A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers

by Colleen Sell

  “I like their names,” I said, eyeing each puppy.

  “The bitch's owner named them after her three children,” Mark announced. “The real Priscilla and Isabella are beauties, but Jonathan just got his nose pierced — that, after cutting his hair into a mohawk.”

  “Adolescence!” Milo sighed, with a roll of his eyes.

  Puppy Jonathan appeared the antithesis of his namesake. Set apart from his siblings, he sat still and erect like an aristocratic British gentleman awaiting formal introduction.

  When the girls became smitten with the shoelace on my right sneaker, Jonathan finally made his break. With his short, docked tail standing tall, he scampered over and nestled inside the crux of my crossed legs like a king safely perched inside a castle. I muffed my fingers through his shiny coat, and when his sweet, gentle eyes gazed up at me, I scooped him up and brought him closer. A tiny streak of light hair shone around each side of his face like copper-colored lightening bolts emerging from a dark night sky.

  Smiling at my mother and sister, I said, “He's the one.”

  Jonathan was completely different from my first Yorkie. He didn't bark. He didn't jump. Most times, his feet never even touched the ground. He was basically a lap dog, whom I had to coax onto the small deck off my living room three times a day. Once he'd taken care of business, he'd hurry back inside. While he was an attentive, devoted companion, he was never a bundle of energy. Maybe it was because I was immobile and confined, but sometimes I'd throw one of his toys or a ball and the only muscles that moved were those in his neck and in his eyes, as he'd simply watch the trajectory of the object in flight. It only made me love him all the more.

  Shortly after I learned that my second surgery, on my foot, had failed, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had a partial mastectomy, followed by another foot surgery. Jonathan remained a calm, captive companion. For hours, he cuddled beside me. Yet, as my fingers eased through his silky hair, I longed for a better life than the one I had been living. Everything seemed to be on hold, and I wanted to accomplish more on a daily basis than just walking across the hall to the bathroom.

  “The minute I get this thing off, we're blowing this joint — you hear me, Jono?” I knocked on my knee-high cast. The inky pools of his eyes gazed my way while he gnawed on a chew stick. “Once I'm back on my feet, we're taking walks — to the park, the mall, the library, downtown. You're coming everywhere with me.”

  A few months later, I crutched into the kitchen and when I looked down, I was surprised to find Jonathan's nose plunged into his water bowl. The way his paws were splashing the water from inside the bowl, it was as though he were trying to do the Australian crawl in his version of a kiddie pool. Once I was able to pull him away, I realized he wasn't playing. His body started to quake and then he froze up, his legs stiffly outstretched and his eyes fixed open-wide, like he had just seen a vision of Armageddon.

  Many tests later, the vet concluded the culprit — liver shunt, a condition which caused seizures.

  “I certainly can't afford surgery for him. What's the alternative?”

  “A modified diet and medication. But I'm not going to lie to you,” the vet said. “You have a very sick little dog.”

  I felt an ache in my heart. “How long do you think he has?”

  “It's hard to tell. If you keep close tabs, you might get a few years — five, if you're lucky.” The vet turned down the corners of his mouth into a frown. “Why don't you just take him home and love him for as long as you can.”

  In the cab, I held Jonathan close. As all five pounds of him lay snuggled in my arms, I stroked the copper-colored hair on the crown of his head. His body felt tired and limp, and I could tell he was as worn out as I looked in the rearview mirror of the taxi — the dark circles under my eyes, the peach fuzz peaking out from beneath the bandanna on my head. I never realized how much Jonathan and I had in common. We had names with eight letters — three vowels, five consonants. At one point, we had long, silky, brown hair. Now we had been drafted into a battle of physical challenges that served to heighten a sense of our own mortality.

  I thought back to the day at the breeders' when Jonathan had won my heart. I wondered if his reticence and passivity had less to do with his personality and more to do with the fact that he was born with a genetic condition. But even if that were the case, I could never regret my decision in picking him from the litter. His presence in my life had been such a gift. We loved each other without expectation and beyond our limitations. Perhaps we were brought together as kindred spirits who needed and understood each other perfectly. That's why I vowed to do right by him until the end.

