Oogy The Dog Only a Family Could Love

by Larry Levin

  “That’s great,” I told him. “Thank you very much.” I rubbed the leathery texture of the scar tissue and the softness where the scar tissue ended. I had a sense that the opportunity to compensate for what had happened to this dog would somehow, in as yet indefinable ways, add to the experience. I looked forward to the opportunity to make the dog feel secure and appreciated. I experienced his immediate willingness to trust us with his well-being, after what he had been through, as a special gift.

  I said, “We’re the lucky ones, I think.”

  After leaving the hospital, I considered the uniqueness of the weekend’s lessons. Facing the loss of a loved companion, we had started Saturday morning consumed by sadness, despondent, resigned to the unavoidable chasm that lay before us — and without any indication that anything other than bleakness would be our lot for the day, we had encountered a totally opposite experience. I knew the boys would appreciate the way in which events had unfolded. It represented a lesson one rarely had the opportunity to illustrate with such immediacy: life going out one door and in another. And then I started thinking about a name.

  I laughed out loud. There was no way to deny it: This was one ugly dog. If his face had been a mask, no one would have wanted to wear it. Of course, I knew I could not call him that. I could not name a dog “Ugly.” And then my thoughts jumped to a term I had used when I was a teenager — “oogly,” as in, “Man, that is one oogly sweater.” And suddenly, just like that, I said, “Oogy,” out loud to myself and knew without a doubt that the pup had a name.

  We mourned Buzzy for weeks, and to this day, I love to look at photos of him and the family. I remember Buzzy and the love he shared with tremendous fondness. But the gap in our lives was about to be filled in a sudden and decisive way.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Arrival

  Over the next ten days, I prepared for the reintroduction of a dog into our lives. I went through the cupboards and drawers and found the water bowl and food bowl where I had stashed them. I found the retractable leash and the brush we had used for the dog we’d had before Oogy. I selected an old and very soft flannel blanket for him to sleep on in his cage.

  I went to the grocery store and carefully considered the canned and dry dog food, perusing the lists of ingredients. I knew that a lot of dog food contained waste and chemicals and was of questionable quality. I examined the labels, trying to discern what would offer the most quality and nourishment. It was impossible to tell. I couldn’t have known it at the time, of course, but finding Oogy the right food would become an ongoing challenge that lasted years.

  I also bought a green collar and a bone-shaped metal dog tag on which I inscribed “Oogy” and our home telephone number. I bought several different varieties of chews and treats to occupy him and to clean his teeth. I picked out some soft toys for him to tear apart. At home, I stashed these acquisitions in the kitchen’s corner cupboard.

  One evening a week later, Diane called and asked if I was going to be around the next morning. Oogy was ready for transitioning. She asked if we had come up with a name for him, and when I told her what it was, she laughed and commented that because it was two syllables, like “Eli,” the name change should not prove to be a problem. There was a mild sense of excitement that evening; we were getting a new pet. None of us, of course, had any way of knowing that our lives were about to be changed in a fundamental fashion, just as much as if we had adopted another child.

  That morning, after everyone was gone, I went outside and retrieved the newspaper from the curb near the mailbox. I sat on the couch in the family room, drank some more coffee, and read the newspaper all the way through. This was the only part of the day that was mine alone. I relished the quiet and the temporary lack of obligation.

  When I was done with the newspaper, I put it aside for Jennifer to read that night, went upstairs and showered, then threw the laundry from the washer into the dryer and started that cycle. I was downstairs emptying the dishwasher when Diane’s station wagon pulled into the driveway a little after nine.

  I watched her exit and open the rear lift gate and take out several shopping bags, and went outside to help. She removed a folded-up black steel contraption, which was the crate in which Oogy was to sleep and which I took from her. Oogy, who was not Oogy yet but still Eli, placed his front paws on the top of the backseat and stared at me, his tail wagging furiously, and began to bark. I didn’t know whether it was at me or at Diane. I carried the crate into the kitchen, and when I went back outside, I walked around to the back door of the car and opened it slowly. Oogy rushed forward like air escaping a vacuum seal, and I scooped him up, one arm supporting his butt; the other passed across his chest while I massaged his ear and the top of his head. He squirmed around until he was standing on his hind legs, the better to reach my face. He licked me unrelentingly.

