Notes From the Underwire: Adventures From My Awkward and Lovely Life

by Quinn Cummings

  “Good sit!”

  The rapid-fire toggle between my tone before the sit (Full Metal Jacket) and after the sit (Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood) would have alarmed any reasonably alert psychologist. As it was, we hadn’t even left the front porch and this sweet overgrown puppy was already bewildered. We said a quick good-bye to her old family, who shut the door behind us with the speed and resolve of prison guards. Ursula looked up at me with something approaching hope.

  “Come, Ursula.”

  She leapt like Pegasus toward the front gate. I grabbed her by the collar.

  “SIT!”

  We composed ourselves.

  “Come, Ur…SIT!”

  I grabbed her by the muzzle, looked deeply into her eyes, and growled sharply. I don’t suggest this was to be my Christmas card image, but it worked. She sat stock still, whining softly in confusion. This was nowhere near as much fun as chewing shoes.

  After a moment to demonstrate the depth and breadth of my authority, we started off again, Ursula walking meekly beside me. We made it all the way to their gate—a distance of about five yards—when it occurred to Ursula: Why, if I could just take this unspeakable thing off my snout, I could run as I please and show the world what a well-muscled dog with bad manners can really do! She flung herself against the gate, attempting to work the muzzle off by rubbing her nose against the hinge. I grabbed her by the collar in an attempt to get her forelegs up.

  “SIT!”

  Seen from the outside, I’m sure it appeared I was trying to lynch her. I finally got her back into sit and while she pouted, I plotted. A full “heel” position (dog’s right shoulder at your left hip, keeping pace with you while walking) might be more than she was capable of on her first walk. I decided to go for “walk,” which would be dog at my left side, slightly behind me, on a loose leash. This was all theoretical, as “heel” and “walk” both imply traveling more than seven inches forward at any one time. Meanwhile, the El Greco clouds, until then patchy and benign, thickened noiselessly overhead.

  “Ursula, WALK!”

  We stepped out of the gate. Ursula leapt ahead of me, as expected. What I did next must have entertained anyone who happened to look out their window.

  You can’t leash train a dog by dragging it by the collar because all you teach the dog is that this particular human has this weird fondness for randomly compressing its trachea. You have two choices. You can stop walking entirely until they happen to look up at you, to see if you died, and then start the walk again at your pace; or, you can walk quickly in a circle, using their forward momentum to neatly place them behind you.

  So, I walked in a circle. Ursula ended up at my left side, a couple of inches behind me.

  “Ursula, WALK!”

  I began to notice how my dog-encouraging voice sounds uncannily like Mary Poppins. Ursula took two steps in the correct position. Then she saw a leaf and hurtled forward.

  “SIT!”

  She was now officially miserable. Inconsistent-yet-fun parents were becoming a distant memory. In this new life, she was somehow attached to Evil Psycho Stepmother. She lay down and sighed, nose between her paws. A fat drop of rain hit the ground an inch away. I tugged her back into a sitting position.

  “Ursula, WALK!”

  We almost made it to the next house this time before a raindrop on her back caused her to lose focus. We trudged in another tight circle and reestablished equilibrium.

  We got another five feet before she decided to make a break for it, just for old times’ sake.

  “SIT!”

  The good news was that she was sitting without my having to push her back down anymore. The bad news was that she wouldn’t put her butt all the way on the wet ground, so it was less “sit,” more “hover.” I decided to accept it on technical points.

  “Ursula, WALK!”

  Ursula leapt away from the wet ground in relief, aiming to lick my jugular.

  “SIT!”

  She sat, her whole body language radiating misery. I looked at her in sympathy. All this shouting and circle-walking was in order to save her life, but she didn’t know that. In this game, both the saviors and the saved lead lonely lives. It was raining steadily now and I leaned over and rubbed her ear.

  She took this as a sign that this obeying silliness was over and that we could be ballroom dancing partners again.

  “SIT!”

