Intervention Time.

I would like to request an intervention. But first, before you start hatching plans, I want the really dramatic kind. The kind where we can only speak while holding the therapy pillow. The kind where people are hysterical and demands are lobbed into the air like missed shots from the top of the key. And here's why...

I have a major problem, and I fully recognize it, which I believe is the first step. When our beloved  amazing-and-fourth-member-of-our-family, Pearl, passed away earlier this year, I spent a fair amount of time at the Wenatchee Valley Humane Society taking dogs for test drives, and usually while crying hysterically. I followed blogs about dogs. I trolled dog websites. And when we found our new “son” Zamperini, we were over the moon. We always said that we’d know our dog when we met him, and that’s exactly what happened. He’s a freak. But he’s our perfect freak.

All of this is very normal, and the perfectly acceptable behavior of a grieving dog mom.


But this is where it gets weird.


I can’t stop. I try to stop, and I can’t. I still visit the WVHS with alarming frequency. I review the list of adoptable dogs before I go to work. I still follow the blogs. And I show up to walk specific dogs with the very clear presented intention that I am there to adopt that very dog. Except that I’m not.


Now, mind you, I don’t stand in the way of anyone else adopting my pretend new pet. I’m not placing holds on them, and I’m not “really” claiming them as mine. If that is your perception of my behavior, frankly that’s your problem.


There is no way, under any circumstance, that we can adopt another dog. First, we don’t have the room. Second, we can barely manage Zamp. And third, my husband would very likely leave me. And I would be the single mother of a pre-teen and (at least) two dogs. Not pretty.

But you see, dear reader, I speak about them like I know them. Oh, Booster? He’s very shy. I think someone was mean to him and he’s timid around males. And Jarvis? Well isn’t Jarvis just the life of the party?! He’s most definitely a contender. Poor little Muffasa... he is simply misunderstood and frankly a bit overwhelmed by kennel life. I think a quiet home would be best for this little guy. These are the words that come out of my mouth- to friends, the WVHS staff, and volunteers. I sound like a maniac.


I see friends at the shelter who are doing legitimate volunteer work. IMPORTANT work. And I strut by, out on a walk, with my pretend new dog.


And I imagine myself adopting these dogs- the current obsessions are Jarvis and Booster, though last week it was Darrington- and we will go for trail runs and eat bologna and I will pack them around in a Baby Bjorn while a Michael Bolton soundtrack plays in the background. Zamp will love them. The universe will balance. Our yard will expand. I can find a way to earn extra income to pay for all the additional bologna. It’s ridiculous. And a bit alarming.


And so, dear reader, I implore you: If you see me at the WVHS taking a dog out on a walk (I’m not a legitimate volunteer) slap the leash out of my hand. And if you are within earshot of me talking about these dogs like they’re mine- ALL MINE!- slap me. Please.


So there. The first step is in the books.


Jennifer Korfiatis