Yes. I had a rabbit that I named Darling. Suck it.

Kylie insists on her walks. She is insistent in a way that would make a Jehovah’s Witness banging on your door seem like a melody. There is a lot of pawing, and whining and pacing. You cannot go near your sneakers without her freaking the FUCK out because OH MY GOD she might get to go Elsewhere, which is definitely better than Here, this House that holds her captive.

I’ve determined, through a very scientific poll (consisting of opinions from complete strangers), that she is part Shepherd and part Aussie Cattle dog. She is of dubious pedigree, but those are the two breeds that seem to rise most to the surface. Sweet Moses, if you ever want to have a dog that just sits and wants to be pet and loved on while in front of a crackling fire, do not, DO NOT, acquire an Aussie Cattle or any variation of said dog. They are working dogs, and since I am not planning on acquiring sheep or cattle for her to herd, she needs more exercise than most people can handle. You would think her chores of clearing the dishwasher and vacuuming and peeling grapes for me to eat would wear her out, but NO. She needs an hour long walk EVERY DAY. I’ve tried explaining to her that even God took a day off to rest, but it would appear that Jesus is not, in fact, her homeboy.

We didn’t have REAL pets growing up. There was a passing relationship with two rabbits during the second grade. That era ended with one, Snowy, falling into the pool and drowning and the other, my rabbit Darling, dying, unceremoniously, by the garbage cans. My father put Darling into a lunch baggie and threw him over the fence into a dumpster, which seemed like the right thing to do but put me into paroxysms of grief over not being able to give him a proper burial. I had envisioned a headstone, some touching words and music – in retrospect, I probably felt more cheated out of the dramatics of the funeral than I was upset about Darlings dying. We determined he had suffered from a broken heart, Snowy having taken her final swim only weeks before. We constantly found litters of baby bunnies that Snowy had disemboweled, so we assumed they were lovers. Apparently Snowy didn't want to share Darling with anyone since she kept eating her young. Bitch.

There were also some fish that somehow always ended up being flushed down the toilet, much to my mothers relief. She had raised four children and didn’t see why it was necessary to start all over again with a menagerie of animals that would never be able to pick up their own poop or clean up after themselves. Keenly aware of her workload, I understood her reasoning, but coveted, COVETED, a dog. I got my wish. One that requires more work than I had thought possible out of something that weighs only 45lbs and can't talk back.

I understand her misgivings, now. I think if I had children, in addition to Kylie, I would be an insufferable shrew, wearing a house-coat and curlers and yelling things like “GET YOUR OWN MAC ‘N CHEESE! BE QUIET, MY STORIES ARE ON! SOMEONE BRING MAMA A CIGARETTE!” I would give up based on the amount of Need that was being aimed my direction. But since I just have Kylie, I’m thankful that these daily marches are keeping me in some sort of shape and that I have such a lovely, albeit neurotic, dog to keep me company at all times. Plus, she makes a great martini. That took WEEKS of training.

She’s pawing at me now, her whine reaching a decibel that is beyond irritating, so off we go. There are days when I would welcome the Jehovah’s Witnesses. At least they would let me sit on my ass while they put forth their spiel and would take care of their own poop…though they probably wouldn't be as cute, or have that patch of fur between their ears that smells like heaven. Now THAT would be an awkward comparison test to ask for.