Skindog.

There was a year during my childhood where I recall focusing all of my energies toward a single goal. At five years old, I knew with every fiber of my being that I could reach the epitome of happiness simply by having my own dog.

In order to curb my enthusiasm, my father would tell me bedtime stories about my alter-ego, Detective Girl, and her trusty golden retriever, Detective Dog. The pair would travel through time and space, solving mysteries for the greater good, all the while outwitting their moderately scary but hopelessly inept adversaries.

Rather than placate my insatiable dog-lust, these stories only added fuel to the fire in my heart. After all, the only piece missing to set me off on my epic adventure was the key ingredient - Detective Dog!

Months went by but my efforts bore no fruit, my mournful pleas falling upon deaf ears; we were going through a period of transience during that time which left us ill-suited for keeping a pet. Still, I did not give up. Sure, a dog would need space to roam and money to care for, but those were minor details when weighed against the great impact I could have on society, given the opportunity to team up with my furry sidekick.

Despite the flawless (and frequent) presentation of my solid cost-benefit analysis, my parents still refused to budge from their unreasonable position. "Why not just play outside?" They weakly attempted to sway me, "There are crabs outside! Wouldn't you like to have a crab sidekick?"

In fact, I did not want a crab sidekick. Though possessed of a durable exo-skeleton that is excellent for guarding against damage, crabs are terribly lacking on the huggability scale and that was an unacceptable shortcoming. No, my perfect sidekick would need to have its skeleton located internally.

My prayers were answered, albeit in a rather ominous fashion, shortly after our island was laid to waste by a tropical storm. While sorting through the post-Hurricane debris one day, my father discovered what he presumed to be a sick cat cowering in the wreckage. Disturbed by the creature, he called my mother to come and examine the strange sight.

Trailing along like a wraith behind her, I immediately understood what was happening. Here was the moment I had been waiting for-- at last, my companion had been delivered! With glee, I leapt forward and scooped up the hairless wretch. In horror, my parents lunged after me in an attempt to separate me from my prize. It was too late, though, and I could not be convinced to let go.

Further inspection revealed that my instincts had been correct and the hideous creature was, in fact, some form of canine. Perhaps I had not been specific enough in my supplications, as this dog was not only devoid of cuddly fur, due to a severe case of mange, but was also alarmingly beset with tremors. This was not enough to discourage me, however. Here was the key to my happiness and, despite a patchy exterior and a nervous bladder, I would make this work. Thus began my camaraderie with the Gollum-esque canine we dubbed "Skindog".

Unencumbered by my parent's concerns regarding Skindog's health and mental state, I imagined a bright future for us. I was undeterred by his inability to learn even the simplest of tricks; he was a diamond in the rough who just needed a bit of polishing and perhaps a round of vaccinations.

Weeks went by and the only notable improvement in Skindog's condition was a slight increase in his girth and an even slighter decrease in episodes of terror-induced urination. Gradually, my intractable optimism faltered and I wondered why I could not reconcile the dog of my reality with the one of my imagination. What must I do to help Skindog reach his apotheosis?

Unbeknownst to me, my parents had been plastering the island with "Found Ugly Dog" posters, in the hope that some concerned owner would come to recover their beloved mutt.  Unsurprisingly, no one stepped forth to claim my unfortunate friend and we continued to care for him for several more weeks before our unlikely (and perhaps one-sided) rapport came to an abrupt halt.

One fateful morning, I woke to find Skindog was no longer enclosed in his outdoor pen; my parents had allowed me to keep him on the condition that his skulking be confined to the yard. I searched the perimeter for hours, but there was no sign of my wayward companion.

Had I been more like the Detective Girl from the stories, I would have persisted and eventually recovered my lost comrade. Instead, I gave up rather quickly, feeling a twinge of relief that my sidekick had been recalled to wherever he came from; perhaps they were going to send me someone better suited for the position?

Although I did not grieve the loss, from time to time I would imagine Skindog running free and wild through the jungles of the island. It pleased me to think he might have found his niche and that allowed me to accept the rift in our fates.

Maybe this is what it means to become an adult? As children we create alternate realities within our minds and determine that they must be so if we are to achieve perfection. As adults we must revise our concept of perfection with the understanding that our lives will never unfold as we imagined. Happiness comes when we learn to accept and even find delight in the unexpected warping of our plans. And maybe just be glad we didn't contract mange.

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