I grew up with dogs. First we had Woody, a Lhasa Apso mix we named after Woody Allen. We should have been suspicious of a 2-year-old pure-bred dog at the humane society, but the chance to have a dog that required me to put ponytails and bows in his hair to keep it out of his eyes was too appealing for the 9-year-old me and so we took the underbite-y Tibetan-rooted pooch home.

Sadly, Woody contracted or already had a terrible disease called distemper and he went into fits of rage, once trapping a friend and me in my dad’s La-Z Boy chair while we were alone in the house and my parents were grocery shopping. It was terrifying: the dog was charging at us and running in circles and making devil dog noises.

Where’s Lassie when you need him?

So Woody was euthanized and I was heartbroken and so we got Emma, a little rat Terrier mix of some kind that mostly slept under a mini afghan my grandmother knitted for her.

Emma had, quite possibly, the least personality of any animal, vegetable or mineral ever, but she became as much a part of my parents’ home as the gold-flowered wallpaper in the kitchen.

RIP, sweet Emma.

Years later, I had a parade of dogs and cats and rodents, including a Samoyed named Red Sonja who moved with an ex-boyfriend back to Idaho and a couple of cats that I left with a roommate when I rented a pet-free abode. (I still feel crappy about this.)

Another roommate and I had a parakeet bird with bum wings – we named him "Ned The Walker" – and my son had three hamsters: Lavender 1, Lavender 2 and Lavender 3. For some reason, we had bad luck keeping those wheel-runners alive and they usually passed within a year or so. My son insisted that each hamster death required a hamster funeral complete with soulful weeping, candle lighting and paper plates marked with their names over the dirt next to the garage when they were buried.

Lavender 2: March 2006 - August 2006

Then there was a chocolate lab named Clay who I loved for 13 years. This is the dog that ended my desire to adopt another ever again because all others would be judged and compared to his righteous canine-ness. I still have one of his neck bandanas folded and tucked in the corner of my sock drawer.

In the final weeks of Clay’s life, as a work-at-home writer, I was able to care for him, lugging all his 75 pounds up and down the stairs so he could go outside. Images of his sad, grateful eyes are indelibly burned into my memory.

"I'm done with pets," I said the day Clay didn’t return from the vet’s office.

I have stuck to that pledge. For three years, I have lived without so much as fruit flies (knock on wood) and I want it to stay that way. Living without pets involves less expense, makes travel easier and most of all, there are fewer items on my never fully crossed off to-do list.

Trim Squeaker's nails.

Today, I posted an article about "crazy cat people" prior to which I interviewed lots of folks passionate about cats. Some had kind things to say about dogs. In general, they were pet people.

I have a theory that all people are either a plant, animal or a people person. I, personally, am a people person – not to sound like an over-enthusiastic job candidate – I really do enjoy The People. So my decision not to have pets might be a little easier than it would be for those who were born pet people.

However, I will admit this: talking to these cat cradlers reminded me of the cuddly value of animals and their completely unconditional-love personas, even more so than children (because, let’s face it, kids are often buttheads).

I’m not running out and adopting a furry amigo today; I don’t even plan to get fish for dinner, but I will say, from the bottom of my fur-free heart, I am happy to have re-opened myself to the power of animal love. And next time I’m in contact with your pet, I’m gonna give ‘em an extra ear scratch, head pat or belly rub.