by Colleen Sell
˜Marilyn A. Gelman
Who's the Boss?
For the first twenty years of my life, the most exciting pet I was permitted to own was a goldfish. Actually, two goldfish. They lived remarkably short lives and came to ignoble burials in the sewer system of New York City. I was not raised to be, by any stretch of the imagination, a dog lover.
Then I met my future husband. When Russ was in middle school he kept 100 white mice in his family's small apartment. During high school he worked in a pet store. By the time I met him he was a proud “papa” to a five-year-old, ugly, drooling, snoring, English bulldog.
I fell in love — with Russ, not the dog. Unfortunately, it was a package deal, and we became an instant family: Russ, Lord Cardigan, and I. What I didn't realize was that Lord Cardigan was only the beginning.
As the years flew by, a succession of four-legged “children” passed through our home and our lives. Alphabetically, we had Ebby, Fanny, General Montgomery, Linda, Lord Cardigan, Lacy, Pumpkin, and Romer. They represented a variety of breeds, including mutts (better known as “all-Americans”), boxers, a bull-mastiff, and a Lhasa apso.
Ebby was, by far, the smartest of them all. A shepherd-mix, he was part of a litter rescued from the streets of Brooklyn, New York, and he was one fast learner. First and foremost, he learned that Russ was a guaranteed soft touch. The hand that fed him was the same hand that played, healed, and loved.
Me? I clearly held a distant second place in Ebby's heart — and for very good reason. I was the family disciplinarian. Certain ground rules for our various adoptees had been established early in our marriage: no feeding from the table, no jumping on the furniture, no sleeping on the bed. Russ always agreed — a bit too readily, I might add — and I often wondered what happened to the rules when I wasn't home. The frequent discovery of dog hairs on our bed and in our blankets served only to fuel my suspicions.
The proof came soon enough.
One morning, Russ woke up at his usual, early-bird time of 5:00 A.M. It was still dark, and I barely stirred as he prepared for work. It was one of those rare occasions when I had the opportunity to sleep in, and I was eager to float back to the deep slumber that had been interrupted by his departure.
Moments after he left, I lay perfectly still, waiting for a comfortable haze to envelop me once again. Instead, I heard the sound of someone in the hall, the almost imperceptible whisper of padded footsteps slowly moving toward the bedroom. I froze, instantly wide awake. Had Russ forgotten something on his way to work? I hadn't heard the front door open. Did someone break into the house? Surely Ebby would have heard and barked a warning. The quiet footsteps gradually approached the open bedroom door. I lay still, tense and silent. My head just happened to be facing the door, and I fixed my gaze on the doorway.
The answer appeared a moment later. Ebby gingerly padded into view and turned to step into the bedroom. Catching a glimpse of me lying on the bed, he froze with one paw lifted in mid-air over the threshold, and then, without missing a beat, made the most graceful (and silent) U-turn I have ever witnessed. The muted whisper of his footsteps receded down the hall as he returned to his bed in the kitchen.
I laughed to myself. It was obvious that I had upset a long-standing practice, but Ebby wasn't going to let on. In fact, when I got up a few minutes later to let him out to the yard, I truly believe he was pretending to still be asleep. He opened one groggy eye (what an actor!) and greeted me with a drowsy “kiss.”Although I was on to him, and he knew it, we both behaved as if nothing had changed.
If I had any remaining doubts about how well the rules were being followed, they were dispelled a few weeks later. Coming home late one night and finding the house dark, I quietly opened the front door so as not to wake Russ and tiptoed to the bedroom. I could see his silhouette as he lay sleeping. But wait … who — or what — was that on the bed next to him? Stepping back into the hallway, I turned on the light and once again peered into the dim room. There was no doubt about it: Ebby was curled up against Russ's legs. As I entered the bedroom, both Russ and Ebby awoke just enough to simultaneously raise their heads. Russ looked from me to Ebby and back to me again, and then shook his head as if to say, “I hope this isn't what I think it is,” while Ebby merely cast a dismissive glance in my direction before laying his head back down. Then, without a sound, both of them closed their eyes and returned to sleep.
They may have been busted, but I knew when I was beat.
