We always had a dog or two growing up on the farm, but they were outside. They did what dogs should do, running free, chasing animals, and happily rolling around in their own poop (which often dried into their fur in the hot summer sun, forcing my dad to get out the sheep shears to give the poor dog a buzz cut).

Living in the city, I would be hard-pressed to see a good reason to get a dog. A dog large enough to be of any value to society is too large to keep cramped up inside, regardless of whether you have a one-bedroom apartment or a five-bedroom house. Any dog small enough to comfortably live indoors is only good for grinding, seasoning, and filling a corn or flour tortilla. Or at least this is what I would be forced to do to cover up the crime of my snapping the dog's neck the first time it hyperactively yip-yip-yipped when a neighbor child tucked into bed two doors down quietly farted in the wrong direction. Then would come the mysterious Cinqo de Mayo block party hosted by Jeremy on the 7th of October. Eat up, everyone! If you bite down on an aluminum rabies vaccination tag, just spit it out. It's a prize. Like eating a piñata wrapped in tortilla!

I've only dated one woman for an extended length of time who had a dog. This is not a conscious objection to dogs, just happenstance. Almost 3 years ago, for a period of 6 weeks, I dated a woman in St Paul who lived with her wee little yip machine. It was some sort of muttish pomeranian mix with a shrill bark and a weak bladder. Each time she or a guest would arrive at her door, the dog would explode in a flurry of piercingly high-pitched barks, punctuated by dribbles of urine falling from it's furry dog-gina. It also couldn't be more than 4 inches away from her at any given time, and it compulsively licked any exposed skin within reach. Sitting on the couch would result in the dog licking your hand. Standing up would result in the dog licking your feet. Making out on the couch would result in the dog trying to lick both of our necks at once, with alternating licks to the hands, fingers, feet, and toes. And I won't go into detail about our sex life, but suffice it to say that while some men may get a charge out of a dog licking their ass during intercourse, I do not.

Don't get me wrong--the dog would have been a small price to pay for this particular woman. I would never in a million years reject a beautiful, intelligent, funny, and charming woman such as her because of her dog. In time, I would get used to and maybe even grow fond of the little furball (I'm talking about the dog, not the girl). I would, however, reject such a woman if she had more than one dog. One dog is fine, but two dogs is one-and-a-half dogs too many. One cat? Not a big deal. Two cats? Just fine! And while three cats foreshadows an old woman living amongst shit-covered piles of dirty dishes and decades-old newspapers, cats are nothing like dogs in the level of attention they require. They are nonchalant and are perfectly content to do their own thing. Meanwhile, dogs are needy, have to be walked, let outside to crap, and are in need of constant supervision. If you have two of them, you might as well have a toddler running underfoot smearing pudding on your half-finished tax return and ruining your ipod by trying to use it as a Lego.

But I'm making it sound like I don't like dogs. I like dogs, but I don't like how we treat them. Dogs do not want to live inside. They want to live free and roam wide open spaces like the dogs we had on the farm. Those same dogs do not want to be tied to a leash or trapped in a pen in your back yard while during the 9 or 10 hours you are commuting and working each day. They are barking at (and annoying the shit out of) the neighbors and nipping at the mailman because they are bored, ignored, and being kept in conditions that go against every strand of their genetic history. Dogs also do not want to wear sweaters, booties, or reindeer horns on their heads no matter how adorable it might be for your precious photo for the Christmas letter. Dogs do not want to be carried around in purses, forced to fly in a carrier with you each time you travel, or left to rattle around loose in the back end of your pickup as you careen around street corners at 30 miles per hour. Dogs are not people. But they are also not inanimate property to be paid attention to only when it's convenient. They are a responsibility that most busy, self-absorbed Americans probably don't deserve.