Dog Days: Responsibility & reflection in trying times

My mother has a folder saved on her computer titled "Letters to Josephine". These are reserved for times she feels I have fucked up the most. Last November, when I got my puppy, Remy, I received several. These outlined the reservations she felt – the weight of commitment a dog posed, how she felt he would "severely limit life chances" – amid offers to sell him back to the breeder at any cost. 

I lost my job in December. I’ll be the first to admit getting a puppy was a defensive mechanism whereby I channelled my spiralling anxiety into Remy. I reasoned it would be an excellent opportunity to invest in training whilst keeping the mania at bay. Growing up with dogs, getting my own has always been on the list; redundancy simply expedited the process. Going "just for a look" soon turned into a "we’re getting a dog" text to my flatmate and a puppy arriving four days later. It was a double-down approach to my dwindling bank balance – as my mother pointed out, dogs are an expensive habit. Still, I reasoned the pros far outweighed the cons. 

Remy gets his name from the beloved rat protagonist of Ratatouille, sharing his penchant for fancy cheese. He arrived – eight kilos and confused. Fat and trusting, he was adorable right up until we started crate training whereupon he screamed for an hour straight. 

There were several oh fuck moments in the aftermath of getting Remy where I snuck to the toilet to sob for five minutes without my ankles being bitten. On the toilet, I googled puppy blues (a cousin to post-natal depression), finding a wealth of online support from dog parents experiencing the same feelings of overwhelming inadequacy. Many, like me, found the weight of responsibility caring for a creature whose quality of life depended entirely on one’s competency crushing. 

Remy fell sick his first month. I spent stressful nights on the sofa begging him to eat, cleaning up his mess when he could not. The helplessness of being unable to cure him and the frustrations of being unable to communicate this was maddening. I understood for the first time the fury that comes with parenthood – my mum’s annoyance at my refusal to finish my vegetables; the twinned desire to scream and hug. 

It is easy to make statements about the type of parent we would like to be; far more easy than it is to act upon them. I have found I have five minutes of gentle parenting in me per day. Remy has been a stiff introduction to motherhood, showing me in many shades exactly how I'm turning into my own mother – a glimpse in the mirror I have not particularly enjoyed. In my mid-20s, he is a layer of care and responsibility I had not forecasted. I am the sole dog owner of my friends – one of the youngest in our dog park. Remy’s quality of care is dictated by my actions; looking after him forces me to look after myself in order to make sure he is happy and well-cared for. Having him has pushed me to focus on my personal responsibilities at a much-needed time. 

Remy adds degrees of complexity into my life – even if he isn’t a human child. I have a dependant who is unsympathetic to hangovers, does not respect the privacy of a locked door, nor has patience over a delayed dinner. He is a freeloader who expects every fridge opening to herald a second breakfast. My plans, social and otherwise, require an element of forward planning; "But is it dog-friendly?" has become the cry at any proposed event. However, Remy is also the perfect excuse for leaving early. "The puppy’s feeling overwhelmed and needs to leave," I say, when I find myself unable to admit it’s me feeling overwhelmed. More often than not, the puppy in question is unconscious under a table.

My generation, the my dog is my child generation, are choosing to propagate later in life than our parents. We’re also choosing cockapoos over children. In part due to the rising cost of childcare (children are a far more expensive habit than dogs), anxiety over the climate crisis and prioritising careers, millennials and Gen Z alike are deferring parenthood. Dogs are a good compromise. They are always happy to see you and do not talk back or pass out aged 14 while well-cidered in fields. Dogs provide routine, responsibility, outlets for anxiety and much-needed companionship at times when loneliness can feel overwhelming. 

Now, at eight months and 24 kilos, Remy has matured slightly. Heading into his teenage iteration, he is currently experimenting with selective listening. Despite this, Remy enriches my life in countless ways. He drags me out of bed on the days I do not want to. He introduces me to new parts of the city and neighbours I have never met. He has opened far many more doors than, as my mother warned, "limit life chances" and I do not regret him in the slightest.