  Keeping Jonathan healthy and functional became a hobby of sorts. I read and researched, monitored his diet and medications, and held him close and iced him down during each harrowing seizure. He continued to thrive. When he lived past the five-year mark, the vet would greet him as “the miracle dog,” scratching his head, stymied.

  Though I was now cancer-free, the third surgery on my left foot failed. Finally, the fourth foot surgery produced a successful fusion. By then, however, I had similar problems with the right foot, which also required surgical repair. But I soldiered on, determined to get back on my feet and deliver on the promise I had made to Jonathan — even if it took me another four tries, which it did.

  On Jonathan's tenth birthday, I bought him a red harness leash, and my mother, sister, Jonathan, and I finally set out for the park. Though his dark hair was now interspersed with silver strands, he was as energetic as a mouse on a string, zigzagging this way and that. His tail wagged continuously, and he eagerly explored everything in his path. Even though I still walked with splints and crutches, it felt exhilarating to breathe the fresh air and to be out and about. Along the way, we even made new friends, who fawned over Jono. He ate up the attention — and so did I.

  “How old is your puppy?” one stranger asked. When I told her my “puppy” was ten years old, she chuckled in astonishment and leaned down to ruffle Jono's bangs. His pink tongue lapped at her hand, and he looked as though he were smiling.

  That marked the first of many walks for Jonathan and me. Every time we set out, we went a little farther. Together, we navigated the twists and turns and hills and valleys on the path of life. To this day, I still wonder whether I was walking him or he was walking me.

  ˜Kathleen Gerard

  If He Only Had a Brain

  When people ask me if my dog is a mutt, I tell them, “No, he's a moron.”

  King Louie is a ten-year-old, twelve-pound toy poodle who has the intelligence of rock salt. He was six months old when we brought him home, and he was already set in his ways. His original name was Zippy, but within days we realized the name did not suit him. We also realized we needed the help of a professional, so we enrolled him in obedience training. At the very first class, the instructor declared Louie to be untrainable. That was just after she ripped out most of her hair and right before she called him Jell-O brain and ran from the building sobbing. Louie not only flunked the class, he was dishonorably discharged.

  Soon after the obedience-training debacle, we dubbed the cantankerous canine King Louie, not because of his regal demeanor or his majestic appearance, but because of his overbearing ways. The domineering little devil rules our home with an iron paw. He demands absolute respect from his human subjects. When someone attempts to usurp his authority, Louie changes from cute little fur ball to ferocious beast in 3.5 milliseconds flat. He snarls viciously at those who dare to extricate him from his couch throne.

  In addition to being a control freak with a brain the size of a Rice Krispie, King Louie is also a loner. He hates drop-in guests — or any guests, for that matter. Perhaps his disagreeable temper is the result of painful periodontal disease. Or maybe he's not getting enough fiber in his diet. Whatever the reason, the toothless little tyrant discourages intruders by baring his shriveled gums and growling obscenities.

  Though his domain covers forty wooded acres, t
he king doesn't roam very far from home. In fact, he doesn't care to go outside much at all, especially unescorted. And he is adamant about not venturing forth in the rain. It takes three sumo wrestlers to force this dwarf of a dog out the door during inclement weather. Being a passive-aggressive pooch, Louie retaliates by relieving himself on the front porch.

  Louie has made his mark — several, in fact — not on the world, but in our home. Though he can roam free in our 3,000-square-feet, two-story house, when he feels the urge to throw up or have an uncontrollable bout of explosive diarrhea, he heads straight for the Oriental rug. If we toss him outside, he stands staring at the door until we let him back in. Once inside, he picks up where he left off and resumes spurting something out one end or the other. Louie faithfully obeys the doggie code of ethics, which lists Rule Number One as “never regurgitate outside.”

  The mangy monarch monopolizes my bed and whines at the bathroom door when I'm in the tub. He jumps on my lap when I'm typing, and he watches me when I go to the bathroom. He clings to me like a hair on a grilled-cheese sandwich.