  Once inside the house, in the kitchen, I put him down by his water bowl. Oogy sniffed it and then followed me over to where Diane was unpacking the shopping bags. He leaned against one of her legs and looked at me. I had a sense that he was appraising me.

  Diane called him, fondly and interchangeably, “knucklehead” and “goofball.” She said he was wonderful with her two kids and her pets, and that her dog would be relieved now that she was the only dog in the house again. Diane had housebroken Oogy (well, mostly, anyway, as we would learn) and crate-trained him as well. I had never used a crate before, but everyone I had ever talked about it with said that his or her dog felt safe within its steel bars and equated the crate with security. I had no reason to anticipate that Oogy’s response to being confined would be any different.

  The contents of the two shopping bags were a testament to Diane’s thoughtfulness and attention to what a young dog needed and what would occupy him and make him happy. She brought out several soft toys, flea and tick protection, heartworm pills, and a five-pound bag of dry food, explaining, “I’m not a big proponent of canned food. A lot of it is fatty junk.” She told me to give Oogy the heartworm pills and apply the tick lotion every thirty days. We talked about how much food I should give him and how many times a day he should be fed. We discussed how much exercise he would need. Diane told me that riding in a car seemed to upset Oogy’s stomach. She presented me with some powdered medicine in case he developed diarrhea, as he had been prone to during his adjustment to real food. She took out and handed over a package of gauze pads and a blue antibiotic lotion that also served as a moisturizer and explained that I needed to wipe Oogy’s scar tissue twice a day to minimize discomfort by keeping the scar tissue from drying out. Finally, Diane asked me where I wanted the crate set up. We walked down the hall, Oogy trotting along with us.

  “I picked up some dog food as well,” I told her. “Has Oogy eaten today?”

  “I fed him before I brought him over,” Diane told me. She asked where his new name had come from. I told her about my flash of inspiration.

  The largest amount of open space was in the living room at the end of the hall. The only furniture in it was the baby grand piano my parents had given us, a coffee table between two small camelback sofas from Jennifer’s mom, and my old stereo equipment and speakers. The turntable, tape deck, tuner, amp, and preamp had not been hooked up or plugged in since we had moved in nine years earlier, victims of technological advancements that had left them in the dust — literally and figuratively. In fact, I could not recall anyone ever sitting in that room other than me. Occasionally on a Sunday morning, I would do the crossword puzzle in there just to get away from the jabbering on the TV where the boys were in the family room.

  Diane showed me how to unfold the crate and tighten the fasteners that held it into place. If I wanted to take it down and pack it, all I had to do was reverse the process. I took an old beach towel and spread it out on the floor, and we moved the box onto the towel to protect the floor and keep it from getting scratched up. I put Oogy’s blanket in there and folded it carefully to provide maximum cushioning for him. I went back into the kit
chen and found a plastic bowl from when the boys had been toddlers. Some long-forgotten form of superheros were cavorting inside. I put some water in it, and placed a section of newspaper under it in the box. Then Diane, Oogy, and I walked back into the kitchen.

  “Thanks so much for everything, Diane,” I said.

  “I’m happy to be able to do it,” she replied.

  Just before Diane left, she knelt and gave Oogy a big hug and a kiss. When she stood, she rubbed her hands over the top of his head. “I love this guy,” she said. “He’s an amazing dog, and because you’re an animal person you’ll understand and appreciate what this dog is all about. He is really very special. He and your family are perfect for each other. You’ll have a great time, and your boys are going to have a best friend they’ll never forget. In six months, we’ll drop you a reminder to bring him in for a checkup.” And then she was gone, and Oogy and I were by ourselves for the first time.

