Fish and I: Where are We Now?
We’ve accepted that we’re stuck with each other.
In January, I wrote a confessional that I had adopted the wrong dog. Fish (not his real name) landed at my house eleven days after my beloved apricot shepherd died, because I couldn’t responsibly manage my grief. I saw a video of him trying to curl up in a plastic bucket at the Lancaster animal shelter, and suddenly found myself driving past broken-down RVs and random desert billboards on my way to get him, sobbing every five minutes.
When we got home, it soon became clear to both Fish and me that we might not be a match. He is all muscle and energy, and I am gooey. He believes the world is filled with danger at every turn, and …well, on that we are starting to agree. But we are still very different.
Eight months after the confessional, nothing has changed and everything has changed. Fish still hates men. All of them. I tell men who meet him that the key to Fish is to simply ignore him. Do not look him in the eye, do not try to throw a ball, do not say shit like “hey buddy!” If men follow these directions, then maybe, just maybe, Fish might open a fragile dialogue.
But men cannot follow these instructions. Not a single one. The other day Fish and I were at an outdoor cafe with his new agility instructor, and a man approached us to tell…
