I’m Scared of My Dog
An analysis of complex human-puppy relationship and a love letter to my Enzo.
Dreams have never been gentle with me. I wake up sweaty in the middle of the night from fire, blood, inescapable voids, monsters, and monstrous human beings, reaching around searching for Enzo’s body like a person drowning. Is my hand too sweaty and too cold, or did his body lose its warmth? Either way, it brings me a mini panic attack. I press my ear against his chest, scream quietly so I don’t wake up my partner. ‘Hey, hey, Enzo, are you still alive?’
He doesn’t respond the first time. I shake his body and call his name again. He lifts his eyelids slowly, gives me an impatient look, turns around, lets out a deep sigh, and falls asleep again.
We repeat this every other night.
Oh, I haven’t told you, Enzo is the name of my dog.
He is a two-year-old Mini Australian Shepherd, full of fluff. We call him Enzo because the first time we met him, we felt like he looked like an Enzo.
Enzo, Enzo, Zozo, Zozy, Zozy butt. We call him these hundreds of times a day. Sometimes he sits right next to me, but I still call his name, again and again, trying to get his reaction, and perhaps as an act of searching.
Sometimes he searches for me at night too. I can feel his warm snoot approaching; if the night is quiet enough, I can hear his steady, sweet breath and strong heartbeats. He squeezes himself next to me, rests his chin on my neck or forehead, his whisker brushing over my eyelid. I try to sync my breath with his.
Nobody ever warned me how cruel it is to own a dog, a restricted free spirit.
If I spend time analyzing my feelings, I would realize my love for him comes from deep guilt. The friendship between us is artificial, as I have absolute power over him. There isn’t pure friendship if I get to decide when he can go out, when he can eat, how fast he can walk, when I desire to brush his teeth, or where he sleeps. I don’t love him because he is fluffy or because he cuddles me every night. I love him because I have to. Ethics bind me to love him. He is a fool. He trusts me foolishly, so now I owe him my life.
His trust scares me. When he shows me his belly, when he is snoring quietly, when he has nothing to do but look at me for hours. It scares me and keeps me restless. Fool, don’t you know that I’m the creature that jails you?
He has yielded everything to me, so now every breathing second I worry about death approaching him. I’m stressed if I call his name and he doesn’t answer; I put my hand in front of his nose while he is napping just to make sure he is still breathing. He is perfectly healthy, and I believe the anxiety I have is a curse I deserve.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I would choose to have him in a million multiverses because I can’t imagine being without him (perhaps in some ways he has jailed me too). His existence brings me to the present. When we are on a walk, I’m forced to pay attention to the surroundings and small pieces of nature around me. I have to match his pace, study the weather, and focus on where his snoot is leading. He constantly looks back to check on me for reassurance. I simply have no time to think about others while giving him the attention he requests. I read a paper this week saying that when humans and dogs gaze into each other’s eyes, we both release the hormone oxytocin, which is supposed to make both of us feel loved and happy. I do feel loved, but also a lot more than that; I feel bitter, guilty, hopeful, and consoled.
Is this how it feels to have a kid? I sometimes wonder. It must be simpler, knowing that I was once a kid myself and understanding that the process of growing up is the process of taking power back from parents and society. I know that as a kid they will finally grasp how we run things and maybe even impact it.
But dogs, they will remain powerless and innocent. One day Enzo’s hair will turn grey, and his eyes will become cloudy. He will die as my baby and leave me thinking about him for the rest of my life.
I’m flipping through my journal as I write this piece. Earlier this year, I wrote in my journal, ‘Is having a dog an act of reinforcing anthropocentrism or an act of challenging it?’ I still don’t have the answer. Then I saw what I wrote in January 2022, when Enzo was just a few months old: ‘I took him to PetSmart to get new toys on Sunday. It started to rain heavily the second we left the store. He was tiny, shaking in my arms, his fur damp. I held him tight, feeling an urge to protect him from anything and everything that might possibly hurt him. My feelings for dogs are perhaps much more complex than those I have for people. My affection for dogs is fundamentally a conversation with myself, my own interpretation of existence, and my slow observation and adaptation in this world. In the end, my love for him is essentially my love for the world, for myself, for “be” and “being.” When I look into Enzo’s eyes, I see a soul in this endless universe. While I’m looking into his soul, the abyss looks into me as well.’