Why I Will Never Own a Dog

I have always liked dogs, and most definitely prefer them to cats. I have very fond memories of my old doggie, Jessie, who let me hold her when I was suffering through junior high. I think dogs are loyal, and fun, and great. But I will never own one. I don’t want to and it is Ryan’s fault.

Ryan is a germophobe. I can’t blame him. He basically spent the first several years of his life in the hospital.

If Ryan’s toothbrush has been “contaminated”—dropped on the floor, Doug played with it, its bristles touched the bristles of my toothbrush—Ryan will need to purchase a new toothbrush.

He has a Costco-sized hand-sanitizer dispenser of which he uses frequently and gargles with when necessary.

Ryan told me he was allergic to dogs so that I’d never pester him about owning one. It wasn’t until recently that he informed me that he is not actually allergic to dogs… it was just wishful thinking.

At restaurants, Ryan asks the server to “hold the ice” in his drink because I told him about the e coli content in fast food ice cubes (learned it on Oprah).

Consequently, I won’t tell him about the vast quantities of bacteria stewing in his loofah because that would really ruin his life.

I used to laugh at Ryan’s hand-washing germ-hating ways. But now, sadly, I have begun to subscribe to them.

In San Antonio, Ryan and I both brought our own bedding so we wouldn’t have to use the hotel’s comforters and pillows.

I probably take more squirts of the hand sanitizer each day than Ryan does.

And now whenever I see a dog, all I really see is a poop-making, hair-shedding, flea-enabling, garbage-licking creature of all that is unbathed and unsanitary (Oh wait... that sounds a lot like the hygiene of my toddler...hmmm).

So I will never own dog. Even though I love them. And it is all Ryan’s fault.