  The very instant after I yelled, there was a rumble of thunder so deep and resonant I felt it in my spine. The dog stayed in sit, but stared up at the sky in absolute terror. I was yelling at her and God was yelling at her. This was by definition a bad-dog day. We squelched onward. Either she was finally learning the basic rules of “walk” or the by-now torrential rain sapped her of her fight. It was certainly draining away mine. I have new respect for anyone who trains dogs in Scotland.

  Ursula and I walked two whole blocks this way. It took an hour and a half. I popped her into my car where I spent another twenty minutes convincing her that I didn’t want her to drive, thank you. Then I brought her home, enjoying the last few minutes of quiet before not one single living thing in my house was happy.

  After her march of misery, crossing the threshold of our back door cheered Ursula up tremendously. For one thing, the sky wasn’t yelling at her anymore. For another, I hadn’t yelled at her since the sidewalk. But best of all, there—in the corner of the dining room—was another dog. Ursula loved other dogs. At the inconsistent-but-fun domicile she’d just left, she had a best friend in the adjacent yard: a year-old golden retriever with whom she would spend hours on end alternately chasing, barking, and chewing each other’s legs—not what I look for in a friendship, but I’m sure Ursula didn’t want to get a pedicure and speculate about the hidden flaws of famous people, so we’re even.

  When Ursula spotted Polly, she saw something like a life jacket in a fur coat. So what if the humans seem to be trying to deprogram me from a cult, she thought. I’ve got a dog buddy here and it’ll be all chasing, barking, leg-chewing heaven from now on! In a single leap, she crossed the room, landed next to Polly’s bed, stuck her butt in the air, and barked excitedly. Polly opened one eye and scowled. Something had dared awaken her from one of her more critical afternoon naps.

  Ursula waited a beat for our dog to take off from her bed and sprint around the room. When this didn’t happen, she barked louder.

  Polly curled one-third of her upper lip and growled warningly.

  Ursula dropped to the ground in a submissive pose and wagged her tail furiously. She continued to bark in joyous abandon.

  Polly took this as an invitation to flatten her ears against her head and growl an even more threatening growl than before, if such a noise were possible. Polly was really old, but arthritic hips and a weak bladder didn’t shake her resolve to throw down with loud strangers with boundary issues.

  I didn’t think they’d end up as workout buddies, but I was hoping Ursula’s joie de vivre might endear her to Polly. But no, it now looked as if Queen Victoria was being forced to share a dorm room with a Teletubby.

  When I took Alice to school the next morning, I popped Ursula into the car with us. I assumed Polly needed some quality time alone.

  On the way home, I stopped in Griffith Park and took Ursula for a long hike, which she enjoyed immeasurably. I enjoyed it too. It was a refreshing change to have a canine hiking buddy who didn’t seek refuge under the first bush and refuse to take another step. Then I ran some errands, keeping Ursula in the car as needed, taking her with me when I could. I thought to myself, I could do this. I could have a second dog that stays with me all day. She’s unbelievably sweet. I’ll exercise and socialize her and Polly will have hours at home by herself when she can pretend Ursula is nothing more than a horrible dream. I do wish she’d stop licking my ear when we’re on the freeway, though.

  Heading to pick up Alice, we made a detour for groceries and I grabbed a takeout lunch that Ursula and I could share at an outside table. At the checkout, I r
an into the mother of one of Alice’s schoolmates, Emily. I gave her the short version of Ursula’s wild ride.

  “I’d love a third dog,” she said enthusiastically. “My fourteen-year-old son has been begging for a dog of his own.”

  Hmm, this might work. They have dog experience. They have an energetic teenage boy, tall enough to tolerate full-body slams from a good-sized pet. They have developed a tolerance to dog hair on their clothing. Hmmm. I went to the car and brought out Ursula. She lay down on the sidewalk next to Emily’s mom and gazed up through her long black lashes with moist adoration. The woman fairly swooned. I was most forthcoming about Ursula’s charms and peculiarities, but I’m not sure how much she heard because Ursula was actively campaigning for the title of Most Precious Dog West of the Rockies. The love was fairly oozing in both directions.

  Finally, she looked at her watch and said reluctantly, “I’ve got to do a couple more things before I pick up Emily. I’m going to think about this and talk to my husband. There’s no point in talking to my son, he’ll say it’s a great idea.”

