The perfect dog always lets you sleep in when you want to.
The imperfect dog loudly informs you he needs to smell something in the back yard at 2 a.m.
The perfect dog is only interested in her own food.
The imperfect dog perfects traits of super strength and gymnastic ability to find a stray cookie crumb on top of the refrigerator.
The perfect dog greets every person and dog on the block with a gently wagging tail and an appropriate level of interest.
The imperfect dog lunges to the end of his leash barking or snarling. Or gives an enthusiastic greeting that includes comparing his nails to the strength of the greetee’s shirt before doing a free testicular cancer screening with his cold, damp nose.
The perfect dog watches quietly from her bed while you put groceries away before soliciting fun with a play bow and a toy dropped at (not on) your feet.
The imperfect dog can’t believe you’re not going to let the ice cream melt all over the floor while you play a rousing game of tug so she amuses herself with whatever she can find in the not-yet-unpacked grocery bags.
The perfect dog could live in any household interchangeably and everyone would love him.
The imperfect dog finds just the right home with people who wouldn’t change a thing about her (after they count to ten and say the Serenity Prayer a few times).
This post is dedicated to all the imperfect dogs I’ve loved. And to my husband who doesn’t expect me to be perfect. But especially to Honey–who I recently discovered was not perfect while coloring my hair and noticed dye splattering all over the freshly painted wall, baseboard moldings my husband had given hours of his life to build, and the new linoleum floor we had just gotten installed. Where was it coming from? From a puppy-tooth puncture wound in the back of the bottle.
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