Dog Medicine

by Julie Barton

  I never understood why Bunker loved worms so much. But, I considered, worms invisibly feed the soil. They’re good for gardens and make important nutrients for plants to grow. Bunker was doing this for me. He was feeding me, giving me essential emotional and spiritual nutrients, so I could continue on in my life. I never once stopped Bunker from rolling in earthworms. It gave him such pleasure.

  CAN’T STAY

  AUGUST 2, 1996

  I kept my bottle of Zoloft next to the bed and took one pill each morning as soon as I woke up. The medication made me terribly sleepy, and I found myself desperately needing a nap each day at about 11 a.m. Mya suggested I begin taking the pill before bed, so I switched to nighttime, staring at those little yellow oblong pills, wondering what they did for me. I devoured research about how repeated traumas in a young person will induce chronic activation of the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) axis—the system that directs how a body responds to stress, the “fight or flight” reaction. Tests done in animals showed that if the HPA axis is activated again and again when the brain is still developing, it will forget how to shut off. So the animal lives in constant hyper-vigilance. Even when there is no threat to it, the animal is on high alert—leaving it unable to attend to itself—depleting its energy, its desire for play, food, sex, and interaction. Some researchers say that once this system is activated in humans, it is forever altered, sometimes setting the stage for depression or anxiety that can stay dormant for years, until it finally reveals itself.

  The research helped the pieces fall into place. There were reasons that all of this had happened, and it wasn’t just that I was a freak or lacked the basic skills to get along in the world. Uncovering those reasons felt like pulling the veil off of a great and mysterious force.

  The fact was, I was recovering. I could feel it. Therapy was slowly helping, the medication seemed to be working, and I had Bunker. I made a daily practice of noticing my thoughts as I walked my dog. Those two acts helped me notice, feel, then dissolve the depressive, heavy, black thoughts.

  Still, ever persistent in the back of my mind was the nagging unknown of what I would do next, where I would go. My dad would always say, “There’s no pressure here, but we would just love it if you stayed close to home.” The truth was that living in Ohio had always felt wrong, like I didn’t belong. I remember driving on the outer-belt that encircles Columbus, looking into other cars and wondering if there was someone out there like me in this town. I’m sure there was, but I hadn’t found them.

  Despite this, I wanted to at least consider making a life for myself in Ohio. So one afternoon, my mom and I put Bunker in the car and drove to a local dog-friendly apartment complex we’d found in the newspaper. The unit sat in a squat one-story brick apartment building near the Scioto River. We walked into the damp living room with a sour-smelling brown carpet, thin walls, and chipping Formica kitchen counters, and turned right around. We didn’t need to say much to each other in the car, other than “Nope. Not going to work.” My fears reared up. Was this what life was like for me now? Moldy, drafty, lonely apartments with paper-thin walls? An office job I would loathe that kept me inside all day pushing papers and tapping on a computer under fluorescent lights? My parents had paid my first month’s rent in New York. After that, it was up to me. That year I lived in New York City, I didn’t have enough money for a warm coat. It also happened to be during the Northeast’s blizzard of 1996, and it wasn’t until I broke down crying inside an Eddie Bauer store at Christmas time that my mother gave in and bought me a thick down parka, passing me a handwritten I.O.U. and due date on the back of the receipt. My parents wanted self-sufficiency. I wanted that too, and the thought of it simultaneously enlivened me and made me fear that I would end up in a place far worse than the moldy, drafty apartment by the river.

  Bunker stayed close to me after we returned home. I had already begun to count on him sensing my mood. A stroke down his back brought me a deep breath. Sitting down next to him on the floor leveled my nerves, brought me back to zero, out of the negative thoughts. Watching him race around the room in a wild puppy frenzy negated my worry.

  Bunker’s presence felt as necessary as oxygen to me, and I began to panic at the thought of working again, leaving him for eight or more hours every day. Then a deep sigh from him would pull a long intake of breath from me, followed by a slow exhale that calmed my jangled nerves. Instead of whirling myself into a fit of anxiety and terror followed by surrender and then depression, I would just stop. Take a deep breath. Slow down. Pet Bunker. Don’t think. Just be. It could be okay. Just maybe it would all turn out okay.