  Somewhere outside, a truck beeped in reverse. Then the sound stopped, and it was still and quiet except for the humming of the dryer over my head.

  I leaned against the dishwasher and looked down at Oogy. He stood, his head slightly tilted expectantly, his tail wagging. Did he have some sense that things would be different from now on? Having gone through what he had, and never having known anything else, what did he think was awaiting him?

  “Hello, Oogy,” I said. “From now on, that’s you. You’re Oogy. Oogy, Oogy, Oogy. Oogy for the rest of your days. Oogy ever after. You’re in our family now,” I explained. “There’s me, I’m Dad; Jennifer, who is Mom; and Danny and Noah, who are twelve. You’ll like the boys. They’re lots of fun. They’re in sixth grade and go to school up the street. We have a cat, Martha, who is upstairs at the moment. I’m not sure what she’ll think of you, but we’ll work something out. She’s kind of old and set in her ways. Too bad you never got to meet Buzzy. He was the cat who died the weekend we met you. In fact, he’s the reason we got to meet you. I think you and he could have been pals.” My back against the dishwasher, I slid to the floor and started to pet him gently. He began to lick my hands and arms, then started on my face until I pulled back. “We’re going to take good care of you,” I told him. “You won’t ever have to worry about anything again. You won’t ever have to be afraid of anything again. You will never be hungry or scared again. That’s my personal promise to you. Will you trust me on that?”

  Oogy did not answer me. He did not acknowledge what I had said in any way. But his chocolate brown eyes seemed to be taking me in.

  “High-five?” I asked.

  I gave him a moment to comply, and when it became apparent that he would not, I said, “Okay, then. Here’s what we’ll get started with.”

  I stood back up. I took his new collar, picked up the ID tag I had purchased and the rabies tag Diane had brought along, and then reached into the tool drawer and pulled out needle-nose pliers. I pried open the steel piece on the collar, slid on the tags, and closed the steel back over them, securing the tags into place. Finally, I sat back down, reached over, and lifted Oogy into my lap.

  “This makes it official,” I said. I kissed his nose, and he licked me. “You now have your name and our phone number. So now there’s no excuse for not calling if you run off or get lost.”

  I crossed my ankles in front of me and settled Oogy onto my lap. Experimentally, I placed the collar around his neck and clicked its plastic prongs into place. The collar was a tad large, so I removed it, tightened it up, and snapped it into place again. I took comfort in the fact that Oogy was now identified with our telephone number, confirmation that he belonged with us.

  I placed him back on the floor and stood up again. I tore open the end of the package that held the gauze pads and pulled one out, then cut the pad in half with a pair of scissors. Oogy backed up a few steps, but his gaze never left me. I opened the bottle of blue lotion and spread some onto the gauze. Then I sat back down on the terra-cotta-tiled floor of the kitchen, which was cool beneath me, and patted my lap.

  “Come here, pal,” I said. “Come over here.”

  Oogy looked at me.

  “Come here, my friend.” I patted my lap again.

  Oogy looked at me.

  Holding the moistened gauze pad in my right hand, I craned my torso, reached over, and gently picked him up. He did not resist. I felt the warmth of his flesh and the smoothness of him and the tensile strength of his rib cage. Depraved acts had been committed against him,yet he sat before me waiting for my love and help.

  I said to him, “No bad thing will ever happen to you again.”

  I placed him between my legs, and he sat with his back to me. I ran my hands over both sides of his head, careful not to draw any distinction between the scored and the intact parts of his face, and then stroked down the sides of his body, the flanks of his rear legs. I reached underneath and scratched his belly. I slowly scratched behind his remaining ear. And then, for the first time, just as I would every morning and evening for the next six months, I began with small, circular strokes to rub the dampened gauze pad over the raw pink flesh that was the left side of Oogy’s head. It was as though I were trying to wipe away what had happened to him. The blue liquid turned soapy-looking as I massaged the leathery skin. I talked quietly to him the entire time. “Yes,” I told him, just as I would tell him every time, “you’re a good boy. This didn’t happen because of you. This does not mean that you are a bad doggy, an undeserving dog. We love you very much. You didn’t deserve this. Nobody does. This has nothing to do with who you are. You’re a lovely doggy. You’ll never have to be scared again. No one and nothing will ever hurt you again.”

