I spent my summer re-reading the entire Harry Potter series, working at Subway and actively forgetting those important things I had learned during class throughout the year. When I wasn’t busy with that, I was spending time with Dublin, my $350 mistake of the summer.

After the untimely death of our 12-year-old beagle, Sheba – who, previous to her passing, was believed to be immortal – I conspired with my sister to purchase a most fitting Mother’s Day present. With only two weeks between Sheba’s euthanasia and Mother’s Day, I spent every spare minute checking the classifieds and breeder Web sites in search of a furry gift.

The result was Dublin, an eight-week-old puggle pup complete with pug markings and coloring, floppy beagle ears, a short snout and a curly pug tail. After grudgingly accepting our most generous gift, my mother, sister and I agreed on a name. Through Dublin’s medical records we discovered that he, like me, had been born on St. Patrick’s Day and needed some Irish flare.

Dublin was the center of attention in puppy class – but not for his remarkable obedience. When he wasn’t mounting other puppies, he was barking, distracting and provoking the other dogs. Dublin bit the trainer, marked his territory in aisles four, five and seven of the pet store and introduced himself to nine other furry rear ends. Remarkably, and more than likely due to the same principles that govern swimming classes given to toddlers, Dublin passed.

Don’t get me wrong. Dublin is a great little guy. He’s smart and happy, energetic and affectionate. When he greets you, it’s with his whole body, rubbing up against your legs while you bend over to pet him. It’s just that Dublin bites and doesn’t like letting go.

It’s times like these when, as his owner and supreme ruler, I must lay down the law. I do this by whipping him on his side, pinning him to the floor and saying things like “I swear to God, dog, I’m going to squeeze the life out of you.” Dublin’s usual response comes in the form of satanic noises commonly heard during exorcisms. He’s of a stubborn breed and these dominant techniques usually fail once my tolerance for the horrid noise issuing from his fanged mouth wanes. Dublin thinks that this, like all things, is a great game.

So don’t buy a dog. All you’re going to get are stains on your carpets and surprises on your bed. And don’t get a dog if you’re trying to avoid an emotional attachment that’s going to make you sad and empty when you have to leave it behind at the start of your sophomore year. Don’t buy a dog if you don’t want unconditional love in a furry widdle bundle with big brown eyes and floppy ears . don’t buy a dog. Just don’t buy a dog, OK? Because I think something about that curly tail or those doleful eyes make Mentor, Ohio seem eons away from Kent State. But I guess I miss the family too.

Kristine Gill is a sophomore pre-journalism major and a columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact her at [email protected].