Dog Medicine

by Julie Barton

  Melissa loved Bunker, and he adored her. She called, “Bunkah, aroooo,” when she saw him and he pranced to her, spinning, and finally giving her the howl she asked for. He was our buddy, all of ours, and I felt like a single mom who had moved into a commune that had happily adopted both my child and me.

  Bunker loved the roommates, but he snuggled the most with Greg, who worked crazy hours in his laboratory. Many nights, Greg would ride his bike home around midnight, after working a fourteen-hour day. Bunker would stir at the sound of Greg’s key in the door and greet him quietly, the last of our makeshift family to return to the den. When Greg grabbed a bag of Goldfish crackers and sat on the couch to watch SportsCenter, Bunker would hop up and lie down next to him, resting his chin on Greg’s lap, hoping for a dropped fish or two.

  Greg moved in with just a mattress, a dresser, a futon, an old television, and a garbage bag full of shoes and clothes. When I asked him what other furniture he had at his apartment, he said mostly he used cardboard boxes for tables and just never spent time there. “My old place was above a futon shop on a loud street,” he said. “Crappy place to spend my first year of grad school.” I felt a tenderness toward him that felt kind of like a crush, but less urgent. Normally my crushes felt critical—like I had to act on my feelings for that boy instantly, get him before he got away. This was more of a calm admiration, and I sat with it for a few weeks, just enjoying the feeling of having a cute, blue-eyed boy sleeping in the bedroom above mine. I remember listening to his footfalls on the old, creaky floorboards and imagining what it would be like to tiptoe up the stairs and slip into bed next to him.

  WORK

  SEPTEMBER 1996

  I needed a job. I had only about seven hundred dollars left, four hundred of which would go to rent in a few weeks. My one year of experience in publishing in New York didn’t help me find connections or a job in Seattle, so I signed up at a local temp agency. My first day of work would be as a receptionist at a law firm. The night before, I lay in bed petrified about how I would fare without Bunker by my side. Leaving Bunker was, for me, like taking someone off of a lifesaving medication and tossing them into a foot race. I dreaded sitting behind a desk all day in an office building. But I woke early, resigned to walk Bunker, then shower, get dressed, and go. I had no choice. I pulled on my long black skirt telling myself that I could do it. The receptionist job was part time, so I would only have to sustain myself without him for about five or six hours.

  I walked Bunker in the early dawn, his orange fur glinting in the rising sun. It was a cloudless day, and that seemed a good omen. I talked to him about needing to leave, that I’d be back soon, and he would be okay in his crate. The two consistent things about all of this transition in his young life were his crate and me. He happily trotted in and accepted a treat, and I told him I loved him and would be back as soon as I could. I opened the window a bit so he would have some fresh air, and then I walked out the door.

  The longing for him was instantaneous. At the bus stop, I had to talk myself out of running back to the house and locking us in our room, never coming out. When the bus came and I climbed on, I watched my bedroom window disappear slowly as we descended the hill. I looked around and thought that no one on this bus knew the terrible feeling I carried. No one knew how hard it was for me to be away from the one thing that saves me. Did anyone else feel this way? I decided that everyone would deem me insane if I confessed my intense attachment to my dog. The thought left me isolated, lonely inside a world in my head—a very old and familiar place indeed. I felt terrifyingly close to the old Julie who sat on the subway trying to be invisible.

  Then an old, frail woman clutching a black pleather purse against her chest smiled at me and said, “Oh, darling. You’re beautiful inside. I can see.” Her voice was quiet, bird-like. I just about gasped. I thanked her, sat down next to her, and said, “Oh wow. Thank you. You’re beautiful too.”

  With the help of that kind stranger, I made it through the day. The job was fine. The head receptionist wore a bright-red pantsuit and had hair so thickly sprayed that not one strand moved all day. She took me under her wing in a sweet, motherly way. When 1:59 flipped to 2:00 and I was done for the day, despite terrible hunger because I’d forgone lunch, I hopped on the first bus and raced to my door.

