THIS IS US

I Adopted the Wrong Dog

Meet Fish, my boss

This is my boss, Fish. Photo courtesy of the author.

Don’t freak out about the headline. Fish doesn’t know he’s the wrong dog; I’m the only one agonizing about our relationship. As far as Fish is concerned, my house is a pretty nice hotel, although the staff could be better trained.

Fish (not his real name) came into my life — or perhaps I should say I dropped into his — on a cold day in March. I had just put down my beloved, apricot-colored shepherd, Millie (also not her real name). I understand a dog dying is agony for everyone, but Millie’s case was all the more unimaginable because it’s pretty clear the emergency vet killed her. I know I sound unhinged when I say that, but the vet gave me a lot of money back, so it’s pretty clear they knew they killed her, too.

After Millie died, I knew what kind of hollow grief was ahead of me. I’m not new to dead animals. I knew I was susceptible to really bad decisions, and I knew I should wait to get another dog. Even though we were deep in a pandemic, a dog-less life is a perfect time to travel. Why not try out that pink hotel in Hawaii? Or rent a beach house that Millie could never have shared, because she was too slobbery and hairy and somehow, no matter what the season, always muddy.