  I think that the first thing I did with Oogy, acting to assuage his wound, initiating immediate and intimate contact with the symbol of his vulnerability, helped to set the tone for all that was to follow. I took pleasure in the intimacy of this act, in my ability to nurture and support the precious vulnerability of this amazing little being. I felt privileged to be able to do it. Oogy never moved or fidgeted or tried to pull away.

  When we were done, I rose and threw the gauze into the trash. I consolidated all the chew toys in a cookie jar and all the soft toys and rubber toys in a wicker basket in the family room. Oogy followed me back and forth as I did this. I put his medicine on a different shelf in the same cabinet where our own medicines were stored. Afterward, I poured myself a cup of cold coffee and nuked it in the microwave for fifty seconds. I said, “Follow me, my friend,” as though anything else were even remotely possible. With Oogy alongside me, wagging his tail as he sauntered along, I walked back down the hallway into the family room, where I had been sitting alone an hour before. I sat on the couch and said, “Here ya go, pal,” and patted the seat beside me. Oogy climbed up and sat there, leaning against me while I cupped his ear and rubbed his neck. Then he rose, circled several times, curled up against me, lay down with a snort, and went to sleep. Mornings were no longer mine alone, and I was thrilled about it.

  I slowly drank the coffee and simply luxuriated in the experience of having this dog’s warmth planted against my thigh. Then I stood and headed for the kitchen. Oogy immediately jumped off the couch and followed me. I placed the cup in the sink and picked up the leash off the table. Kneeling, I attached the clip on the leash to Oogy’s collar. I put on my old red-and-black wool mackinaw, opened the back door, and walked with him out into the yard. I let the line play out about ten feet and locked it. Oogy meandered here and there, all new smells for him to assimilate and define. We did two full tours and then returned to the house. I removed the leash and went upstairs. Oogy followed me.

  We walked into the bedroom. Martha was plumped up in the middle of the bed, as if in meditation. She did not even look at Oogy. When he saw her, he barked. It wasn’t an angry bark. It was a short one, intended to make certain that she knew he was around and to get her attention. Nothing changed in her demeanor. He barked again. As I was to learn, animals that didn’t want to play with Oogy frustrated
him.

  “Forget about it,” I told him.

  Martha lived another two years, and from the day that Oogy walked into the house, she never left our bedroom again. Oogy would occasionally come up to the bedroom, where she sat serenely on the bed, and would bark and bark at her, but she paid him no attention whatsoever. She wouldn’t even deign to turn her head and look at him. He never would have hurt her — Oogy had slept next to an eighteen-year-old cat on the floor of the reception area every night when he had lived at the animal hospital. It was not that Martha was afraid. She was simply not interested — a grande doyenne with no time for the riffraff.

  Oogy and I passed through the bedroom into the laundry room as he sniffed at everything, getting his bearings, starting to learn the parameters of his new world. I wondered if any of the smells he was absorbing encouraged him by reminding him of his ecstatic initial reaction to Noah and Dan. After I’d changed out of my sweats, we went downstairs, where I put on my sneakers. Then it was time for me to leave. I walked Oogy into the living room and opened the door of the crate.

  “C’mon, Oogy,” I said, expecting he would rush in. Crate-trained dogs just loved being in them, right?

  Oogy turned and walked into the hall, where he lay down in the doorway, put his muzzle on his forepaws, and looked at me dolefully. His back legs were splayed out like those of a frog. He could not have gotten any closer to the floor unless he had been glued onto it. I called him again, but he did not budge. I patted the side of the cage, as though the sound would entice him or remind him what this was really all about. He did not move. I walked over to him. I bent at the waist and patted my knees.

  “I need to go to work,” I said. I was surprised by his reaction. Oogy clearly had zero interest in going into that crate.