  That afternoon the phone rang. My mom answered and said, “Sure, she’s right here.” I hadn’t received a phone call from a friend in months, and couldn’t imagine who it was. The only person who had intermittently called me was Will, and those calls were usually after midnight. I pointed, silently, questioning, at my chest.

  “Hello?” I said, tentative. Was it my therapist? My old boss? Leah?

  “Hey, it’s Melissa!” It took me a while to place who Melissa was. I listened and remembered her voice. She was a friend from high school that I’d known since preschool but with whom I wasn’t all that close. She’d gone to college in Maine and we’d kept in touch with occasional phone calls and letters, but nothing significant. She was one of those friends who was good at staying connected, though, so I wasn’t terribly surprised to hear from her.

  “My mom told me you were living in Ohio again,” she said. “How’d that happen?” She said this like my landing home was an unfortunate turn of events, and I took it as an insult and wanted to hang up. Instead, I walked to my bedroom with the cordless phone and said, “Well.” I paused. “I pretty much hated New York.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Doesn’t everyone? When I was at Bowdoin, everyone got jobs so that they wouldn’t have to live in New York. Not at this stage in life, anyway.” I sat down feeling immense, toppling relief. Because a depressed person will build up such an invisible wall in preparation for feeling hurt that when someone shows that such a wall isn’t necessary, the reprieve from the hard work of self-defense is enormous.

  “Yeah,” I said, mumbling. “Guess I didn’t get that memo.”

  “Well,” she continued, “I somehow ended up way out in Seattle. I did an internship with a clothing company here when I was in college and I’m back out here doing marketing for them. Seattle’s a pretty cool town. I like it so far,” she said.

  “That’s cool,” I said. “My aunt lives there. I love visiting her.” I sat on my bed and fiddled with the lacey edge of my white comforter. This kind of small talk made me antsy. How meaningless it felt compared to all I was going through. Still, I continued. “I was working at a publisher in New York. It was cool, I guess.” I paused. “Well, not really.”

  “No, sounds totally cool,” she said. “I’m living by myself right now, which is fine, but I’m moving soon.”

  “Cool,” I said, flustered because I had nothing else to add.

  “Where are you going next?” she asked. “Are you staying in Columbus?” Her tone held a lack of judgment, an open-mindedness.

  “I have no idea,” I said, holding my breath, then laughing a little bit too loud. Bunker looked up at me. Calm.

  “Seattle’s pretty nice,” she said, her voice lilting, like she was offering me a tempting treat.

  “Do you have other friends out there?” I asked.

  “Yeah, a few. And I have a boyfriend now. But it would be totally awesome to have more friends like you close by.” She was being so nice. Had her mother somehow found out that I’d had a breakdown and told her to call me and check in? Why would she want me to come live in Seattle?

  “Yeah,” I mumbled.

  “Seriously,” she said. “I’m moving into a house with a friend of mine, this guy named Chris. And I think his friend Greg is going to move in with us too. We’re house hun
ting right now. Then when we find a house, we totally want to get a dog. Seattle is super dog-friendly.”

  “Really?” I said, wondering if perhaps this was a practical joke.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Dogs everywhere. And we all totally miss having one.”

  “Well, you won’t believe this. I just got a puppy,” I said. Bunker was snoozing on my bedroom floor and opened his eyes a sliver when I said his name.

  “No way!” she said, laughing in a way that seemed out of proportion to the conversation. Or maybe it wasn’t. I couldn’t tell anymore. “Then you definitely need to move out here! It’d be a perfect fit!”

  “Really?” I said. “That could be an option.”

  “Seriously? You’d consider it?” she said.

  I assumed she’d gotten in over her head, really didn’t mean to ask me to live with her in Seattle. “I don’t want to invite myself,” I said.

  “What? No! It’d be so amazing if you actually moved out here. I mean, seriously, it would be epic! We would have so much fun.” Clearly she didn’t know who I’d become in this last year. I made a mental note to make sure she never talked to my New York friends, who would describe me as anything but fun.

