On an inauspicious March day in 2005, I wandered in to my local Petcetera. I walked out a new woman, reformed by the soulful gaze of a skinny, mangy puppy sitting with eyes full of heart.
You know those smart people who pick up long lost paintings by masters from dumpsters, seeing past the banged up frames and layers of soot? I have the dog version of that.
My dog is one of a kind. She’s basically outsider art.
Do I care when all the other yoga pant wearing Starbucks drinking doggy mommies strut by the by my front yard with their designer doggies looking askance at my scruffy baby? Nope.
Do I complain when I come home and have to pick up a little garbage because my dog has once again rooted through the trash looking for butter wrappers? Nope.
Do I care that Tessa hasn’t exactly made the doggy varsity team? Or can fetch or catch or do any of the traditional doggy tricks? No.
I love her unconditionally. But this dog, the dog I love and dote on, the dog that spends hour upon hour with me out in the yard, the dog who has her own spot on the couch, the dog who has unchallenged first right of occupancy to prime real estate in front of every window, this dog has a secret problem.
Like a ninja in the night we don’t see her come and go, we only know where she has been by the little clues she leaves behind.
Behold, the ninjapoo of shame.