I Deeply Regret Getting A Family Dog. There, I Said It.

My 8-year-old son pleaded with my husband and me for a pet. Although his first choice was a cat, family allergies ruled that out. We made a list of other possible pets: chinchilla, rabbit, gerbil, mouse, ferret... dog?

"Just get a dog!" friends urged. "It'll be worth it."

A puppy-filled future took shape in my mind. I imagined us leading the dog on long hiking trails or through a Saturday morning farmer's market, people stopping us to pet and gush over our well-behaved Australian shepherd with heterochromatic eyes — one blue, one green.

Since my husband and I toyed with having a third child, I reasoned that the puppy might stave off our longing for another baby. Maybe a canine would complete our family.

With allergies to consider, I eventually gave up on the dream of an Australian shepherd or rescue pup. Instead, I decided on a dog that would shed less and keep the neighborhood roof rats at bay: a wheaten terrier (or what my friend called a cross between a llama and a poodle).

We brought the puppy home from the breeder several months later, and the four of us got off to a good start. We named her Maple because she was honey-colored like syrup. She played fetch with the kids, snuggled on our laps, and befriended the neighborhood dog possé.

As the devoted owner I aspired to be, I implemented all the advice in the dog training book with a zeal I hadn't experienced since my firstborn. Maple and I graduated from the level one training class at PetSmart. I had high hopes she would be a model canine citizen and exemplary family member.

Maple brought fun energy into the house. My children loved playing hide-n-seek with her, and my husband soon fell in love with the routine of walking her and her "wheaten greetings" when he returned home from work each night.

Then there was me.

I loved her too, but there was one insurmountable problem. As she grew, Maple acted more like a dog and less like an adorable puppy. And she smelled. Plus, deep down, I still wanted a baby.

A year after we brought Maple home, I became pregnant with our third child, which forever changed my relationship with Maple.

The breakdown began when Maple's training fell to the wayside. Nauseous and exhausted, I could no longer summon the energy to take her on her daily early morning and late evening walks. I kept hoping the flu-like symptoms would pass after the first trimester, but they carried into the second. Barely functioning, my dwindled energy reserves went to my children. Maple wound up on her own.

This led to Maple developing less-than-pleasant behaviors. She tugged at the leash on walks, barked incessantly at the window, and began stealing food off my children's plates. She even climbed on the countertop and snagged a stick of butter. Because of her sensitive stomach, these episodes always ended with explosive diarrhea or vomiting.

Her vomiting was a problem because I was vomiting too, as much as 12 times a day during the first six months of my pregnancy. One morning, on all fours, cleaning up another particularly nasty mess, I nearly started sobbing. My heart hardened as Maple's deficits mounted and my tolerance ebbed.

Once the baby was born, I noticed how indifferent Maple seemed to this newest family member. When our son started to crawl at 6 months, he might spend 10 minutes laboring his way to Maple, only to have her get up and move.

The baby is now a toddler. The indifference sometimes turns to a growl when our youngest interacts with her, making me uneasy and hyper-vigilant when they are together. And I wanted a watchdog, but her constant barking at the window often wakes the toddler from his naps.

Even though I struggle to find grace for Maple, she is an integral part of our daily rhythm. The baby and I take her on long, meandering walks. Whenever we pull up to the driveway, whether after a trip or a short errand, her face is always in the window, peeking from behind the curtain in anticipation — the best "welcome home" gift. The toddler plays fetch with her, which Maple tolerates, and the oldest two also play with her.

Maple is a family member, which is why my feelings about her are complicated.

We are three years into this relationship, and my list of grievances has only grown. But the main ones have nothing to do with Maple. I have three children, a husband, a house, and a job. Caring for Maple is unrelenting, a constant burden. When did loveable, sweet Maple become "that animal"?

Then there's the guilt. Her misbehaviors make me feel ashamed that I failed to train her better. Nearly every time I look at her, I feel awful. Training Maple could solve many of our problems, but most quality training is expensive and time-consuming. Although the investment could be worth it, more pressing bills related to broken bones, dental work, or car repairs continually steal my dog training money.

My options seem bleak: train her soon or rehome Maple. I wish it hadn't come to this — wanting to break up with the family dog, a creature I once loved tenderly. All I can say is, most days, I regret getting a family dog.

But since Maple and my kids don't feel this way, I may be stuck caring for her long-term and convincing myself she was the best decision ever.

Kris Ann Valdez is an Arizona native, wife, mother to three children, and an overzealous family dog. As a freelance journalist, her work appears in Business Insider, SUCCESS, Motherly, and Motherhood Mag, among others. You can follow her @krisannvaldezwrites.