There is something missing in my life.
A void. An absence.
Like my friend Magda always says, "Sometimes I just want to pet something."
Walking around campus, I must restrain myself and put my hands in my pockets. I see a fat squirrel gnawing on an acorn in the park by Abbot Hall. I want to chase the little bugger down and grab him and wrap him in an enormous bear hug. Well, squirrel hug would be a more accurate description.
Even the ducks who swim in the Red Cedar River by Wells Hall are in jeopardy of my pet nostalgia. Those intimidating ducks that have an aggressive-sounding bark instead of the typical "quack" somehow give me the warm fuzzies.
Beware, wildlife in East Lansing. I want to pet you.
I better pay a visit to Olin and make sure my rabies shots are updated.
When the snow thaws and humanity emerges from the cold, all the dog walkers come to life along Grand River Avenue. I've seen a girl walking a toy dog wearing a pink sweater and a jogger accompanied by a mutt.
There's always the smart boy strolling around with a new puppy and getting stopped by hoards of girls with requests to pet the fuzzy creature. Sure, I'll admit I've been temporarily blinded by a stranger's Labrador puppy and wanted to date him solely on the fact that his pet was irresistibly cute.
All of these animals I see around East Lansing put me in a temporary petless depression. Unfortunately, I am wise to know from my past experiences how difficult it is to have a pet when I'm lacking a spacious house. Living in the dorms with an animal was disastrous.
After a friend's hamster gave birth to about a hundred babies who quickly resorted to cannibalism and tried to eat each other, my roommate and I stepped in and saved one.
Goliath, a brown hamster, was definitely trouble.
Time after time, Goliath escaped from his cage.
Time after time, we would find him in the strangest places: stuck inside the toaster, under the residence mentor's bed, sleeping in a nest of bras in the closet.
Miraculously the little hamster survived two years in the dorms.
Now that I've used the remnants of my loft as firewood and rid myself of the dorms, I dream bigger. I don't want a hamster or an animal that lives inside a little tank.
I want a dog.
Sometimes the only reason I've gone back to my hometown is to pay a visit to my basset hound Romeo, whose birthday lands on Valentine's Day.
My laundry might be mountainously high; my taste buds wouldn't be able to even identify home cooking anymore. And I need some good basset hound cuddling to top it all off.
The moment I open the door, I always receive a warm, wiggling welcome from Romeo. He jumps up on me with his short, stubby legs, and I momentarily panic and try to avoid the strands of drool streaming from his jaws.
Romeo lands on the ground, and I notice what a strange sight he is. His ears are so long that they drag in his food dish when he eats. During his earlier puppy years, he unmercifully tripped on them.
His sad, droopy red eyes give off the impression that he desperately needs antidepressants.
Whenever I'm home, Romeo becomes my right-hand man. Whenever we cruise together in the car, I can't keep a straight face. Romeo sticks his head out the window so his ears flop uncontrollably in the wind. Except it isn't that funny when we return home, and I scrub Romeo's thick drool that is encrusted on the side of the car.
I've temporarily forgotten about the horrors of Romeo's puppy days. I no longer relive the agony of attempting to walk a stubborn puppy who refused to leave home.
When Romeo was a few weeks old, he would sit down in the middle of the street as I pulled at his leash and begged him to move. He naturally declined, so I would pick him up and carry him in my arms. Then when we turned around, he would happily trot back home. I'm sure my neighbors were puzzled by our odd spectacle.
Now back in East Lansing, I'm hundreds of miles away from my beloved basset hound. The only thing I can do now is try my best to ignore those stupid squirrels.
Gabrielle Russon is a State News staff writer. Reach her at russonga@msu.edu.
