It is difficult to imagine my life without it being covered in dog hair. I can remember what it was like before the gray strands and clumps clung to every bit of furniture and carpet, yet I find it nearly impossible to envision a future home bereft of fur.
As any long-haired pet owner will tell you, that's part of the pet deal: You accept the ubiquity of fur because the rest of the experience is a net positive. No, my dog is not the cuddliest thing in the world, but I am happier having her in my life. Having a dog to play with, to wrestle with, to take on my long meandering walks, was something I always hoped I'd have the time and money to achieve.
Owning an animal is a commitment. No matter how small, they require attention and care. That means providing them creature comforts, veterinary visits, playful stimulation, nutritious food, and with enough regularity to assure them these are intrinsic parts of their world - not sporadic gifts bestowed by a capricious master.
Like any commitment, one hopes the work put into it is worth the effort. It's nice when that effort is reciprocated, and even better when the fruits of that labor outweigh any of its challenges.
When I first adopted Nymeria, my dog, there was no reciprocation. She seemed scared of the world at best, angry at me at worst. She didn't like her crate, and she really didn't like painting the inside of it with her explosive diarrhea - an issue caused by frequent bouts of giardia. In the first weeks of owning her, I was a sleepless wreck - unsure how to prevent her from howling through the night and/or pooping in my apartment before I could get her downstairs and onto the lawn of the next door Burger King. More than once I considered cutting my losses and giving her up to someone more capable of caring for her.
Because a commitment is a choice, and we can choose to end it.
Today, friends and family will tell you that Nymeria is still a rather prickly dog. She is, however, no longer the angry little puppy shitting in a corner. She has been my constant companion for the better part of a decade and, despite the numerous frustrations and fears of any pet owner, my life has been undeniably enriched by her presence. I almost gave up on her, and I am thankful I did not.
But this isn't a blog about dogs. Once again, I've written way too much about something other than what's on my mind. That's how I tend to work through things - thinking around the point until I stumble my way inside.
I'm not thinking about Nymeria but the concept of commitment in general, and how those commitments encircle one another.
When I was in my mid-twenties, I was paying a monthly lease on an apartment in downtown Long Beach. Out of school, not in debt, and working as a freelance writer, I was as commitment-free as one can be. I could drive from one end of California to the other on a whim, and did so, because I was beholden to no one. There was nowhere I was supposed to be. There was nothing I was supposed to be doing, apart from writing like mad to feed myself.
Now I'm drawing a diagram of my life in concentric circles. Each circle represents a commitment that keeps me from getting up from this laptop and driving away on a whim. There's Nymeria, my mortgage, my job, my wife, and my children. I stand at the center of the circles, and each successive ring requires a greater commitment.
Nymeria is the farthest away because she has no problem lounging outside in the sun during business hours. As long as she knows where I am, she doesn't need me to do much more than bring her breakfast and dinner.
My mortgage needs me to pay it every month. As long as I can do that, it mostly keeps to itself - but I have to do that or my life will radically change.
Barring holidays, my job needs me to show up during business hours, or have a legitimate excuse why I can't.
My wife needs me to be a husband, father, and occasionally the guy who convinced her that shacking up together would be a net positive experience. Not the same thing as a husband, that last guy. Different responsibilities, different rules.
My children need me to be the best version of myself - the most patient one, the kindest one, the most attentive one, the most nurturing one, the strongest one, the most egalitarian, the least embarrassing.
These are the concentric circles of commitment. That I could choose to stop participating in some or all of these endeavors is what makes them commitments. I am so tightly bound to some of these circles that there is very little space between us, but it does exist. I could choose to abandon Nymeria on the side of a highway, stop paying my mortgage, stop showing up at my job, leave my wife, neglect my children, and it would collapse the infrastructure of my life. But my bones would remain.
I will turn 35 years old this week. A few months ago, a friend told me she felt old, and I responded that we are. Old by how we used to reckon old, anyway. I told her that, now, having some years as a husband and father under my belt, I understand much better why men develop mid-life crises and spin out of control. They want to rediscover that young man they (hope they) were before responsibilities changed their minds, or maybe even convince themselves they can be that man again.
Because when you're approaching what could be the middle of your life, you look around you and think, well, what did I do before I started drawing all these circles? There seems to be a lot of space outside these things. I could definitely drive a really fast car out there.
You can do a lot of things outside those circles that you can't do inside them. There are no speed limits out there, no commitments.
The moment I bought a dog, I drew the first circle around my life. I couldn't drive all day because Nymeria was in her crate in the apartment - maybe shitting violently, but most certainly upset. I couldn't stay out drinking with friends because she'd need a walk at the end of the day. I couldn't sleep in indefinitely because she'd need a walk in the morning. The moment I asked Maddy to marry me, that was a promise that she would be the most important person in my life. When we bought a house, that was us deciding we were putting down roots. No more upping stakes when the mood took us. When I became a father - you get the idea.
When the dog is sick, when the microwave and the dishwasher breaks, when you find yourself arguing with your spouse over something neither of you really cares about, or when your toddler throws her eleventh tantrum before 10 a.m., you feel these circles contract. You find yourself quoting David Byrne and wondering, "How did I get here?"
"Here" is not always where you think it is. When you're frustrated, sad, or exhausted, it's easy to forget that "here" is not a single point inside a circle. That's why you draw the circle in the first place, because of the many things it contains. The area of the circles encompasses moments beyond sick dogs and busted microwaves. For instance,
the first time Nymeria put her head in my lap -
the first time I touched Maddy's hand -
the first time I sat in my garage after cleaning out every moving box -
the first time Beatrix came running to me when I walked through the front door -
extinguished all previous notions of happiness.
I'm not wild about the fur that adorns my couch or that it's worked its way into every seat of my car, but Nymeria is much more than her fur. She's the afternoon sun blinking over the horizon as I throw her a chewed up tennis ball, her hopeful look as Bea eats chicken nuggets, her frantic dance as my mother comes to visit. She is every smile she's given me, and every itchy patch of skin from tumbling with her in the grass. I am a better person today because I live in her circle.
A circle forms a barrier, there’s no denying that. It keeps one from moving beyond the perimeter. But these circles are neither prisons nor fortresses. They hold us together. They contain my love.