By Cary Chapman
My future dog’s name is Anastasia. When she enters my life, I will have disposable income and free time and no one else in my life to spend them on. I will name her Anastasia because if I ever do have a daughter, my new mother self will shy away from burdening a human child with the imperial weight of Disney’s scariest movie. I will not be that owner who gives their dog a name and then immediately truncates it for convenience. No, my dog will turn her adorable nose up in haughty indignation at the very suggestion of “Annie.” Anastasia will be a canine queen, with black, hypoallergenic fur that curls just a tad tighter than the Obama’s dog’s fur. She will always be happy to see me and we will go on long, glorious strolls through the city before coming home, cuddling up on the couch, and arguing gently about what movie to watch on Netflix.
Anastasia will be my date to my little sister’s wedding, when the latter inevitably gets married—before me—to a dashing young man with a computer science degree and a big family. He will bore me, but I will feel the appropriate mix of joy and envy for the couple and Anastasia will wear a darling little wreath of the pale pink roses I always pictured having at my wedding.
At the dog park, I will flirt with men by comparing different brands of dog food. One of them will ask me out, but the date will turn out to be at a cat café because he wants to see if I can straddle two worlds. Though I love them, I am allergic to cats. I will sneeze my way out of the café and the man will never text me again. He owns a cat in addition to his dog park corgi. We are incompatible.
Anastasia will be waiting for me when I get home, and we will have an intellectual discussion about the latest New Yorker before trying a new dinner recipe and mutually deciding that the dish would have benefited from a dash of rosemary. The next day, we will try a new dog park because even though I am a fully formed adult with disposable income and free time, I have no one else in my life to spend them on.
Cary Chapman is a junior and a writer for Barnard Bite.