  “Okay,” I said. “See you at school.”

  “Do me a favor,” she said. “If Emily sees Ursula, don’t tell her I’m even thinking about this. She’s going to love this dog, and I need to make up my mind without that pressure.”

  When it came time to pick up Alice at school, I walked Ursula onto the outer playground. One fifth grader looked over and shrieked in delight, “DOG!”

  Within thirty seconds, Ursula was swarmed by fifteen small, gleeful playmates. I’d never have done this without absolute confidence in Ursula’s good nature, but she was even better than I hoped. She lay down on the ground, accepted all petting with pleasure, and licked whatever child body parts were near her tongue. I noticed Emily was one of the first kids to cuddle Ursula and one of the last to be peeled off when it came time for us to leave.

  That night, I was making dinner when the phone rang. It was Emily’s mother.

  “I can’t get Ursula out of my head,” she said. “And Emily came home raving about her without even knowing I was thinking about this. My husband thinks I’m insane, but Emily and I want the dog.”

  I was delighted but cautious.

  “Maybe we should have a playdate with Ursula and your dogs first?”

  “No. We want her.”

  “Okay, do you want to stop by this weekend?”

  “Actually, we were thinking tonight, so that my son could have her right away. Could we come by in about an hour?”

  It couldn’t be that easy?

  “Uh, okay. I mean, yeah. Great! I’ll have her stuff ready to go. We even have a crate for her, and we’ll see you in about an hour.”

  I hung up the phone and saw Alice standing in the doorway, frowning.

  “Who’s coming over tonight?”

  I said brightly, “Emily’s mom has decided that Ursula would be a great addition to their family, and they’re going to adopt her!”

  It’s amazing how I thought presenting this headline in my best good-news voice would negate what I was actually telling her. Alice’s face crumpled.

  “But…But, I wanted her to sleep on my bed.”

  I swung quickly into, “I know it’s hard to give up a sweet dog like Ursula, but every quadruped in the house hates her…Her new family goes for lots of walks and has another dog that is closer in age to Ursula…And she’ll be with someone we know again, so we can visit her…A lot!”

  I might as well have acted out the Mahabharata with spoons for all the good it did. Alice flung herself into her room, sobbing, and slammed the door. I followed her to the threshold.

  “Do you want me to come in?”

  “No. I want to cry!”

  I tried saying supportive things through the door like, “I hear that you’re upset.” The parenting magazines suggest reflecting what the child is feeling back to them.

  “JUST STOP TALKING!” she shouted, between sobs.

  The parenting magazines have never provided me with a single relevant parenting tip. At this point, all I could think was, if Alice and I had been driving down that street just five minutes later, I might have a peaceful house right now. Then again, you never know. We’re an emotional people.

  Emily and her mother arrived at seven on the dot. I liberated Ursula from her crate and she ran joyfully to them. Alice hid in the corner of the living room and sniffed. She didn’t want to be part of the good-bye, but she wasn’t going to miss seeing it. When Emily, her mother, and Ursula left, Alice collapsed in my lap and cried while I stroked her hair.

  A week later, the woman who adopted Ursula sought me out at school. Turns out, their dog, who was supposed to be thrilled to have a new canine companion, didn’t feel quite up to having a roommate who wanted to play incessantly and sleep sprawled across his skull. After a week of threats and feints, the two dogs had come to blows over a bone, and Ursula’s third loving mother in three months realized it was never going to work.

  Ursula arrived back at my house with her crate, three new chew toys, a huge bag of food, and the pleasant expression of someone who no longer attempts to understand what’s going on. I, however, knew exactly what was going on. I had signed on for a dog-life’s worth of the kind of close monitoring not seen in public since One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  I took Ursula everywhere, which usually ended with me apologizing. She went to the grocery store with me one morning and while waiting outside, entertained herself by chewing the wheels off a grocery cart. Any meal I ate at a restaurant was taken al fresco so Ursula could lick my toes and knock over the table when a potential play mutt appeared anywhere in a two-hundred-yard radius. At home, I even took her into the bathroom with me, reasoning that whatever performance anxiety a fifty-pound dog crawling into your lap might create, it was less stressful than flying out of the bathroom, pulling your pants up from around your ankles while trying to remove your cat’s head from your houseguest’s maw.

