Dogs

I don't like Dogs.

Actually, that's not true. I like little dogs. Sweet, fluffy, lick-your-face-with-their-tiny-tongues dogs. Those are sweet, and hardly count as dogs. More like canine-esque kitty-kats mixed with a bit of gerbil. Big dogs, on the other hand, make me break out in emotional and mental hives. This is incredibly inconvenient, because I am apparently a dog-whisperer. I have never met a big dog that didn't think I was just the most amazing, wonderful thing it had ever met and proceed to ignore everyone else in the room until I had petted and loved on it.

I work as a nanny in a home with a Pit Bull and a Chocolate Lab that I detest. To say that I hate these dogs is an understatement akin to saying that Hitler was a painter with some anger issues. They are my own personal Marley. They jump, they drool, they steal the baby's toys (and eat them), and they wait until right after I put the baby down to find something offensive in the street that must be immediately barked at. My hatred, which I do all I can to project toward these animals, has absolutely no affect whatsoever on the drooling, obnoxious love they insist upon showing me. I suppose I could find greater meaning in this, something about how dogs love unconditionally, blah, blah, blah.

But I won't. If I did, I would have to admit that she does, in fact, have redeeming features, which, while it may or may not be true, I refuse to do.

I like cats quite a bit, although I wish I could get through a bowl of cereal without a furry face in mine asking "You gonna finish that milk?" To which I sulkily reply "Apparently not"