  “Bunker!” I said, tossing my things on the floor and rushing to the crate. “I’m home!” I sat on the floor and he walked over to me, curling his body into mine, kissing my face. Happy chills coursed up my spine. All of the day’s anxieties vanished. “Walk time?” I asked. “Wanna go for a walk?” It was a phrase he knew, and he pranced in circles by the front door. I grabbed a bagel in the kitchen, held it between my teeth as I took off my work clothes and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. I laced up my tennis shoes and clipped on his leash, and we were off.

  Soon we would establish this daily walking route through the neighborhood to Queen Anne Avenue. I was teaching him to diligently stop at all corners and sit down before crossing the street. A few blocks into our walk, we always stopped by the kids’ soccer field that doubled as a late-afternoon dog park, and he sniffed and visited with the other dogs. He never really raced around the park, mostly sat down next to me and leaned against my leg. Friendly dog owners commented on how he was glued to my side, and I smiled, said that he was a typical golden retriever, more interested in people than other dogs.

  Back at the house that afternoon, Bunker snoozed on the floor while I sat with Melissa, discussing her boyfriend. He’d suddenly begun talking about breaking up. The idea struck her as ludicrous because they both agreed that they were wonderful together. She had fallen deeply in love for the first time, but he told her he wasn’t sure she was the one for him. “I just don’t get it,” she said, wiping the tears that wouldn’t stop. “I thought we were so good together. I guess he just doesn’t love me.” I handed her tissues, sat with her under warm blankets, and listened. I knew her pain, and I wanted to be there for her. I understood that heartbreak felt nearly impossible, that it tore you up in ways you couldn’t anticipate. I knew she would go over the same conversations in her mind, that she would pine for him in strange ways, pray for the phone to ring, look for him everywhere. I tried to just listen.

  Those early weekends, I worked in the yard. We hadn’t been in the rental house a month, and the back yard was already starting to shape up. I had cleared the weeds and picked up the garbage, dug a small switchback pathway and paved it with the bricks and stones that I found buried just under the soil. I built a makeshift doghouse. Bunker and I spent long afternoons knee-deep in dirt and weeds as the other roommates watched from above, every now and then marveling at our progress. I felt mildly self-conscious about my determination to transform the yard, but that quickly faded when I thought about what Bunker needed and what I wanted for him. Besides, sculpting the landscape around me was in my blood. On the afternoons when I walked into the house covered in sweat and bugs, my skin stinging because it’d been sliced and poked by weeds and thorns, I felt a quiet pride because I was indeed my mother’s daughter.

  FIRE AND AIR

  OCTOBER 1996

  One weekend a few months into our lives as housemates, Greg, Chris, and I took my truck out to the Gorge Amphitheater, a postcard-worthy concert venue on the Columbia River, a few hours east of Seattle. Melissa stayed back in Seattle for work and to spend some time with her now ex-boyfriend, to try to make sense of their parting, to somehow manage the end of their relationship gracefully.

  At the Gorge, we saw Phish in concert and tailgated in the grass. I didn’t know much about Phish, but I liked hanging out with the guys, and my attraction to Greg was intensifying. He was easy to hang out with, funny as hell, and smart. The three of us danced in the grass, drank beer, and took a picture with the Gorge behind us, a deep rock canyon, a backdrop so beautiful it practically seemed fake.

  We drove home from the concert across the dark, steep moun
tains. Chris slept in the backseat and I asked Greg about his astrological sign. “Honestly? I don’t know,” he said. “I think I’m a Sagittarius.” This, the sign most compatible with mine, Libra, seemed to me the official signal that my crush was entering a new and possibly fruitful phase.

  “Oh, man,” I said, smiling. He smiled too, as if he knew exactly what I meant. But I felt conflicted about disrupting our house’s vibe if we were to hook up. We were four young friends living together. So much would change if two of us paired off into a couple, especially as Melissa endured a difficult breakup. A relationship between Greg and me was probably a bad idea. But still, I remember feeling oddly overcome that night, traveling back to our house nestled high on the hill. The road was dark, Chris snored, and I began to fall for Greg. But this felt different than past romances where I was swept away, unable to contain my emotion. This wasn’t a lightning bolt. I didn’t swoon. I just thought, calmly, “I could really love this man.”

