The Caretaker
My dog, Fisher, is the world’s foremost expert on how I am feeling. Frequently, his actions predate my own recognition that I am sick or sad. It is strange to cohabitate with a member of another species. It’s even more humiliating that he knows me better than I know myself.
Fisher came to America from Korea when he was two years old. I found him at an adoption event in Queens on a day when everyone else was trying to adopt Corn, a hypoallergenic poodle with behavioral issues.
The rescue agency had assigned the name “Glory” to the dog who would soon become known as “Fisher.” I adopted him one year after Carrie Fisher died. He is named for a charming, eccentric, and publicly mentally ill woman who was obsessed with her dog.
It’s been over seven years since I adopted Fisher. We have lived alone together for five of those years. He sheds all over my black clothing and frequently informs me that he’s awake by jumping onto the bed and burping in my face. He barks at me when I am too slow to give him a treat after we go on a walk. I don’t know why he deserves a treat anyway — I’m the one who had to follow him around ready to pick up his poop.
But there’s a common Etsy-esque adage that you should be the person your dog thinks you are. Yes, I know my dog is attached to me and is loyal and he gets excited to see me.
But the truth is that my dog actually does know who I am — in his own little signals and lights mind — and his actions don’t always provide a flattering portrait of my overall well-being.
