Pet Me

This morning, I heard a rustling in the kitchen. As I follow the noise, I pass one of the cats snoozing on her favorite chair, and rule her out as the perp. Walking into the kitchen I find the recycling turned over with my little black cat's butt sticking out.

"Ghost!" I say. She retreats from the bag with all the dignity of the Queen of England, in full regalia, performing a knighting. She calmly looks me in the eye then swishes out of the room, positively emanating sangfroid.

I don't get people who don't have pets. Yes, you, reader, if you don't have pets, I don't get you. What is there to lose? Maybe a couple hundred bucks at first when you get them (except for cats, I've never paid for a cat....I've always just found them). A bag a food every other week and some flea meds sometimes and then you have NON-STOP entertainment. And cats are a riot. Soft and snuggly, neurotic and cute. But dogs? Dogs are where it's at.

Pets do the weirdest things. Rufus, our geriatric Miniature Schnauzer, takes a few meds for his heart. (Ok, so sometimes you have to pay for meds. Still totally worth it.) He learned pretty quickly that if he takes his meds, he gets a treat. Well he's so smart, apparently, that that association of pills-equal-treats has generalized to all pills. So the other day, I'm popping out my birth control, and Rufus shows up next to my feet and stares at me, asking for my pill.

"Rufus this isn't for you, this is my birth control." I go to the kitchen to get some water. He trots along right behind me, positively begging. "Rufus stop! You can't have my birth control! It's not yours!"

He never ended up getting it. He didn't understand why I was being so cruel and not sharing my progesterone tablets with him. But then, he's not used to being told no.

Back when I was single and flipping through profiles of guys on the internet, one of my favorite things to do was window shop for dogs I might be able to pet on a date. A lot of guys have caught on that women love dogs and will click on a profile for no better reason than a cute dog. (That's me, I'll swipe right just for a cute dog.) I would literally message a guy saying, "I see you have a very cute dog. I would like to meet him." The guy would usually reply with laughter. As if I was joking.

When I was looking at the profile of my current partner, I remember enjoying his pictures. Nice looking guy, kind brown eyes, sexy beard. Sitting on a chair in the sun, standing behind a podium speaking, sitting at a drum kit....all perfectly pleasant pics. Then I got to the one of his dog. You're supposed to put up images of your cute dogs. I don't know how many of you know a Miniature Schnauzer. They have hair, not fur. Which means their hair very quickly gets matted if it's not cleaned and trimmed regularly. So this little grey mop of a dog that my partner had so proudly featured in his dating profile did not leave me yearning to snuggle and hike with him. I wanted to give him a bath. That dog was not chick bait. That dog was a mess.

More than two years later, that dog accounts for at least a third of the photo memory in my phone. And I did end up getting my wish; I was able to bathe him. In fact, I'm now the only one who bathes him. After we'd passed the polite part of our honeymoon phase, about two months in, I finally got the guts to ask, "So Jim. When...or how often...or like when was the last time you bathed your dog?"

Jim thought for a minute and said, "I think my ex-wife was the last one to bathe him."

"She left more than a year and a half ago! You haven't bathed your dog in almost two years?"

Jim said back on the couch, scrunched his face to do the math, and said, completely unconcerned, "Yeah I guess that must be right."

"Jim, I'm sorry, that's too long. Would you mind if I bathed him?"

He shrugged and said, "Go ahead and try, you'll never get him in the tub. He hates baths."

I literally just stared at him with my mouth open. Of course he doesn't like baths. He's a dog. Did he really think there was no way to get a dog into the tub aside from the dog happening to choose to get in by himself?

Turns out, yes, this was totally accurate. I went to get some towels and things for the bath and when I came back, I kid you not, my boyfriend was on the ground laying out a trail of treats to the tub, like a lover laying rose petals along the path to the bedroom, calling his matted stinky dog, trying to convince him to get into the tub all by himself.

I watched with pity for a minute or so, still too far into the polite stage of the relationship to just interrupt him how I do now and say, "Jim you're doing this wrong let me take care of this."

Eventually I say, "Well here let me try." I pick him up, and set him in the tub and Jim looks at me, wondering what kind of sorcery this was, just man-handling his dog like this. He looked at his sad pet in the tub and became very nervous. He said, "Oh, he really doesn't look happy are you sure he's ok?"

"Yes, he's fine. Honey why don't you go watch tv or something? This will only take a minute."

Jim gave me a skeptical look that said this little scheme of mine to clean his dog would clearly not be a success, but he eventually agreed and nervously backed out of the bathroom to go sit on the couch. I shut the door and hear the tv turn on and turn to the tub and start the water.