  Louie's favorite bone is my ankle. After nine years of intensive training, he hasn't yet learned to sit. In fact, he barely knows how to stand. However, he does respond to a few voice commands. For instance, when I say “come,” he instantly runs in the opposite direction. When I say “stay,” he leaps up and attaches himself, leech-like, to my thigh. When I order him to “heel,” he gnaws on my shoes. When he chases cars, and I yell, “No!” he immediately steps up his pace. I can't get him to fetch either. The only stick he's interested in is a bread stick, and the only balls he'll chase are meatballs.

  I think the problem is that Louie doesn't understand English. Since poodles come from France, I tried speaking French to him. Who knew he wasn't bilingual? When I said, “Oui, oui,” he did just that — on my new La-Z-Boy recliner!

  This high-strung hound turns up his royal nose at Milk-Bone biscuits and dog chow, preferring instead French fries, cherries jubilee, and linguine in clam sauce. This is one thing we have in common. In fact, we're a lot alike in the eating department. Neither of us relishes what is nutritious, and we both occasionally eat till we're sick. I, however, do not gobble food whole or throw up twice my body weight — in bed, no less. Neither do I stubbornly plant myself under the dining room table, while whining, yipping, and drooling throughout the meal. I also refuse to ingest paper plates, no matter how sumptuous they smell, and I would never curl up on dirty underwear or nibble on my husband's feet.

  Recently, His Peskiness accompanied us on a long car trip. A very long trip. At least it seemed to last forever. This was supposed to be a relaxing vacation? Louie refused to sit anywhere in the car but on my lap. During the six-hour trip, he busied himself by jumping in my face, licking my face, and breathing in my face. He also whined nonstop, except during an occasional break or two to lick the windows.

  Riding in the car is one of Louie's favorite pas times. Or at least he bounds enthusiastically into the car in anticipation of the ride. He believes very strongly that he must accompany us everywhere. After all, you never know when you might need a tiny demon dog to pant and bark violently right in your ear at nothing while he's walking on your chest as you speed down the expressway. The only thing Louie likes better than getting into the car is getting out. Once we leave the driveway, the pitiful whining begins and doesn't stop till the car door opens, allowing his escape. You can always tell when Louie's been in the car. The windows are coated with dog slobber, and the vehicle smells like a combination of moldy swamp water, an old bowling shoe, and a backed-up toilet.

  Besides road trips, other things Louie enjoys are marking his territory when new furniture is added to our home, sitting in the middle of a room full of company and licking himself, barking incessantly at invisible monsters, violently charging the poor UPS man, routinely emitting foul odors, and ignoring everything spoken by his master, with the exception of the words treat and yummies.

  A pomegranate is smarter than Crazy Louie (a.k.a. Nutsie), and any self-respecting fruit would be insulted to be compared to him. The runt is fortunate he's cute. If not for his floppy ears and that helpless, innocent look, he would never have survived this long.

  The only reason we have endured “the doofus” for nine years is that we're certain no normal family would tolerate his obnoxious behavior. We empathize with him, because he is brain-damaged and ill-mannered. We wonder whether his “inner puppy” may have been traumatized early in life, warping his personality and making his applesauce-brain psychopathic. We spoil him rotten, because we feel sorry for him. He's treated better than most children, and nothing is expected of him. He doesn't even take out the garbage.

  I've tried several times to give Louie away, but at the last minute, guilt always makes me back out. I just know he would drive any other owners mad. When we're tempted to get rid of him, we always reconsider after thinking about what a new owner might do when the little creep not only bites the hand that feeds him but also takes a leak on clean laundry, eats underwear, or barfs on a pillow.

  So we've kept Louie all these years, not so much because we love him as to protect him from an early entrance to doggie heaven. Although, if such a place does exist, I seriously doubt that Louie would be allowed in.

  ˜Marsha Mott Jordan

  Bellatrix

  On our first date, Chuck described his dog, Bellatrix, named after Orion's left shoulder and one of the brightest stars in the sky. In Latin, bellatrix means “female warrior.”