  • • •

  In October, my mom and dad arrived for a three-day visit around my birthday. I’d been in the new house only about six weeks and the visit seemed too soon, but it also seemed belated. Their encouragement and enthusiasm were a salve. I was already doing well, but their delight at how things had turned made me think I’d managed a miraculous recovery. The question was whether it would last.

  At dinner in the city, they asked about the depression and whether it was threatening any kind of return. I didn’t have an answer for them. How was I supposed to know? I didn’t know it was coming the first time I collapsed. I felt okay so far. Wasn’t that enough? These kinds of conversations left me feeling as if I were walking a tightrope. One glance in the wrong direction, one wrong thought, and I’d slip, entangle myself in the line, and fall into the abyss.

  The first night my parents were in town, Greg was out with his lab-mates having a few beers. My parents were asleep in my bed, so I was relegated to the futon in the living room. I was half-awake in the pitch dark when the front door opened and Greg walked in. The streetlamp’s light flooded the entryway and Bunker rose to greet him, tail wagging, breathing heavily. Greg leaned down to pet him. “Hi, buddy,” he said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you, bud.” He closed the door and tiptoed by the futon. I opened my eyes and smiled at him. “Did I wake you up?” he asked.

  “No, I was just daydreaming,” I said.

  “Pre-dreaming,” he whispered. “Planning what you’ll dream about after you fall asleep.” He sat down on the edge of the futon and pulled off his backpack. “Never too early to prepare,” he said, smiling.

  “Have a fun night?” I asked stretching my arms above my head. He said that they’d gone to Big Time, his favorite bar near campus, and then he stopped talking. He just looked at me. I wondered if he felt the connection too, then he leaned down, held my face in his hands, and kissed me. For a moment I thought about my parents lying in the next room, but that reality slipped away with the kiss, with the weight of his body soon on top of mine. I remember thinking that he was more man than I’d ever felt, his broad shoulders and sure arms. I arched my back into his kiss. We made out for a while, until he finally pulled himself away. “Don’t want to be caught here in the morning by your parents,” he whispered, laughing.

  “Yeah,” I said. “No doubt.”

  “See you in the morning,” he said. He kissed me again, stood up, and started toward the stairs. “Man, I’ve been waiting a long time to do that.” He laughed, did a little fist pump, and headed up to his bedroom.

  I did a giddy little twist on the futon and held my hands to my mouth. He’d been waiting a long time to do that. That was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to me.

  My parents, Aunt Aurora and I spent the next day at my new favorite dog park, a place east of Seattle called Marymoor. My aunt and cousins had taken me there with Bunker and their dog Brandy. I watched as Bunker flung himself into the Sammamish River after sticks and balls, then dripped through the woods following a scent. Bunker absolutely loved the water. Swimming was his bliss. When Bunker was happy, I was happy. My dad and I walked behind him on a quiet trail. We were a few paces ahead of everyone else. “Man,” my dad said, “Bunker just loves this place.”

  “I know,” I said. “I try to come here at least once a week. It’s his favorite place for sure.”

  “And you?” my dad asked. “You’re still happy?”

  I walked a few more paces, smiled, kicked a few leaves, and said, “Yep.” I thought of Greg’s kiss the night before, of my easy job that paid the bills just fine, my daily, curative walks with Bunker. I thought about writing more, about how I would look for an editing job, but felt no pressure just yet. I thought about Melissa and Chris and Greg and our house, how we would get a keg and call our friends and invite everyone over for pizza and beer. How when a friend fell asleep on the pool table, we laughed and took pictures after sticking Goldfish crackers up his nose.

  “I’m really, really good, Dad. Seattle really fits me well.”

  My dad put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed me tight. He kissed the top of my head and said, “I’m so happy, Julie.” His voice cracked. “I’m so happy for you.”

  Bunker ran ahead of us, then tripped and his back legs gave out behind him like they’d suffered instant paralysis. He whimpered and yelped, then fell down screaming a nearly human cry of pain. I ran to him. My dad started running too, and soon we were kneeling over Bunker, our hands hovering over him, not sure whether we should touch him. He was lying on his side wagging his tail, panting.

