when I walk up stairs.

“You know,” I muse, as we drive past rolling meadows on the edge of town, “this would all be a lot easier if I could ride a horse. Emma could run alongside me and we could cover a lot of ground.”

My husband was driving the car and I could see his eyebrows lift above his sunglasses.

“Are you actually telling me that we need to buy a horse to make our lives easier?” “Well, yes. But it isn’t just to make my life easier. A horse could provide companionship for Emma.”

Silence. I could feel myself losing this battle. He cleared his throat.

“So you are telling me we need to buy our dog a horse?” I made a noncommittal sound. “How serious are you about this?” he asked. “Less than 50%. Okay, maybe about 50%,” I said.

My husband rarely says no, but when he does, he means it.

“We are not getting a horse,” he said. “I didn’t put my foot down about getting a dog, but I learned my lesson. It’s either me or the horse.”

I let it drop, but I still like the idea of riding a horse across the fields, watching the cloud shadows race over the ground. I think Emma would like it too, trotting companionably alongside. In the meantime, I take a deep breath, lace up my hiking boots and hobble off after my dog.

PS We got the dog a dog. My husband apparently did not learn his lesson, but at least we don’t have a horse. Turns out that Emma is terrified and enraged by horses. We drove past one cantering in a field and she lost her stuffing. She gets along with the new puppy just fine, most of the time.