Like many women, I went through a bit of a slut phase in my twenties. Nothing crazy, but I had fun. As my twenties waned, so did the wild times. Eventually I went back to school and became a dental hygienist. On weekends, instead of going out, meeting some junior advertising guy and getting fucked in his Queen bed, I stayed home, binged TV and went to bed early. When I finished my program I started at Dr. Koch's dental practice in town. It was nice to have set a goal, worked hard, and achieved that goal. And my new job was challenging, but rewarding. I finally felt like an adult. Then I went and did something really cliché: I married the dentist, and we became Dr. and Mrs. Koch. My husband didn't want his wife working, so I left my job and became a housewife.
I was bored out of my mind--I'd worked my entire life, and now having nothing to do was driving me crazy. I shopped, went tanning, and went to the nail salon, all of the things my husband told me I ought to do to fill my time. Meanwhile, our sex life dried up immediately. When I was home, I spent my time reading smut online and rubbing my clit raw, or otherwise wandering the huge, empty house that had suddenly become my home. How did I get here, I frequently asked myself. It wasn't the life I'd imagined when I was twenty-five, let alone thirty-five. And I was lonely. I couldn't believe how indifferent my husband was to my obvious isolation. What I needed was companionship. Someone actually excited to see me. I needed a dog.
Surprisingly, my husband thought it was a terrific idea. One of his acquaintances at the club had recently purchased a purebred Labrador for his family from a breeder, and he couldn't recommend her enough. His family was tremendously happy, and he'd been impressed by how thorough--fastidious even--the breeder had been. My husband was sold. If it was good enough for some lawyer at his club, then surely it was good enough for his family, price be damned. And it was pricey.
The website was barebones. There were photos of the various litters, with information about their pedigrees--so many cute yellow, black and chocolate labs. The first step was to submit an inquiry, so I sent one via the website and a day later I got a response, which read:
"Dear Mrs. Koch- Thank you for your inquiry. Please send me your availability and I will schedule an interview. Please expect to be here at least three hours. Sincerely, Deb."
It seemed preposterous to me to be interviewing to adopt a puppy, even more so that it would last three hours. I would've gone immediately to the closest animal shelter and gotten a mutt, but my husband was adamant that we use this dog breeder to the rich and the famous. I reluctantly sent a few suggested dates and times, and she accepted one of them, replying with her address.
I drove the hour outside of town, eventually finding her hidden drive on a tree-lined country road. As I steered my BMW up the long drive, the complex came into the view within the vast expanse of farmland. There were a few pods of barn structures with large chain-link enclosures scattered about the grounds that I had seen in the photos, and also a large facility that I took to be the grooming building the website had purported to be "state of the art." At the end of the drive sat the main house, a large brick colonial with grandiose columns. I parked the car and walked across the gravel.
"Hello, Mrs. Koch!"
Deb was scaling the steep hill between one of the barn enclosures and the main house, heading in my direction. She was a broad, stocky woman with short gray hair, wearing rubber Wellington boots and a forest green down vest. We shook hands, her grip clasping my hand firmly in her own.
"You're a few minutes late, so I decided to get some work done while I waited. Shall we get started?"
Her frankness disarmed me, but there was a kind, huskiness to her voice that made me wonder if I had misinterpreted her tone. She showed me in to her home, leading me to a study off the main foyer. Deb gestured to a leather armchair.
"Have a seat."
Deb shut the door and took her own seat behind a desk in the corner of the room. Behind me, dark wood bookshelves lined with old books covered the walls. Next to them was an oil painting of a man in a Houndstooth suit with a retriever by his side.
"Care for a treat?" she said, gesturing to a small plate of ginger cookies.
"Oh, yes, please. Why not?"
She rose from the desk and placed a cookie in my hand. I nibbled the edge of it and chewed tentatively. It was delicious.
"The recipe is a family tradition. We've got a few of them. Labrador's being another."
She nodded towards the portrait.
"Shall we start the interview?"
I quickly finished the rest of the cookie and sat up a little straighter, smoothing my skirt.
"To start, I'd like to know some basic information about you. Full name, age, whether or not you have children, your occupation...things of that nature."
"I'm not sure why my age is relevant?"
"I only ask questions that are strictly relevant, Mrs. Koch. I need your name because I don't care to call you Mrs. Koch for three hours. I need to know your age because these animals have a considerable amount of energy and I want to ensure an applicant is at a stage in her life where she can keep up. I want to know about any children because I need to be sure young kids won't mistreat the animal. They pull tails and whiskers, and can generally be quite rough. That is why I want to know."
The atmosphere in the room was tense. I felt guilty for having questioned her. I watched silently as she pulled her Wellingtons off and set them on the floor next to the desk.
"Maybe I should explain a little bit about my approach to dog breeding. Firstly, I believe that my responsibility to any animal I've had a hand in making extends to the entirety of its life. That means I do my due diligence to make sure an animal is well cared for, whether or not it's in my personal care. That also means I call every family periodically to check up on our dogs."
"Secondly, I believe that one must understand and accept the fundamental nature of an animal. I don't get mad when a dog pees on the floor, or gets up on the furniture. How would they be expected to know they're not permitted to do so, unless a human being intervenes and trains them?"
"That all sounds wonderful. An admirable, ethical approach," I said.
"Care for another one?" she said, tapping the plate.
"I shouldn't, but they're so good."
She stepped from the desk once more and placed another ginger cookie in my hand.
"My name is Megan Koch. I'm thirty-five years old. I'm married, without children."
"Do you intend to have children?"
Though I'd never allowed the thought to form in my mind, the way her question made me feel told me that, under no uncertain circumstances, did I want to have children with my husband.
"No."
"I'll need to meet your husband, too, before anything is certain."
"Deb--may I call you Deb?"