In the months and years to come, I pretended that our rules were in effect, and Ebby pretended to follow them. By the end of his life with us, Ebby had taught me much. Best of all, I was blessed with the experience — no, the privilege — of receiving his unconditional love. And being the boss wasn't so important anymore.
~Ava Pennington
The Ultimate Designer Dog
You know, if we don't take her, she'll have to go back to the shelter. And who knows what will happen to her.” It's a mother's prerogative to use guilt at will, and I was laying it on as thick as country gravy over biscuits. I felt sad and helpless as I waited for a response from my family. I knew we would take my mother's dog even though we didn't want to; it was an obligation I had to impose.
It wasn't that Sallie wasn't a nice dog; she just wasn't the type of dog we would have chosen. After my dad died, my mom had put all her love into Reggie, the dog my parents had together. “He's the only reason I have to get up every morning,” she always said. When Reggie died, Mom was devastated. I knew she wouldn't last long without a dog, but I hoped she'd wait until I could get into town to help her find another companion. I imagined a small, cuddly dog Mom could snuggle with in her favorite chair. Then when the house got too big for her, she could take her laptop companion with her to a retirement home, where they could grow old together.
No such luck. Three days after Reggie died, Mom left me a phone message. “Hi, sweetie. I stopped by the animal shelter today just to look, and guess what? I got a new dog. Her name is Sallie, and she's a one-year-old border collie and greyhound mix. She'd been abused and looked so sad, I just had to take her home.
“She's so cute,” Mom gushed. “She has these big ears, and every time I talk to her, she cocks her head to the side and listens so sweetly, just like your dad used to … just kidding! Best of all, she's so quiet, I'm not sure she knows how to bark. Can't wait for you to meet her! Love you.”
I hung up the phone in disbelief. What in the world was the shelter thinking, matching a seventy-three-year-old woman with a large, energetic dog? I knew I had to talk some sense into her the following weekend. She needed a small dog, one she could easily handle by herself.
At first sight, Sallie is a funny-looking dog. She's black-and-white like a border collie, with the long gangly legs and lean body of a greyhound. She has a slender face, with one brown eye and one ice-blue eye, but it's her ears everyone notices. They are two sizes too big for her body and stand straight up, giving her a perpetual deer-in-the-headlights look.
When I met Sallie for the first time, she came bounding over to me and landed her front paws on my chest, knocking me against the refrigerator. She wouldn't come when called and didn't walk well on a leash. She slobbered all over the floor after drinking water, making walking treacherous in the kitchen. I saw disaster with a capital D. I envisioned Sallie accidentally knocking Mom down the stairs, breaking her arm or her hip or even her head.
“Mom,” I gingerly broached the subject, “wouldn't a smaller dog be better for you? One you could hold in your lap? I could take Sallie back for you and see if there's a cute little poodle-type dog that needs a home.”
Mom's green eyes steeled a little to let me know I had stepped over the line. “No, dear, I can still make my own decisions,” she replied in her no-nonsense, because-I'm-your-mother, that's-why tone. “I don't want a yappy, little frou-frou dog. I picked Sallie because she needed me. Her days were numbered at the shelter, if you know what I mean, and if I hadn't gone when I did, she probably wouldn't
be around today. She's a sweet dog, and we've already bonded. Don't worry, dear, we'll be fine. I promise.”
And they were fine. Sallie adapted easily to Mom's sedentary lifestyle, and they became inseparable. Sallie was too strong for Mom to walk, but she felt comfortable taking her for daily car rides. When friends visited, Sallie became her guardian, sitting quietly next to her as if listening intently to the conversation. An they were both ready for bed by nine o'clock. It was as if Sallie had turned into an old lady herself. Even children were too loud and rambunctious for her, as my daughter found out when running down the hall once and getting tackled by Sallie. I still thought they were mismatched, but Mom was happy, and that was what mattered.
As hard as my family tried, though, we could not warm up to Sallie. My daughter said she wasn't fun; my husband hated her excessive shedding; and I simply didn't like her looks. She just wasn't a dog for us, and I worried that one day Mom would need us to take her.
Sure enough, four years later, Mom decided to move to a retirement home and wanted us to adopt Sallie. I tried to refuse as gently as possible.
