Friends at home.

I have decided never to have children. I decided this a long time ago, but, at 27, I'm finally old enough that when I say it (again and again), emphatically, people believe me. I'm not married; I have two and a half degrees and no career; I'm terribly irresponsible with money, and I have very little discipline and less ambition. But none of these things would stop me from having children if I wanted them (in the case of some folks I know, all of the above are true, but they keep on squeezing out that next one). I am extremely close to my family, who never abused me any more than your average family. I don't particularly like children. Anyone's. Children are no better or worse than most adults, as far as I can tell; some of them are rotten, some of them are incredible and amusing and have something to contribute, but for the most part, they're boring.

But above all, there is one reason I don't want children: I love having pets.

It's snowing hard here for the first time in over five years. I couldn't quite get up the gumption to go frolic in it like I would have years ago...but then I let the dogs out.

I have a two year old Belgian Sheepdog (Groenendael) named Dante, and a ten month old black labradoodle named Virgil. They are both black, brilliant, healthy, happy dogs--but in terms of personality, you might as well be talking about Hamlet and Polonius. To Dante, snow is how things should be. You'd have to be a tiger to demonstrate a more regal dignity--everything holds his interest, but everything poses a potential threat to his wards (us). Constantly marking the world around him, head up, eyes bright, taking it all in. He knows how to take care of himself and of his people; he is protective, ever-watchful, and extremely independent. Silent, smart as hell, fast, capable of understanding everything you say to him (although he makes his own decisions based on circumstance). Then there's Virgil. All the intelligence of a Labrador and a Standard Poodle, but still such a puppy. Nimble, agile, fast...yet clumsy and slapdash somehow. Follows me everywhere, interested in whatever I'm doing. Vocal, grumbly, funny little houndthing--no sense of danger. "You want this? I want this! Look, I will get it and bring it to you, and then you throw it so that I can have it, and then I will bring it back again! I love you! I love this? What's this over here! Oh, look! I love it!"

I can't even say how long I spent today, just letting them out, watching them dust each other and yip and yelp and scrap and wrestle and run and live. Now it's dark outside, and the snow is still falling. Virgil is curled, in a meatloaf-tight wad beside the front door, and Dante is stretched out, all sleek and dark like gravity itself, eyes half shut, completely content and exhausted beside me on the couch. I look at them, and I feel like royalty. I do what I do for a living so that I know nothing bad can happen to them that I cannot afford to fix. They are taken care of, even if I am not. Total peace here, this evening. Thanks to my dogs.

Is there a religion that worships them? Well, there is now.