My first pet came in the form of a childhood Christmas Eve gift. Somewhere I have a snapshot of a brown and white Chinese pug; small enough to fit in my father's hand; cute enough to steal my eight-year-old heart. We named her Liz.

I carried her all day. Her floppy ears fascinated me, and her flat nose intrigued me. I even took her to bed. So what if she smelled like a dog? I thought the odor was cute. So what if she whined and whimpered? I thought the noise was cute. So what if she did her business on my pillow? Can't say I thought it was cute, but I didn't mind.

Mom and Dad had made it clear in our prenuptial agreement that I was to be Liz's caretaker, and I was happy to oblige. I cleaned her little eating dish and opened her can of puppy food. The minute she lapped up some water, I replenished it. I kept her hair combed and her tail wagging.

Within a few days, however, my feelings changed a bit. Liz was still my dog and I was still her friend, but I grew weary with her barking, and she seemed hungry an awful lot. More than once my folks had to remind me, "Take care of her. She is your dog."

I didn't like hearing those words -- your dog. I wouldn't have minded the phrase, "your dog to play with" or "your dog when you want her." Or even, "your dog when she is behaving." But those weren't my parents' words. They said. "Liz is your dog." Period. In sickness and in health. For richer for poorer. In dryness and in wetness.

That's when it occurred to me. I am stuck with Liz. The courtship was over and the honeymoon had ended. We were mutually leashed. Liz went from an option to an obligation; from a pet to a chore; from someone to play with to someone to care for.

Perhaps you can relate? Chances are you know the claustrophobia that comes with commitment. Only instead of being reminded, she is "your dog," you're told, "He is your husband." Or, "She is your wife." Or, "He is your child, parent, employee or boss or roommate" or any other relationship which requires loyalty for survival.

Such permanence can lead to panic -- at least it did in me. I had to answer some tough questions. Can I tolerate the same flat-nosed, hairy, hungry face every morning? (You wives know the feeling?) Am I going to be barked at until the day I die? (Any kids connecting here?) Will she ever learn to clean up her own mess? (Did I hear an "amen" from some parents?)

Stuckititis

Such are the questions we ask when we feel stuck with someone. There is a word for this condition. Upon consulting the one-word medical dictionary (which I wrote the day before I crafted this chapter), I discovered that the condition I'm describing is a common malady known as stuckititis. (Stuck meaning trapped. Iritis being the six letters you tag on to any word if you want it to sound impressive. Read it out loud: stuckititis.). Max's Manual of Medical Terms has this to say about the condition:

Attacks of stuckititis are limited to people who breathe and typically occur somewhere between birth and death. Stuckititis manifests itself in irritability, short fuses, and a mountain range of molehills. The common symptom of stuckititis victims is the repetition of questions beginning with who, what, and why. Who is this person? What was I thinking? Why didn't I listen to my mother?"1