So you think you are ready to adopt a dog? I’m here to tell you how to prepare for the arduous screening process that awaits you. This isn’t some “find the cutest puppy and live happily ever after” type of fairy tale. The process is as intense and selective as adopting a white baby in America, and can take up to several months, depending on the availability of a character witnesses.
I was surprised by the lack of response on inquiries I made about dogs that I was interested in adopting. One response that I did get back snidely informed me that “Corgis need a lot of exercise and without a yard, it is doubtful that this can be accomplished.” Uh, and I don’t require a lot of exercise? My cupcake consumption alone guarantees that I need to spend a sweaty thirty minutes every day on the treadmill. And do I do it? NO. Because I’d rather be fat and happy than skinny and licking people’s lip gloss off of their lips all of the time.
Also, I know for a fact that Corgis are fat and lazy, with legs far too short to be conducive to proper exercise. This is precisely why I narrowed my search to “fat, old, corgis”. And this was only after the search for “three-legged corgi” returned zero results. Finally, I find it hard to believe that a dog would be happier in a 2’x2′ cage, lounging around in its own urine and filming commercials with Sarah McLachlan playing in the background. I didn’t appreciate this lady’s advice, and I didn’t appreciate her putting a dog’s health before my own.
I finally got someone to call me back regarding a wrinkly little puppy named Preston, and I thought the hard part was over. I was wrong. This actually began the highly invasive and uncomfortable portion of the adoption process.
On my application, I stated that I would be getting this dog with my boyfriend, Kellstein. The rescue agency quickly morphed into couples counselors. As soon as they got to the bottom of our “no, you do the dishes” fights, they made us choose who would keep the dog in the event that we split up. “I would,” we both said at the same time, my eyes glistening a little, my armpits becoming little lagoons of sweat.
Next, the agency called my first grade school teacher to ask if I had ever drawn a picture that would imply I had a violent tendency towards animals. My grade school priest was their next target, and they got him to rat me out on my early confessional sessions. They rested easier, knowing that the worst thing I had done up until that point was steal Reese’s Cups from my brother and convince him that he already eaten them (one perk of not being an only child, I suppose – you get more candy). I then peed in a cup so they could test my drug use (just Aleve), and showed them my W-2, family medical history, and fourth grade report card (C in Math = Strike 2).
At this point, I thought that I was home free, but there was still the meet and greet portion. I showed up to the predetermined meeting site, and was so nervous that peeing my pants wasn’t entirely out of the question. I wondered what would happen if I didn’t pass the inspection. Would a firing squad be sent out to finish me off? Would I be placed on the pet adoption black list? Luckily the puppy seemed to like me. When he wasn’t licking his own balls, he was trying to lick my face, which I took as a good sign. The lady told me that I was approved for dog adoption. Success! She asked me if I wanted a plastic microchip tag, or a sterling silver one. By this time I was on to them. “Does it come in platinum?” I asked sweetly. The lady smiled. I had passed their little test.
We brought the dog home, and he immediately jumped on the couch and fell asleep. So I guess you could say that he passed my little test, too.