“Mom, we really don't want another dog. Besides, she doesn't like kids and lots of people around. She wouldn't be happy living with us.”
I saw the hurt in Mom's eyes as she said it was okay, the shelter could probably find her a new home. She played the guilt card brilliantly, and I knew I couldn't break her heart. Sallie would be coming home with us.
“Thank you,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes. “And don't worry, dear, you'll be fine. I promise.”
I waited for my family's reaction to the news as the morning sun peeked through the slatted blinds in the kitchen, as if trying to start our day with a smile. Tom, my husband, was pragmatic about it, but my daughter, Cassie, resisted as only an eleven-year-old can. “We already have a dog, Rosie, remember? And you guys said we can only have two pets in this house, and I've wanted a cat, like, forever, and you promised me one for my birthday. Besides, Sallie doesn't even like me!”
“Cassie, honey, it would be cruel to send her back to the shelter. She had a nice home with Grammy. Sallie will adjust to us quickly, because she knows us. And I promise to take her to obedience school, so she'll be even better behaved than you.” My attempt at humor was met with a cold stare and a lower lip jutting out like a facial speed bump.
“We need to do this, sweetie,” I pressed on, “for Grammy.”
Cassie crossed her arms in resignation, her brown eyes sad, yet defiant. “Well, okay. But I'm changing Sallie's name to Kitty!”
We took Kitty (a.k.a. Sallie) home with us after Christmas that year, and to our surprise, she did adapt well, even to her new name. With Kitty's border collie intelligence, obedience school was a breeze. We were amazed at how fast she learned her commands. Taking Kitty to the park is now fun. She's learned to play, outrunning the other dogs in the dog park with her greyhound speed to catch Frisbees in mid-air. And she seems to thrive on all the extra activity a household of three has compared to Mom's quieter lifestyle.
Best of all, Cassie and Kitty have become good friends. Cassie's a teenager now, and when she gets home from school, Kitty smothers her with sloppy dog kisses. If Cassie is upset over boyfriends or school, she turns not to me but to Kitty. They sit together on the floor in our walk-in bedroom closet (Kitty's “cave”) amongst all the clothes and shoes, like two best girlfriends, with Cassie telling Kitty all her deepest secrets, knowing Kitty will keep every one. It's a beautiful friendship Cassie will always treasure.
As for me, I realize now that I, too, had judged Kitty too quickly. She is one of the gentlest, most loving dogs we have ever owned. We thought she would be our albatross, but instead she's been the ultimate “designer” dog — designing her personality to fit first my mom's sedentary life and then our hectic lifestyle.
My mother passed away recently, and one day not long after the funeral, like Cassie, I found solace sitting in the closet with Kitty. There, surrounded by darkness, I cried, feeling the enormous loss of a mother who was also my friend. Kitty sat quietly next to me as if she knew her job was to comfort me. I scratched behind those big ears of hers and gently hugged her. She nuzzled my cheek and then licked my tears as if to say, “Don't worry, we'll be fine.” Just like Mom had promised.
˜Linda Douglas
Cosmic Changes
When we got a dog twelve years ago, I expected certain things: He'd have an accident or two on the rug. He'd chew a pair of shoes carelessly left within his reach. He'd play tag with my boys in the yard. And, eventually, he would die.
What I didn't expect was that he'd teach my boys to be the men I'd always hoped they would be.
Our dog, Cosmo, died last week, but this isn't a sad, dead dog story. Cosmo wasn't the kind of dog who inspired literature, like Old Yeller or Buck in The Call of the Wild. He wasn't made for TV, like Lassie, or even cartoons, like the sleuthing, snacking Scooby Doo. He couldn't even do a stupid pet trick. Cosmo was not extraordinary in any way. He was just a simple family dog who didn't chase squirrels and specialized in naps. Cosmo came into our lives when he was a golden retriever puppy. My sons, seven-year-old Nick and four-year-old Paul had begged for a puppy. I didn't want a dog. I knew how much work dogs were, how hard they were to train, how demanding they were. I had owned dogs before, but my husband never had, and so he was on the boys' side. He extracted promises I knew they would never keep: feed him, bathe him, play with him every day. I knew they would not, could not, be solely responsible for a dog. Although they promised now, later they would refuse to pick up the dog poop in the yard and then complain bitterly when they stepped in a mound. They would grow into teenagers and not have time for him anymore.