  “What the hell happened?” my dad said.

  “I have no idea. He just kind of fell.” I gently touched his back, his hips, his hind legs, and Bunker just lay there panting and smiling at us. My mom and Aunt Aurora caught up with us. Aurora said, “Was that scream from Bunker?”

  She knelt down and whispered calmly to him, “Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay, buddy. Something hurts, huh?” She looked at me with alarm. I could see that she wanted to say something but thought better of it. I imagined the worst. Bone cancer. Doggie leukemia.

  “What?” I asked. “What do you think is wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Aurora said, sounding too chipper for the face she’d just made. “Must’ve stepped in a hole or something. Twisted his leg. Let’s see if we can get him up.” She instructed me to stand next to him, then she walked ahead a bit and called him to her. He wouldn’t get up. “You switch with me. I’ll catch him if he falls. You call him to you.”

  My hands were shaking. “Bunker,” I said, backing away from him slowly. “Come here, buddy. Can you get up? Come on, let’s get you back to the car.” Brandy swooped by me and Bunker watched him sprint along to the creek’s edge. “Come on, buddy.” Bunker panted and then stood up and walked toward me shakily.

  “See?” Aurora said unconvincingly. “He looks okay.”

  Bunker limped right next to me the rest of the hike. He didn’t romp. He didn’t play. He did not walk like a seven-month-old puppy but rather like a geriatric dog that couldn’t manage exertion. I saw Aurora whisper to my mom. I imagined the worst, and Bunker stayed right by my side.

  My parents left the next morning. I promised I would take Bunker to the veterinarian, but the idea left me paralyzed with dread.

  As I prepared to drive my parents to the airport the next morning, Bunker seemed fine again. He hopped into the car without any hesitation. The worry wouldn’t leave me, though. My mom sat in the backseat with him and mentioned that I might want to take him to the vet just to be sure, but not to worry because he probably just slipped.

  I nodded, not wanting to think about it. The whole idea of something being wrong with Bunker was too terrifying. So I told them that I was thinking about dating Greg. I watched as my dad tried to hide his delight. “He seems cool,” he said, before he not-so-covertly winked at my mom. They approved.

  BLOSSOMING

 
NOVEMBER 1996

  Greg and I were proceeding slowly in our secret relationship. For much of those fall months, soon after everyone in the house went to bed, Greg would drift down the stairs to my room, or I’d go to his. I remember tiptoeing up the stairs, cursing the loose floorboards and squeaking door hinges. We didn’t want Melissa or Chris to know that we were fooling around. Our pairing off would forever change our house’s wonderful energy.

  Bunker hadn’t fallen again, or shown any sign of distress, so I put off taking him to the veterinarian. He climbed gingerly up the steps with me at night as if he knew he had to be quiet. When we reached Greg’s room, often Greg would be in bed reading and once he saw me, he would put the papers down and take me in his arms. Bunker would lie on the floor and fall asleep quietly. Greg and I talked in whispers as we grew to know one another. Greg’s wit was quick, and it was difficult not to laugh out loud. Soon we’d begin kissing, petting, and slowly pulling off each other’s clothes. Sometimes we would hear Chris or Melissa heading to the bathroom and we would freeze, desire building in us because all of this was a secret, and a little bit forbidden.

  I couldn’t deny that when I felt the weight of Greg’s body at the edge of my bed, from a deep sleep, my arms would instinctively reach out for him like they realized they desperately needed him the exact moment he appeared. My eyes would stay closed, and we would move together, our mouths on each other’s necks, our breathing deep, calm. We’d kiss slowly, exploring, quietly, even innocently. Nothing below the waist; I’d asked for that. He respected my request, and I wondered if he wanted me only because he couldn’t entirely have me. But then I’d feel his hands, his soft and silken, callous-free hands, the hands of an intellectual, a thinker. Something about the softness of them made me trust that this man was different. I remember thinking: I can love a kind man. This thought came as a revelation.