Just Jack
August 11th, 2009 § Leave a Comment
As a puppy Jack was enthusiastic. He suffered from separation anxiety, which I reminded myself of often. I had to remind myself, otherwise I would have grown tremendously angry when he ate all the foam out of the bottom of my mattress (which I discovered one night when I fell completely through it), chewed my prescription glasses to pieces, ate the crown moulding off all the door frames in the house and barked like a banshee every time I left him.
Jack was a pound puppy and with pound puppies comes baggage. Sometimes that baggage takes a while to get out of their system, for Jack it took about 8 years. But Jack was adorable and sweet. His big ears that flopped at the corners, his brown needy eyes, the way he would roll onto his back and bat his paws at me – all made me fall hopelessly in love with him. The day I adopted Jack, I promised him that no matter what happened, we were in it together and I would always take good care of him.
Within a few months of adopting Jack I discovered that much of his anxiety faded after long runs. So, every morning at 6am Jack and I would go for a 6 mile run. On one particular morning, Jack was tremendously excited to get out to stretch his legs. As I ran, he pounced up with a look on his face that I could swear was a smile. The main street was humming with hundreds of cars filled with morning commuters headed to work. I held Jack close to my side and ran as he pounced happily by my side. When we got to the center of the crosswalk Jack sprang up like a bunny and nipped at the waistband of my sweats. It wasn’t until I felt the cold rush of morning air, that I realized he must have gotten my pants caught on his tooth because when he returned to the ground, my pants went with him. There I stood, in the middle of the crosswalk, with my derriere exposed for everyone to see, wrestling to free my pants which were wedged between two of Jack’s sharp puppy teeth. Once freed, I proceeded to run the fastest mile I have ever run, back home to hide.
I had Jack for about 5 years when, during a routine vet visit, they found his blood work to be “concerning”. After a series of lengthy and tremendously expensive tests, they discovered that Jack needed surgery to remove 2 feet of his intestines and re-route his “plumbing”. I was told that after $7,000 worth of surgery and a 1 week stay in the hospital, Jack “should” be okay. I cried. I didn’t care about the money, I knew I would find some way to pay for it, but all I could think of was losing my Jack.
Time passed slowly the day of surgery. I went to work but couldn’t focus. After 8 painstaking hours the vet called to say Jack made it out of surgery. He told me I could anticipate Jack being at the hospital for at least a week, as this was a major surgery and required a great deal of supervised recovery. The next morning the vet called to say that I should come pick Jack up that afternoon. Apparently major surgery, 70 stitches and staples were no contender for Jack’s enthusiasm. He spent the night standing up, wagging his tail in his kennel and barking incessantly at anyone who would listen. Jack was making it known that he was ready to come home.
Convincing a dog with boundless energy and bull like stubbornness to take it easy is an impossible feat. Even though Jack was home we still visited the emergency clinic 8 times to get him re-stitched because he kept popping his staples. For me, the surgery was burned into memory, for Jack it was so distant it was as if it never happened.
Jack’s surgery was almost 6 years ago and his ”new plumbing” has left him with a handful of annoyances. Once weighing in at 70lbs. Jack is now a gaunt 40lbs. I blame his skinny obsession on the fact that we moved to LA for a while and the pressure of staying attractive in Hollywood got to him. Sadly, no amount of food will ever fatten him up and his appetite is insatiable.
Jack farts. Not mild offensive farts either. He farts long and stinky, nose curling, head roll into the back of your head smelling farts. Even more terrible is that he farts with reckless abandon. He doesn’t care who it is in front of, what time of day it is, or whether all the windows in the house are safely opened. His farting knows no boundaries. I briefly dated a guy who was not a fan of Jack. Granted, not every person can look past such vulgarity to see the adorable, sweet puppy within. This guy treated Jack with politeness, presumably only because he hoped to get laid. One night, we got to my house late and he said he was too tired to drive home. I told him he could sleep on my couch (I was well onto his ulterior motives and knew we had no future. Love me, love my dog…and clearly he loved neither of us.) I woke the next morning to Jack darting into my room and onto my bed and could hear my date cursing under stifled breath. I walked in to see him holding what was left of his shoes. Needless to say he left and the last image I have of him is watching him hobble shoeless to his car at 6am.
Jack and I have been through a lot together. He has been there for countless moves to new apartments, driven with me for hours in the car as we went on vacation, went to camp with me in the summer. Jack has sat next to me as I cried over breakups, he has stood watch through the night keeping me safe inside my apartment, he greets me every time I walk through the door – which never fails to make me feel important. It’s as if he promised the same thing to me ten years ago - that no matter what happened, we were in it together and he would always take good care of me.