Besides the work entailed in caring for a dog, I'm just not a dog person to start with. I don't like panting and drooling. I don't like dogs that jump on me. I don't like the way they insistently stick their noses in my crotch. I've been bitten by dogs, deep enough to draw blood, three times. Dogs are so needy, and the request for a dog came when it felt that the boys and my husband, especially, were suffocating me with their own demands and needs. I didn't want one more thing pulling at me, one more commitment that made me feel locked in.
I remember the night I changed my mind about getting a dog. The boys had been begging again. Nick had already picked out the name — Cosmo, inspired by Carl Sagan. Paul pretended to be Cosmo, frolicking on all fours, chasing whatever Nick threw and bringing it back in his mouth.
When the boys ran off to play elsewhere, my husband hissed, “It's bad enough that we're ruining their lives with our bad marriage, but now we won't let them have a dog, either?”
That night, his words, still stinging, kept me awake. I remembered what it was like having a dog as a teenager — someone to cuddle with and tell my secrets to. Kids need someone who is always happy to see them and never corrects their grammar or tells them to clean up their rooms. They need someone they can play with or just be still with, someone completely devoted to them and with no other job in the world than to celebrate their existence. My boys needed a dog.
I found a reputable golden retriever breeder, and we brought Cosmo into our fractured home. He had an accident on the rug and chewed a pair of shoes, and he chased the boys in the yard with glee. Over the years, I had to remind the boys to feed him and to let him out and then remind them again to let him back in. They complained about stepping in poop that they refused to clean up. It was exactly as I had expected.
When Nick was fifteen and Paul was twelve, my husband and I told them we were getting a divorce. We had already made all the living arrangements, including for the pets. Cosmo would live with their dad, where he would also have a great yard to run and poop in. I would keep the two cats, guinea pig, and fish. The boys would have pets no matter where they were. This accommodation lasted for a year, until the day the boys rushed into my home very upset.
“Dad's getting rid of Cosmo,” they wailed.
I had lived a year without the
demands of a dog, and, frankly, I had enjoyed it. But seeing how upset the boys were trumped my misgivings. That was how Cosmo returned to my house, coming and going with the boys in accordance to our custody arrangement.
While the boys grew into young men, Cosmo grew into an old man. First he went gray in the muzzle, and then his entire body turned white. He lost the sight in one eye, but with his other one, he still watched squirrels steal food from my bird feeders. He'd sniff out a rabbit trail in the garden but was too tired to chase it down. He slept most of the day, and when awake, he stared vacantly off into space.
Two weeks ago while my younger son, now sixteen, and Cosmo were at my home, Cosmo couldn't get up. My ex-husband came over, lifted him into the back of his SUV, and took him to the vet. With a handful of prescriptions, Cosmo seemed a bit better and stayed the next week with my ex-husband.
My other son, Nick, now nineteen, came home on leave from the Marine Corps last week, and we were so happy to see him, to have him home and safe. Cosmo, content that his boys were reunited, passed away the next night. Wrapped in a favorite blanket on the kitchen floor, he went in his sleep, as if it were just one more nap to take.
We left it up to the boys whether they wanted to be part of Cosmo's burial. They had never done this before. When the guinea pig died, I alone buried it in the backyard. When one of the cats fell seriously ill, the vet euthanized her and disposed of her body. The fish seemed to just disappear on their own. This time, there was no question in Nick's mind: he would go along to bury Cosmo. Paul followed his brother's lead. They were ready with shovels when their father arrived. I cut flowers from the yard where Cosmo had chased his boys, and I tied the bouquet with ribbons.
Cosmo lay wrapped in his blanket in the back of the SUV. I pulled back the blanket and patted the gray fur of his cheek. “You're a good dog, Cosmo, such a sweet puppy,” I said, as I always did to him, even long after his puppy days were over. I replaced the blanket and placed the flowers on top. The boys flanked me and put their arms around me as I cried, then they climbed in the SUV and drove away to bury their dog.
