I’m not afraid of dogs. (Well, some, yeah. But only the scary ones.) I just don’t like them. There’s a difference. When I see a dog on the street, my reaction is to walk away from it, not make eye contact with it and sure as heck not let it touch (or, God forbid, lick) me. Notice how I consistently refer to dog as an “it” or a “them” instead of using a gendered pronoun. That’s not an accident. Please don’t correct me.
But I’m not a horrible person.
If it’s wandering around your house, that’s fine. (I might say I’m allergic to dogs, but I’m not. That’s my polite way of saying that I’d rather not be in the same room as it.) I’m not going to help you get it in its cage or feed it for you or anything. And I won’t let it jump on me or sit on my lap and if it tries too hard, I might push it. But that’s just so both of us will be happier! It deserves someone better. I just really don’t want a dog on my lap. Gross. It might breathe on my face or something. No thanks.
Please don’t make me hold it, or pet it, or make me responsible for it in any way. It doesn’t know who I am and it definitely won’t listen to me, so please don’t make me try and call it. And it smells bad. It doesn’t matter when you last gave it a bath. It’s smelly and hairy, and that hair comes out and it’s gross.
But look how reasonable I am! I’m not anti-dog in life. Just in my presence, and even then, I just don’t want it to touch me. I don’t mind really tiny cute puppies (my love of babies trumps my dislike of canines), pictures of dogs, or videos and stuff. And I definitely don’t mind that you like dogs. My dislike of them just means more dogs for you! And since you like them, that’s a good thing in your head! For some reason. Will you just call it so it goes over there or something? Please?
by Anna Meyer