Surviving Puppyhood: A Reckoning with Childfree by Choice
Did you know puppy blues are a thing?
I adopted my first dog in 2009. Eunice was at least seven years old, a mixed breed who was a little rough around the edges but small and almost toothless, so a lot less intimidating than she thought. My boyfriend and I had just moved into our own place, and we were giddy to have a dog. She was already house-trained and content to be left on her own, so she only added to our lives: cuddles, walks, affection, and companionship. Her one flaw was her tenacious search for food: I found her on my bed with the half-empty takeout containers she’d discovered after she tipped the garbage can in the kitchen. Another time, she pulled a freezer bag full of banana muffins from the countertop and ate them all.
My boyfriend and I agreed we didn’t want children, although being unmarried and only twenty-some years old, I had some sense that there was time to change my mind, if I wanted. We broke up after seven years together, but the only point of conflict was who would get to keep Eunice. (I did.) When she died at thirteen, I was so overcome with grief I could not imagine suffering a loss more profound.
I was only a few weeks into dating my now-husband when I told him I didn’t want kids. I was 36, and with each passing year, I had only grown more convinced that motherhood was not for me. I held my breath, waiting for his reply. I knew my confession would either allow the most promising relationship of my life to continue or abruptly end it. He told me it wasn’t a dealbreaker for him.
When we moved in together and started talking about a dog, I was adamant about adopting from a shelter, based on my rewarding experience with Eunice. However, we soon learned that most shelters are not interested in adopters who live in a flat in London, with no private garden – unless the dog had behavioural or serious health issues we were not prepared to manage. We kept looking, but were discouraged…until our friend found a dog wandering behind her block of flats, just inside the North Circular in London. It was a skinny, fearful Shiba Inu, with no microchip and no one to claim him. So we did.
For my partner, Dojo did not provide a typical first-dog experience. He was afraid of absolutely everything and suffered from a series of mild to serious illnesses for the two and a half years we had him, until it was finally time for us to let him go. We gave him the happiest life we possibly could, but his continuous suffering due to previous abuse and neglect will haunt me forever.
Without Dojo, we had new freedom: from worrying about his health; from eye-watering vet bills; from being tied to our home, where he preferred to be most of the time. For me, the worry I carried for Dojo was such a burden, I couldn’t imagine the possibility of ever having kids – something I expect is exponentially worse (or more intense, depending who you ask). I can’t speak for my husband, but I think dealing with my anxieties about Dojo did nothing to make him desire children. We agreed we wouldn’t have them, definitively.
So we did whatever we liked. I spent extended time with my family in the U.S. I tagged along on my husband’s work trip to Singapore, we cruised Ha Long Bay in Vietnam, we went on safari in South Africa.
And so it was that we waited two years to look for another dog, again through shelters. But this time, I wanted a puppy, and I had leverage: we had a private garden set behind a little house nestled within the countryside. I’d had two older dogs, and they had broken my heart sooner than I believed was fair. I wanted a dog that I could nurture and love for its entire life. Selfishly, I wanted to be its only “person” – not the second or third or fourth in its long, hard life; not the one who tried to undo every bad thing that had happened to it. Stupidly, I wanted a “new” dog because I thought it would be perfect and healthy, and save me from all those old anxieties.
We had just booked a trip to Peru when I received a call back on one of our puppy applications from a shelter based in North London. A tri-color border collie, 10 weeks old, was ours, pending a meeting and home inspection.
How do you look at a puppy and not fall in love? It’s perfect pink paws, eyes too big for a face you can cup in your hand, silky soft coat?
Answer: You own a puppy.
Annie’s razor-sharp teeth and tiny claws destroyed everything she managed to clamp on to: my hands, legs, clothes, furniture. She whined – impossibly loudly for such a small thing – for the two minutes I put her in her crate so that I could go to the bathroom without worrying about what she might be ingesting. She put absolutely everything she found into her mouth, be it rocks, poop, plants, pillows, bedding, despite the fact there were literally hundreds of pounds worth of toys at her constant disposal.
Then add in potty training.
I didn’t write a word for months, and writing is not only my livelihood, but my happy place. I cried in the car outside the grocery store, in the few minutes that I had to myself. I believed I had destroyed my perfect, carefree, child-free life. I was convinced that this might even be worse than having a baby. While we both wanted a dog, I had advocated for a puppy; I apologized to my husband for ruining our lives.
Was it really that bad? Yes.
On top of the usual puppy stuff, Annie is highly sensitive to noise. This means she is anxious in pubs or cafes, places my husband and I had previously spent a lot of time. She is also anxious when she’s alone, so leaving her at home isn’t a great option, either.
Filled with misguided optimism, or maybe just desperate hope, we postponed our Peru trip twice in the first eight months with Annie. A few months ago, we finally cancelled it altogether and paid the fees. No, a new puppy is not covered by travel insurance, but maybe it should be. We just can’t leave her for two or three weeks – at least not while she’s so young.
I started doing the math: a child is the parent’s responsibility for 18 years. A border collie can live up to 15 years. What was the actual difference, if I couldn’t go anywhere, or do anything, or spend even my days at home doing as I liked?
It turns out the difference is this: a puppy is only a puppy for a year or so. Of course babies grow up, too. But as Annie has matured, she’s become quieter and more docile. Children, I expect, do not – at least not for many years.
Annie is an indispensable part of my life now. I love her beyond measure, and when I really think about my love for her – about how I can feel it deep in my heart, so intensely that my eyes tear and I’m compelled to dwell for a moment on how much it will hurt for anything bad to happen to her, ever, and all the things I must do to protect her from ever feeling pain or loss or sadness – I have to consider how it must feel to love a baby. My baby. While I will never know that kind of love, my closeness to Annie gives me enough of a sense of it to feel more confident in my child-free decision. The love I feel for her was not evident when she was very young, stealing all of my freedom and space and patience.
I spent a lot of time regretting my choice to adopt her, and even now, my husband says that while he loves her, he wouldn’t have minded if we never got a puppy.
My dog occupies a lot of space in my heart and in my life, but not all of it and not nearly as much as a child might. The space that remains, just for me, is necessary. It represents what I’m willing to give, and what I’m not.
Monica Cardenas writes the Bad Mothers Substack, about family estrangement and all the ways women subvert the one-dimensional patriarchal ideal of womanhood.
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Huge thanks Monica for sharing your experiences with us. As you know, I myself resonate deeply, and I do have a story to share along these lines. I'm still figuring it all out. :-)
Oh do I feel this!! When I got my first dog as an adult - a puppy - I was overjoyed and then quickly dropped into the depths of the puppy blues. It is absolutely a thing! It was incredibly hard and I don't know if I'd do it again despite how intensely I love my dog.