  Intrigued that Chuck was, like me, interested in Latin, astronomy, and dogs — in the same ascending order — I asked, half-joking, “Is she ferocious?”

  “No,” Chuck laughed. “Bell's a devoted, one-man dog — she pays no attention to anyone else.”

  Chuck and I continued to date, often enjoying nature walks with Bell. Never formally trained, Bell naturally heeled by Chuck's side unless invited to explore. Half elkhound, half husky, her stature inspired respect from passersby, whom she eyed noncommittally. To me she was civil, but Chuck's initial description of her as a devoted one-man dog with little interest in others seemed true.

  Bell's intelligence revealed itself in her calm bearing, cool appraisal of me, and the way she turned up her nose when we first met and I foolishly spouted baby talk. I knew of relationships that had literally gone to the dogs when couples and their canines didn't bond, and for Chuck's and my relationship to last, I wanted Bell's approval.

  During Chuck's first home-cooked dinner at my place, he grumbled when I set a plate on the floor for Bell. “She eats dog chow,” he informed me. But she loved the roast-beef scraps, and her interest in, if not her regard for, me seemed to rise a notch.

  The following spring, Chuck landed a good job managing an environmental research project and moved 100 miles to be near the agency's headquarters for training before transferring to a remote research station. I missed Chuck — and Bell. Chuck wrote how he missed me, too, especially when he and Bell walked along a nearby estuary filled with birds, how Bell was in heaven. I knew she didn't miss me at all.

  In July, Chuck proposed. I joyfully agreed, suppressing doubt: Would Bell tolerate a newcomer to her pack, or would she gladly get rid of me the first chance she got?

  In August, Bell got her chance. Chuck invited me to dinner in the city to make wedding plans.

  “Let's meet at my apartment. I'll leave a key under the mat in case you arrive first. Keep in mind, the place is no great shakes.”

  He'd already described the only month-to-month rental he'd been able to find that allowed dogs: a squat, roach-infested, cinder-block cell amid an extrusion of identical squat, roach-infested, cinder-block cells lining a freeway not far from Mickey's Blue Room, a ramshackle dive.

  “Is that safe?” I asked. “Leaving a key?”

  “Nobody bothers the place with Bell there.”

  “She might not like me invading her turf.”

  “She won't bite. She likes you.”

&n
bsp; Like kid-smitten parents, dog owners tend to view their canine companions as nothing but cute, cuddly, and innocent.

  “I'll wait outside.”

  “It's sort of a seedy location.”

  “You just said it was safe.”

  “With Bell.”

  I timed my arrival to coincide with Chuck's estimated arrival home. Knocking at his door, I saw his entire apartment through its one and only window: few furnishings, open bathroom door, and Bell, yelping like a piston on the other side of the pane.

  “Hi, Bell. Hi, Bellatrix,” I crooned as I lifted the mat, found the key, turned it into the knob, and cracked the door. “Remember me? Roast-beef lady? I'm sorry I forgot to bring treats.”

  Bell added hip-wagging to her barking, and I regretted having to disappoint her hope for food. Patting her, I spotted a note propped on the table: “If you're reading this, I'm delayed and hurrying. Make yourself comfortable.”

  I gave myself the grand, ten-second tour.

  Flanked by threadbare curtains more bare than thread, light from the north-facing window scarcely penetrated the tiny concrete confine. The flimsy door, held shut by a push-button lock and chain latch, was the only entry and exit. On the opposite wall, a windowless cubby with a toilet and shower provided scant privacy. In the corner that served as a kitchen, a naked metal box where a phone could be connected reminded me that Chuck hadn't ordered phone service, since he'd soon be moving to the research station. A sofa sagged below the window. Perched on it, I patted Bell's head.

  Our relationship hadn't reached muzzle-nuzzling, belly-rubbing familiarity, and my patting remained circumspect. “Where's Daddy, girl? Are you lonely? When your daddy and I get married, you and I will become great friends.”

  She stared out the window.

  Great,I sighed, I've offended her.

  I followed her gaze and glimpsed a red and black shirt zip by.