Kalypso

I should have stopped at two.

Really, I should have. But alas, I had to push my luck. And now? Now I have Kalypso—my living, breathing karma for insisting we needed a third dog.

If you've ever thought to yourself, you know what would make my life more exciting? A dog that sasses, ignores commands, and constantly makes you feel like the inferior species, then by all means—get a Husky.

I will tell you this, owning a Husky is not for the faint of heart. There are no words that truly capture the experience of living with one. It’s something you must endure personally—to truly understand. It is constant fluctuations of being at your wit’s end, and then falling into a false sense of adoration for this animal. The rollercoaster of emotions are high, plunging you into hundreds of various emotions in one day. Only to repeat these highs and lows for what feels like eternity.

Kalypso tries so hard to be a good dog. She really does. Out of the three dogs in our family she is the one who follows me everywhere—and I do mean everywhere. She is always lying at my feet, watching me and running after me from room to room. I feel like I am her world… until absolutely anyone else comes along.

When we go in public, like the dog park, I no longer exist. In fact, I’m not even sure she recognizes me anymore. Everyone else is suddenly her long-lost best friend, that she has not seen in years. Before I can unclip her leash, she’s already lunging in every possible direction, eager to greet no less than everyone in the park.

And once she’s loose? Absolute pandemonium.

She barrels into people announcing her arrival. Small children scream and run for their lives. She jumps on tables licking strangers’ faces like she’s known them forever. People frantically glance around, searching for the owner of this four-legged disaster. Meanwhile, I’m standing there, debating whether I should claim responsibility or pretend she belongs to someone else. When I finally muster the courage to assert some authority and call her name, she reacts as if she’s never heard it in her life. Without so much as a glance in my direction, she takes off at full speed, crashing into yet another unsuspecting bystander. Meanwhile, I’m left standing there, utterly defeated, as onlookers shake their heads in silent judgment.

When it’s finally time to leave, it is an endless battle of following her from one end of the park to the other. Hoping someone takes pity on me and grabs her collar as she wishes everyone a sloppy farewell. Getting the leash on her takes an act from God, as she talks back to me in front of all the other dog owners. LOUDLY. The judgmental stares from bystanders confirm what I already know: I am not in charge here.

I know a part of her wants to be a good dog. The type of dog you smile fondly at, full of love and appreciation. A dog that makes you think to yourself, “how did I get this lucky, to have a dog like her.”

Every morning, as we get ready for work and school, Kalypso’s internal clock will sound the alarm, letting her know it’s getting time for us all to part ways. She takes it upon herself to put herself away in her kennel. Waiting patiently for us to come along, quietly closing the door as we tell her what a good dog she is, how independent and wise she is for intuitively knowing what she needs to do without being asked. As we start to walk away she will peer out at us with her sweet, soulful eyes, our prides swelling with the thought of how well we have trained her.

As we walk away, she lays down quietly, her head quietly resting on her paws. Leaving us with a false sense of awe and wonderment for her. Even though we know without a shadow of a doubt, she spends every waking moment in there, plotting our demise for leaving her in there.

How could I think that, when she has shown how well behaved she is?!

A couple hours later, when the time comes to unlock the door, you can feel the air shift, like a charged energy hanging in the room. Silence descends. She sits poised and stiff. Her eyes lock onto you, her body wired with resentment. Knowing she sat in there thinking, how dare you to leave me in here. Swallowing your terror and opening the door, a small demon pours out of the kennel. Her sights set on the poor unsuspecting soul that mustered the bravery and courage to open the door. In the span of moments she barrels into you, jumping, barking, and berating you. You push her back down, but she rises again and again.

You once again summon all of the courage you can find to assert authority over her and tell her to stop, and get down. Most other dogs listen at this point, backing off. But Kalypso doubles down, asserting even more authority over you, yelling at you in her husky way, I can only imagine the names she is calling us, leaving you feel ashamed and berated. Even though she is the one who originally walked in there by choice.

She doesn’t seem to understand why she has to be kenneled in the first place. And honestly, I’m pretty sure she doesn't care.

The few times we trusted her outside the kennel, she unleashed absolute destruction, chewing up everything in sight—including her own dog bed. The horror I walked into that day has yet to be surpassed. The company we purchased the dog bed from graciously filled the beds with shredded foam. Mountains of it littered the floor. The astonishment that one dog bed could contain this amount of foam was bewildering.

I don’t know how but Kalypso has somewhere along the way carved out a permanent place in our lives. Even with the chaos, the stress, and the constant backtalk, we wouldn’t trade her for anything, (or maybe we would… I haven’t decided yet.)

She’s the reason we laugh so much. She’s made our lives more adventurous. And, at the end of the day, even after all the yelling, running, and furniture destruction—she’s family.

We always say: She’s the best worst dog we’ve ever had.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.