  “Okay,” I said. I rubbed my forehead with my palm, squeezed my eyes shut. Exhaustion threatened.

  “How about this,” she said. “You take a day or two. Think about it. We haven’t started house hunting yet. When we do, we’ll either look for a three-or four-bedroom place, depending on what you decide. Simple as that!” She laughed again. “Man, that would be so awesome!”

  I couldn’t figure this out. Was she actually lonely and miserable out there in the rain? Did she need someone to come so far west to quell her isolation? We were friends in high school but not great friends. Melissa was much more popular than me; she had another best friend with whom she spent nearly every waking minute. They had the kind of best friendship I’d always envied. Why was she interested in hanging out with me now?

  There was an awkward pause before I finally replied, “Let me talk to my parents. See what they think. I guess I have nothing to lose at this point.” The words seemed to come from behind me. I almost turned around to check the flowered wallpaper for someone whispering words into my ear. What was I saying?

  I feared that I was failing to match Melissa’s enthusiasm (a sentiment I hadn’t felt in months), so I rather abruptly ended the phone call. After I hung up, I imagined that Melissa was like a customer at a used-car lot. I was a familiar brand of car, but she had no idea I was such a lemon. The next second, I dismissed the idea of moving entirely.

  I went back to the kitchen. My mom stood at the stove. The afternoon light pooled on the kitchen counter, the leaves outside the window glistened. “Who was that?” she asked, dropping white onions into an oiled pan.

  “Melissa,” I said. “I wonder how she knew I was home.” My mom shrugged, then asked how Melissa was doing. I considered not telling her that I’d just been invited to move to Seattle. I could just forget about it. Keep it to myself so that I didn’t have to make a decision. Bunker trotted into the kitchen. Melissa said Seattle was dog-friendly. I thought of my mom’s youngest sister who lived there, my aunt who loved animals the way I did, and the words tumbled out without further consideration. “She invited me to move to Seattle and live with her and two guys.” My mom froze, then looked up from the vegetables she was chopping. “And they were thinking about getting a dog. So if I come, they won’t need to. They’d love Bunker.”

  She set her knife down. “Oh, honey, I know they would,” she said. “Wow. Seattle.”

  We looked at each other, considering this new direction for my life, a genuine opportunity blossoming from a surprise phone call. “Wow,” she said again. We heard a skittering of claws in the living room and Bunker was chasing Cinder again. Cinder was baring her teeth and Bunk was down on his front haunches, inviting her to play. She barked at him, charged him, and he backed into the cabinet, tail between his legs. Cinder trotted over to the red couch, hopped up, and put her chin between her paws, watching this uninvited puppy warily. Bunker’s moment of fear had dissipated by the time I reached for him, picked him up, and held him in my arms. “You gotta learn, buddy,” I said. “She rules the roost. And she doesn’t like playing.”

  “Cinder’s miserable,” my mom said, laughing. “She’s saying, ‘Who on earth is that annoying thing, and when is he leaving?’” When my mom said this, it felt like the first gentle nudge back out of the nest. Bunker and I weren’t going to be living here forever. We could leave, and now we even had a place to go.

  “Totally,” I responded, taking another look at Cinder still parked on the couch. She was angry, blinking, so unhappy about sharing the attention. “Totally true.”

  THE LIST OF PROS AND CONS

  AUGUST 5, 1996

  Three days had passed since Melissa called. I sat in my room late on the night I was supposed to call and tell her whether I wanted to move in with her and her friends. It was midnight in Ohio, 9 p.m. in Seattle. Not too late to call, but I was nowhere near a decision. Bunker lay curled in his crate with the door open. I’d been reinforcing his recall all day, and he was exhausted with a belly full of treats.