  I stopped thinking in terms of When I find her the right home… My mind was filled with more practical musings such as, Put Ursula in her crate so Lulabelle can come in and eat her dinner. Then put Lulabelle in the kid’s room, put Ursula in the back yard, and feed Polly her dinner. Walk Ursula. Then let Ursula have her dinner while I walk Polly. My life started to resemble the riddle about the farmer, the fox, the chicken, and the rowboat. I always hated that riddle.

  Sometimes, when popping Ursula into the car for a trip to the drive-through ATM, the drive-through pharmacy, and whatever vegetarian lunch I could grab at a drive-through, I would stare at her and wonder if this could have been avoided. What if I had left her on the street? But that was never going to happen because I’m one of the good guys. I might not be having much fun right now and my hair might smell of dog saliva, but this dog was better off because of me.

  One afternoon, I crated Ursula in anticipation of taking Polly for her midday walk. Polly walked by Ursula’s crate and threw a quick “Yeah! Mommy loves ME!” sneer in Ursula’s direction. Ursula sighed deeply, put her big head on her paws, and looked doleful. I had a flash of inspiration. I’d let her stay in the back yard while I walked Polly, after which I would walk Ursula. It was a lovely day and the squirrels were looking especially plump and disrespectful. Within minutes, Polly and I were on our way and Ursula was standing under the squirrel tree, looking up and grinning wildly.

  Polly and I walked around the block. As we returned toward the house I noticed a van stopped in the middle of the street and two men talking on the sidewalk. One of them, relating an anecdote, clapped his hands together sharply once, then pointed up the street, away from our house. Turning back, they noticed me.

  “Hey,” the hand clapper called, “is this your house?”

  He pointed to our yard.

  “Yeah?” I said, acid flooding my stomach.

  “Do you have a yellow dog?”

  “No,” I said shakily. “I have a brown dog.” Because that’s what I do in moments of terror, I try t
o get out of things on a technicality.

  “About that big?” he asked, putting his hand just about Ursula-height. I nodded dumbly. He sighed.

  “I was just driving along here, and it jumped that wall and ran out in front of me. I tried to stop but it bounced off the front of my van,” and he clapped his hands together, “and ran off that way.” He pointed up the street. The driver was a big man with a tattoo snaking up from his shirt collar. He took a ragged breath and said, “I couldn’t stop fast enough. I tried. I really love dogs. It was just…” and he clapped his hands together again. His hands were large. The sound seemed to echo down the empty block.

  I bolted into the yard, hoping that somehow another brown/yellow dog about Ursula’s height had run through our yard, scaled the fence, and gotten hit, leaving my charming ninny standing under the squirrel tree, but the yard was empty. I put Polly inside, carefully not looking at Ursula’s empty crate, grabbed her leash, and dashed back outside. For an hour, I walked the neighborhood, shouting her name and sobbing. I had broken my promise to keep her safe, and I couldn’t have been in any more pain if I had broken my arm. No one on the street had seen her. No one in the neighboring streets had seen her. In the days to come, no one responded to my signs. She had vanished as abruptly as she arrived.

  Before we head down a particularly shadowy and unpleasant road, let me stop right here and introduce a psychiatric term: “compartmentalization.” For those of you who don’t freely toss this word around when ordering a Frappuccino, here’s a brief definition: “Compartmentalization is the psychological ability to assign thoughts, beliefs, or life experiences into separate categories in your brain.” At its best, this means you can have a complete knock-down drag-out with your boyfriend over breakfast—one of those verbal brawls that ends in the phrase “Maybe we should see other people!”—and still manage a productive day at work. A compartmentalized brain would file the screaming domestic argument under “Home,” and because “Home” has nothing to do with “Work,” you can function at the office—that is until the day you find yourself screaming into the work phone over the custodial arrangements of copper cookware and your joint collection of snow globes.