Judgmental

Babka, exhausted after a walk.
I try really hard to  not be judgmental. Live and let live, to each their own, whatever works for you… I have this operating theory: you can believe whatever you want, just don’t impose it on me. But sometimes I fail and end up being a judgmental, pissy person who thinks that my way is the only way. I can admit it, sometimes.

I have spent the better part of the last four months trying to learn from other dog owners. I knew nothing about how to walk my dog, what her body language said and more. So I read other people’s opinions, and lots of them, and try to make the best decisions for Babka’s well being. Clearly I don’t know everything, or even a lot, but I am trying to learn from others.

So the other day, when Babka and I were out for a walk, she stopped to play with an adorable little girl of about 7. Next door to the little girl lives a nine month old, thirty pound, English bulldog who is just adorable.  I was talking to the owner for a few minutes while our dogs played nicely together. The owner was telling me about how she has not been able to house train her dog, so she uses wee-wee pads. For a 30 pound dog. OK, to each their own. If you can live like that, I guess that is OK.

Then she tells me how her dog is scared of everything so she can’t walk her. She never walks the dog. Ever. I was shocked. The dog came out of the house, was playful and adorable and not the least bit skittish. I was finding all of  this a little appalling. I tried really hard to not express my horror. Yet I have no poker face at all, so I’m pretty sure she knew I was horrified.

I was trying to not judge. I am not in her shoes and know nothing about her life. But I do know that dogs need to be walked. Maybe not for the hours on end that Babka gets walked, but they need to walk nonetheless. So work out your own issues lady, since the dog doesn’t seem to have any, and take your dog outside. Now, feel free to judge while I wear the same thing I wore yesterday because it is at the top of the laundry pile, or because I don’t wear makeup, or because I could not care less that I drive an eight year old, never washed car. Whatever. To each their own.

 

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