When I didn't have a dog, I dreamed about the days when I finally would. I pictured long walks to far flung parks where I would spend an afternoon reading and dozing in the sun with my beloved pal resting against my legs. Or maybe a chilly fall evening, fully content with a steaming mug of tea in one hand, a book in the other, and my dog curled up on the rug at my feet. Hours of bliss while chipping away at my TBR pile with my loyal companion by my side. So cozy, so peaceful, so naive.
I think that's what many of us book folk imagine when we think about inviting a pet into our lives. The coziness, the peace. What we don't imagine is pushing the cat off our open book for the 23rd time, or removing books from the bottom shelves of the bookcase to save them from sharp and unforgiving puppy teeth. And we definitely don't imagine a hungry cat pulling books off a shelf at 5 AM trying to wake us up, or having to trudge out into a cold, rainy December night to walk the dog. Decidedly not cozy on the couch, decidedly not reading a book, and don't even ask about what dog vomit does to the pages of the brand new hardcover you just splurged on.
