At this moment I can breathe a sigh of relief. It passed. And I don’t have a litter of puppies, short cropped hair, pants with no legs, a dozen bathrobes, several online purchases with no purpose or furniture I certainly won’t use and can not fit into my apartment. Success.
But I can’t say that my latest “episode” passed without considerable discomfort, preoccupation, aggravating lack of fulfillment on my part or without great annoyance to all of my acquaintances. Such is life with compulsions.
If I insert the word “dog” or “puppy” into my gmail search box, it vomits up about several hundred emails.
Why? Because for more than a week straight I have been fixated upon, obsessed with, totally consumed by and in slavery to the idea of getting a puppy. A dog. A dog small enough to fit into my apartment and so it must look like a puppy--- if such a thing exists.
Oh they do exist. They are called, “designer puppies” instead of “runt muts” “truly sick dogs who will never grow to a healthy size” or “mixed dogs with heads much larger than they would be had the genetic experiment called breeding not gone horribly wrong”. These dogs have strange names—like “Poo” inserted into every other syllable. A Malti-poo-chi-poo.
A what?!
That’d be a Maltese mixed with a poodle shoved inside of a Chihuahua. And it poos. They all do.
“Well if you want a dog THAT small,” said one email from a friend “it won’t require much besides throwing it in your purse and getting on with things. Except it will probably pee all over your ipod, keys, cell phone and shit but other than you’re golden.”
Another email read:
“Please, for the love, do not get a dog. You do not need one. This will pass.”
I had to remind myself it would pass when I laid in bed at night, trying to pray or fall asleep, and instead of an Amen my mind would wander off to doggy-land much to my own annoyance.
“Every time I think of this dog I must have, I get sick to my stomach. I don’t want it. But I’m obsessed with getting it,” I told people.
On a day when Jacob and I went to look at a pup for sale, advertised as a “Teacup Peek-a-poo”, I ground my car to a halt in front of a sunny yellow house in Sierra Madre. The man showing us the dog said, “Oh let me go get her,” and went inside. I expected him to return with a tiny ball of fuzz in his arms. Two seconds later a white dog the size of a motor scooter burst through the door and ran full speed at Jacob and me. Our eyes widened and I backed up at the toothy beast that was no where near being teacup size.
“Holy crap!” Jacob said, half running from the dog. It turned to me and jumped as high as my shoulder.
“Uhh….wow….this is bigger than I expected….”
“Well they are really hard dogs to find,” the owner said softly. “My wife just can’t have it anymore….”
What really happened, I assume, is that the dog outgrew the woman’s purse, then the foot of her bed broke off from its weight, then it couldn’t get placed in the back seat of her car and before they knew it, their alleged little “poo” dog was the size of a bull mastiff and definitely not willing to get dressed up in all the little outfits available for the fun individuals who think it is normal to put clothes—- and ugly clothes at that-- on dogs.
I don’t even approve of people who provide these animals. These “breeders” primarily exist in the Midwest, it seems. Is that because they are far from animal rights groups? I don’t think so. I think it’s because these breeders need enough room to raise their children and the dogs in the same pens.
“See how well we welp our pups? They grow up with our children!” Their advertising reads. My face grimaced at the sight of the children and the dogs in a farm pen.
Is that worse for the kids or the dogs? Or do they just start to seem like the same thing?
“Only 250 dollars for shipping,” the websites say. My compulsive self nods and heads for the “purchase” button on the adorable pictures of puppies when I think of something:
What if they send me one of their kids instead of the dog?
“Oops! Sorry about that. We told you we welp them together--- isn’t a child just as fun as a dog? You can dress up children just like dogs.” I imagine their response. I sigh and force my hand away from the purchase button. I’m not ready to have a child at this point. And who wants to risk it?
The problem with compulsions is that they come on with intensity and then when they’ve done their damage, they leave. And when they leave you are left with things you never really wanted.
“Why do you have all these bathrobes with tags on them?” Someone asks me. I try to brush it off.
“Umm…a shower….for….did you want a sandwich? I could make you one.”
It was a bad, bad, night, that night I got the bathrobes. It was two days before Christmas and something mind-bogglingly awful had happened.
And at Christmastime bathrobes are hard to find. So the only two I finally found after hours of eager searching through stores are absolutely hideous. I am afraid if I donate them to Goodwill or elsewhere someone will actually get those bathrobes and then they will cry. So I keep them in a wad on my dresser—a reminder that I should refrain from going out of doors whenever I get an “episode”. I should stay home and keep myself away from the computer.
“You know you could rent a dog,” A says to me at work as he leans over the top of my desk with his lanky six-foot frame.
“That’s not a good idea, see, because I really don’t want a dog.”
“But you’ve been obsessed with this for days.”
“I know…and it makes me sick. I don’t want a pet. I don’t need a pet. But something inside me needs this pet and keeps whining at me about it.”
Just a small hint to those of you still searching for social skills--- saying things like that at work is just not a good idea. It elicits open-mouthed stares and offers for free medication.
But since I am as self-aware as I am compulsive I have the wherewithal to refuse and to resist the urges that come up from the back of my head in these times. And having this issue as part of my personality actually helps me in my job--- being obsessed with things is key to being a good researcher. Which I am. It is not, however, what most people would call or admit to being, “normal”.
I do, though, have the awareness to know where these episodes are coming from. I know exactly why a dog suddenly burst onto the scene as my latest obsession. I know why I bought all those bathrobes. I know why I cut my hair off a few times. I know why I had to eliminate the legs from my jeans. I know why I have furniture I do not use. I know why I must master the urge to purchase everything listed under "C" on ebay. And I do master it. I resist. I am strong enough at times to withstand myself.
But like all the stories we don’t tell--- the ones in the background…the humming, stress-inducing, painful or anxiety-giving stories droning inside of us--- the “why” remains untold. I can tell you that I am a compulsive obsess-a-holic.
I just won’t tell you why.
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