Remember that rescue dog I wrote about a couple weeks back?
Well, we got her.
After calling her a litany of randomly confusing names that probably turned the poor fuzzy fckker schizophrenic, my mom and sister settled on “Baby Girl” as her official title. (Ironic, given her gargantuan proportions.) And, I’ve got to admit, I love her almost as much as I love durian or jogging. The behemoth hound weighs more than I do, is taller than I am when standing, has a heart of gold, and the scrunchiest forehead on the planet. Even today, when she did the canine equivalent of an inmate gas-bomb to my mom’s upstairs loo, I was all too glad to aid in the post pyrotechnic level excrement parade dog cleanup. (Actually, it’s also ’cause my parents are 100 years old apiece and I didn’t want to have the police come by my place later, saying the BFG had dragged them down the street mid hose-shower, skinning them alive in the process, pickup truck hate crime style).
But part of my dog adoration bothers me.
That same “Why don’t I feel this way about infants?” thing I always wonder.
But, after reading this article, I think I get it. It’s a relational thing. There was this study done where two different questions were posed, with the same Superman premise, but slightly different wording. I’m paraphrasing, but essentially it boiled down to: 1.) “Would you help a stranger – or a dog – if both were in peril?” and 2.) “Would you help a stranger – or your dog – if both were in peril?” I have to admit, that while it wasn’t the popular answer, I might still save the rando-dog and tell all the slack jawed, disgusted onlooker crowd, “What? I didn’t see or hear the man screaming for his life and saying, ‘God help me! I have children!’…” (Besides, why didn’t they jump in and help, the judgey arseholes?) Even so, the fact that forty percent said they’d help their dog over the soon to be expired stranger made me feel a bit better. Partially because I feel like the rest are lying. And also because I’m sure I agree with that forty (plus) percent. It’s different when it’s your family.
And family is furever. (#worstzingever)
Now, just don’t ask me what I’d do if I had to choose between related-infant and adopted-dog.
(Probably just close my eyes hope they save each other, like I did during that one Family Guy episode).