Strays
August 4th, 2009 § Leave a Comment
I don’t have children. That’s not an apology, or a plea for someone to fertilize me, its a mere statement if only to illustrate the depth of another love I have for children of a different sort, I have two dogs.
When you get to be over 30, there are two questions strangers lead with when trying to get to know you better, “are you married” and “do you have children.” While I am fine with my answers to both these questions, I find that others react to my lack of husband and children, akin to if I told them I was dying of cancer.
I have since developed an annoying nervous response to their prodding, which usually plays out like this:
Complete stranger who has accomplished the level of wife and mother: “Do you have kids?”
Me: “ No” (trying not to convey any tone that could be misconstrued as disappointment) “but I have two dogs.!”(in a tone that conveys enthusiasm far exceeding that which is appropriate.)
I’m not sure if they take offense because my comment cheapened the sanctity of their children or because I over glorify the relationship between dog and ”parent”.
When I was younger I wanted a dog so badly but my brother’s allergies and my mom’s unwillingness proved formidable obstacles. Every pet store we passed I would beg my mom to let me go in and “just look”. I knew every attempt was futile and I would leave every visit empty handed. But I soon discovered another route to dog ownership…strays.
My first stray dog encounter happened on my way home from school. At ten years old, I operated off one rule, the golden rule of “finders keepers”. The fact that the dog had a collar on was inconsequential. He was unleashed and undeniably in love with me. It was our destiny to be together forever. From now on it was me and my new dog, Winston. He looked 100% like a Winston, and if dogs picked names for themselves, I was sure this would be the one name out of all the other names in the world he would choose. It certainly wouldn’t be Max, as his tag mislabeled him.
We continued our journey home and if Winston strayed too far, I would call his name in a high pitched squeaky voice that made him trot back enthusiastically every time, further proving his name was perfect. When I got to my house I yelled for my grandmother and tried to contain the enthusiasm that was dripping out of every inch of my body. I needed to convince her this nuisance of a dog followed me home and I was now faced with the unfortunate responsibility of caring for him. Surely my unwillingness to welcome Winston with open arms would prove to her this was more about fate and destiny, than it was about my desire to have Winston for my own. After one quick glance, it was clear the love Winston and I shared was contained between us. Not only was she upset that I brought this scruffy dog into the house, but he clearly “belonged to someone else” and she told me to take him back to where I found him. With a heavy heart, I walked Winston back to the park where I found him. As we walked, I cried and he chased unsuspecting birds. Broken hearted that I wasn’t able to make good on the life I promised him, I kissed Winston goodbye and wished him well in his life as Max.
Undeterred, my tendancy to find stray dogs and take them home has extended well into adulthood. I’ve been late to meetings at work because a stray darted across the street. I’ve chased a stray dog down train tracks in an outfit far too fancy to be doing so. I carry treats in my trunk to will the less willing, and I do it because I figure they wouldn’t be put in my path, if I wasn’t supposed to notice them.
Dogs fill the empty spaces in life, they are magic that way.
We clean their poop, wipe the goop out of their eyes and let them give us face kisses with their floppy tongues. Dogs love us. They sit with us when we cry, lick our wounds and stand at the door waiting patiently for us to re-enter their world.
We love them because they sprinkle us with their fur, mark us with their drool and make their way up onto the beds we swore they were never allowed on. And all we have to do is be exactly like we are.
Someday I will be able to say I have children, my desire to be a mom is undeniable. But for now, I don’t have kids but, “I have two dogs!”
Thunderstorms
June 3rd, 2009 § Leave a Comment
I have a vision of being a mom and comforting my children when they have nightmares and cannot sleep through the night. Bleary eyed, I rock them back to sleep and unable to fight off sleep, I drift off myself.
Instead, I am a kind-of-mom to two furry puppies. Last night I awakened to thunderstorms so loud that it shook the windows. I’m not sure if it was booming in the sky or Charlie jumping onto the bed that woke me first. His whole body quaked uncontrollably and he was panting like he just ran a 3 minute mile. I did my best to comfort and pet him so he, and I could sleep in peace, but he wasn’t having it.
So, I did what I would do for my own theoretical children. I gathered his dog bed, fluffy pillows and a bed sheet and fashioned a fort for him beside my bed. By 3:00 his fort was done. Charlie ran inside, circled around three times, presumably to check it’s stability, then layed down.
I listened to his breathing slow and once I was convinced he was no longer terrified…I too drifted back to sleep.
