My niece has a hockey tournament a few hours away, so I’m watching my sister’s dog, Benny, for the weekend. After forty years on this planet, it feels like it’s time to publicly admit that I am not much of a dog person. I don’t hate dogs—I grew up with one, and I admire their morale, their loyalty, their commitment to the present moment. But they are also loud, energetic, and possess a kind of smell that sure takes some adjustment. Living with one, even briefly, feels like hosting a very affectionate talking teddy bear which cannot be turned off. So, last night, I tried diplomacy. We had a movie night. I put on Homeward Bound, a childhood favorite that I thought might be a culturally appropriate gesture. Benny did not care. He did, however, climb onto me, sigh heavily, and reposition himself every few minutes like a person trying to solve a complicated geometry problem with my arms.

Today has been quieter. It is bitterly cold, so we have been inside: chicken tortilla soup, NFL playoffs, and long cuddle sessions on the sofa. I am vaguely bothered by his constant demands for attention, mainly because they override anything that I think is important. Text messages mean nothing to him. Cleaning means nothing. Standing up at all seems misguided. In Benny’s eyes, the entire point of life is to sit very close to another living thing and make sure it doesn’t go anywhere. You can’t help but melt under that kind of adoration. It is nice, if uncomfortable, to be so thoroughly needed.

I’m not sure about this philosophy you’ve got, Benny. I prefer a comfortable level of independence, and a dog is anything but. You’re forced to not just coexist, but embrace dependence. However, I suppose we all need to step out of our comfort zones occasionally, and I’m glad I did this time.

That said, I will be very happy to have a cat in my life once again.