  My bedroom window was cracked open, and in spilled my favorite sounds, the crickets and cicada and owl calls, the symphony of a summer night in Ohio. They were a loud chorus, messy but still somehow in unison, a warm lullaby that I’d taken for granted as a child. In New York, I remember perking up when I heard one lonely cricket in the bush outside my apartment. I wondered how he ended up stranded in that endless metropolis. I mourned for him that no female would ever answer the call of his rubbing legs, and I wrote a really bad poem about his plight.

  I sat in front of Bunker’s open crate, thinking about this new possibility. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, asked the crickets to give me an answer. Should I go? Were there crickets at night in Seattle? Was this all too soon? Was I ready to try again?

  I heard the shuffle of my mom’s slippers in the kitchen, the clinking of dishes, the rumble of the starting dishwasher. She and my dad had been watching television, and my dad had just gone to bed. He didn’t say it, but I knew he thought Seattle was too far away, too risky for my fragile emotional state. It was dark and rainy, he said, and I had no job there. “But whatever you want to do, I will support,” he said, though his voice was unconvincing, and I knew he wanted me to stay.

  “Hey, there.” My mom peeked her head into my bedroom.

  “Hi,” I greeted her, then turned back to the open window.

  “Beautiful night,” she said, pulling her robe tight around her waist.

  I had been daydreaming about Will in New York, imagining what he was doing, who he was kissing.

  My mom sat down next to me on the floor. She smelled like dish-soap and perfume. In her presence, for whatever reason, I had a momentary panic that I was on the precipice of feeling depressed again. Could I possibly move to another new town? Could I try again? I thought of Melissa’s enthusiasm on the phone.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I was supposed to call Melissa today and now it’s probably too late.”

  “I’m sure she can wait until tomorrow,” my mom said. She seemed so sure, but I was stuck. “Do you want to make a list?” she asked. Forever the taskmaster, my mother walked to my desk, grabbed a red pen and a yellow pad of paper. She patted my sheets, summoning me to my bed. “Okay,” she said, drawing a line down the middle of the page. The clock read 12:08.

  “Aren’t you tired?” I asked.

  “Nah,” she said. “Let’s get thinking here. Pros of going to Seattle and cons of going to Seattle. Go.”

  I spoke, she wrote. By the end of our brainstorming session,we had an impressive list with barely a few more pros than cons. My mom promised she would drive out west with me, had written “Mom/Daughter Thelma and Louise ro
ad trip” on the “pros” side. The list seemed make-believe. I just kept wondering if I was well enough to even attempt to make it out in the world again. My mom handed me the list, her just-now-aging hands pointing to each item. “Can live with Aunt Aurora initially,” was listed as a pro.

  “Did Aunt Aurora say I could live with her for a few weeks?” I asked.

  “I haven’t asked her yet, but I know she’d love to have you,” my mom said. Aurora, my mom’s youngest sister, was the one family member I felt understood me. She was a therapist who seemed to actually see the problems within my family when everyone else either ignored them or thought we were perfectly fine. Aurora had a dog, a few cats, and a rabbit, and she rode horses with her daughters almost every day. She would adore Bunker, I knew it.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What should I do?” A glance at the clock showed 1:30 a.m.

  “I say you go for it,” she said. We both smiled, and I felt a surge of happiness followed closely by panic.

  “I should move?” I said.

  “Look,” she held my hands in hers. “I would love for you to stay close to us forever, but Ohio isn’t the right place for you.” Her chin quivered. “I wish it was, but it isn’t. So you have to explore. You have to get out there. I say go for it.”

  My mom, who I’d only seen cry once, wiped away a tear as she squeezed my hands. “I’ll feel much better about this because Aunt Aurora is there,” she said, sniffing. “You have family there who you can go to if you need anything. And, you know, Aurora’s a therapist so she totally gets it.” A month ago, were my mom to suggest that I needed regular therapeutic intervention, I would’ve been insulted. But now I knew she simply cared, and I also knew that needing help wasn’t a bad thing. My mom and dad insisted that my depression wasn’t a character flaw or something to fear. “It’s just your brain’s chemistry,” my dad would say, over and over again, until the need for Zoloft seemed as normal as the need for daily vitamins. I was slowly realizing that their acceptance of my illness was a gift.