In pursuit of deep connection with just one creature
“Quality over quantity” applies to my love for animals, too
When I was little, I dreamed of having dozens and dozens (and dozens) of animals. I sketched entire house plans imagining where my pets would live. I’d offer the largest space to the dogs (part of the floor was to be built of trampolines; in hindsight I’m not sure my hypothetical canines would love the ground caving under their paws, but alas. I was nine). I’d line the cat room ceiling with balance beams. The small mammals would explore hundreds of clear tubes. Out back there’d be pigs and goats and maybe a donkey and definitely a reading hammock.
I never was able to renovate my bedroom, but I did achieve some of these fantasies in my parents’ house. For the bulk of my childhood I lived with two dogs, Larry and Lucy, and two cats, Charlotte and Ophelia. I had seven hamsters and two mice (though not at the same time) named Sunshine, Cookie, Muffin, Oreo, Nilla, Cocoa, Millie, Simba, and Nala. For a brief period I kept a rabbit called Biscuit, but we (rightfully) realized he wasn’t happy in our house and rehomed him to a family friend with an actual farm. (When we dropped him off and visited later on, I wanted to move in myself.)
I still love animals this much. More actually, I think, because I understand them better. Dogs and cats and rodents are no longer things for me to collect and force my (too often misguided) love upon—they are sentient beings, whole creatures independent of anyone else, and it’s a privilege to simply exist in the same world they do.
I do still want them in my home, of course. But only the ones who want to be there. (I’ve relinquished daydreams of otters and big cats.) And instead of a menagerie? I’m satisfied with a single partnership.
Scout has birthed in me greater appreciation for an ongoing, changing, deep relationship with another creature. I always imagined my entire crew of pets and I would be tightly bonded—that worked in my fantasy world and with my stuffed animals—but in real life connections take work. They require time. They demand presence. And while there are certainly multi-pet households who have strong one-on-one connections with each individual, it’s harder and less common than surface-level interactions. Did I love Larry less because we also had Lucy? Did I miss Ophi’s personality because I was too busy seeing Charlotte’s? Not quite—there were confounding variables: I was young; I was drowning in hormones and insecurity and junior high history day; all kids are narcissists—but I think part of it was quantity. There were four of them, one of me, and only so many hours in the day.
Now, going on six years living with Scout (and mostly only Scout), I sometimes worry I’ve developed a kind of “only child syndrome” with her. Are we too intertwined? Her struggles ruin my day; my shortcomings mar hers. Maybe we do need more regular outside perspective and external influence.
Sean helps, of course. He completes our trifecta, balances our extremes, refuses to let us fully box ourselves in. Fostering shelter dogs helped even more. Our fosters forced me to spend time apart from Scout—and not only that, they forced me to spend time apart from her in a stressful situation (unfamiliar animals in her home!?) where I’d typically be glued to her side to guide her through it. Our experiences with five new dogs allowed me to recognize that I could indeed love more than one creature. I could have more than one pet in my home at the same time.
It was all very healthy. And yet.
Sean and I have no desire to live with multiple animals right now. I madly respect multi-dog households—most of my friends in the online dog community have more than one companion—but I just don’t want to do it myself. Perhaps this assertion comes from downright inability. I don’t know if I could navigate so many needs, all at once, on top of my own, without crumbling. (I nearly did crumble each time we fostered.) Perhaps it comes from introversion, a trait Scout shares, a sense that too many different interactions in quick succession exhausts more than it elates. Perhaps it’s just that I want to be special, and I want Scout to feel special, and limiting our world to the two of us smooths that path.
Shy one-or-two person dogs provide a greater sense of “oh my goodness, I’m in awe, I can’t believe this creature trusts me, I must not be a horrible person after all” than their gregarious counterparts. (The other day Sean joked that Scout is the opposite of a retriever: You’re smart*, Scout, he cooed. And mean.) I’m drawn to giving my heeler the same experience in reverse. It feels right to be a one-dog person for her.
We are not opposed to ever having multiple pets. I actually think it’s apt to happen: a dog and a cat in the future, or maybe I’ll finally convince Sean we’d be badass ferret parents. Who knows what life looks like when we move out of our converted camper van? (Seriously: Does anyone know? At this point I refuse to even imagine a time after Hermes.)
But I’ve surprised myself by being this overwhelmingly, blissfully content with just one creature of my own. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve both required less novelty and defined “novelty” more broadly. There’s stability in a relationship with a single other being, but stable doesn’t mean stagnant. We continue to change: two creatures bound through a foundation not unaffected but never ruptured by shifts in our individual selves.
When I was a child, I grew most excited at the prospect of getting a new animal. Today, I’m thrilled with the idea of finding deeper joy with an existing best friend.
* Forgive me, retriever people, for enjoying this humor. Your dogs are brilliant too. I promise.