The last time I had bathed a dog was when my Emma was still alive. As I type this I don't even know where to begin with her. She was a good dog. A great dog. She was the love of my life.

I had always grown up with dogs. We had lived most of my childhood in rural areas, where the security system consisted entirely of a couple shot guns on the wall and a few dogs lounging on the living room floor. We had labs mostly, but one tri-color hound that wandered onto our property so often we asked her owners if we could just keep her. (They were all too happy to oblige; they'd been abusing and starving her which is why she ended up at our house every few days.) We had had a St. Bernard when I was little (named Rufus, actually) and a Great Dane when I was a teen my sister had found free in the paper one day. Reba and Baby were a couple of lab mixes that we had almost my entire childhood, Baby being Reba's puppy from her one litter. Baby was the sweetest dog in the world. Smart as a whip, she knew what she was supposed to do and apologized with big 'ole puppy eyes when she messed up. In fact, if we were chastising any of the other dogs she'd apologize in their stead. She did this trick, "sitting pretty," where she'd sit on her hind legs and put her front paws up. She was so obsequious and gentle. Which is why we found it hilarious when we'd have a delivery person or something tell us they couldn't leave the package because of the scary dog. We'd say oh we know Boo can look scary because he's a giant Great Dane but he's really very gentle we promise. They would say no the smaller white one. Sweet, gentle Baby was apparently the one who defended our home the most violently when we were gone. Who would have guessed?

So when I moved out, newly married, on my way to my undergrad work at Western, I told my husband at the time I wanted a dog. He liked animals, but didn't love them or need them and would calmly, ever practically, remind me we lived in an apartment/could hardly afford one/spent a lot of time in classes etc. and I would say ok ok I'll wait.

We had this conversation about once every other month and I always agreed to wait. After about a year of this something got into me and I woke up one day, looked daggers at my husband and said, "We. Are. Getting. A. Dog."

I clearly scared the shit out of him because he immediately pulled up craigslist and looked for dogs in need of homes. We brought home the first one we found.

She was this small light brown mutt. She smelled terrible. She had a snaggle tooth sticking out of her face, her eyes were too big for her face giving her a perpetually panicked look and her chest stuck out from her body on top of tiny little legs that hardly looked like they could support her awkward girth.

Riding home with this strange dog, I looked at my husband and said, "I don't know. I've never had a dog this small. I'm not sure I can love her."

He calmly looked at me and said, "Give it time. You'll love her. I promise."

A few weeks went by as we got to know one another. She started relaxing in her new home. I got used to taking her out for walks. It was going well. Then one day I was having a bad day. Period hormones or school burn out, I don't remember exactly what it was now. But I had sat on the floor and started crying out my stress. Emma gingerly walked into the kitchen, her eyes even more panicked than usual. She gently climbed into my lap and started licking the tears from my cheeks. My tears turned happy. I had found my best friend.

She was a very good dog. She listened really well, always came when I called, went to her bed when she was told to, she even crawled into the tub on her own when I told her to. (Jim would have loved her.) She was enthusiastic about everything. Morning time? Yes! Mom's home from work? Score!! Nap time?? NAPS ARE THE BEST!!! And of course she was always there to lick my tears away. She was patient and kind, great with kids. I had a nephew who was less than a year at the time and he toddled over to her and started messing with her face. I watched carefully, to make sure she didn't nip at him but of course she didn't. He pulled her lips out and stretched her ears and she just looked at me with her giant eyes saying, "Mom this isn't the best, can you make it stop?" But she never nipped. I can remember two times she growled in her life and one thing that would make her nip at me. She met one of my ex-husband's friends twice and growled both times. It hasn't been confirmed but I've kind of always assumed he was a serial killer since. And she never let me trim her nails. Ever. I tried all the tricks but they always ended with her very quietly and gently nipping at my hand, all the while saying with her eyes, "I'm so sorry to do this Mom but I must insist you don't trim my nails I'm terrified of it thank you."

She had some neuroses. For example, she never ate her food immediately. She always had to give it some time, as if she wasn't sure if I had set it there for her or not. Then, after about five minutes, she'd start eating it...one piece at a time. She would take one kibble from the dish, take it to the carpet, set it down, then pick it back up to eat it. I have no clue where she learned that. She would always ask for permission to sit on the couch. I also have no idea about why she did that. I always allow animals on furniture. But for whatever reason, she would walk up and stare at me until I invited her up to sit next to me. She also magically never begged for food. When I saw this I encouraged it by telling everyone in my life to never feed her scraps. It worked out well because she had a sensitive stomach anyway. Of course this only lasted until I stayed one summer with my former parents-in-law. My mother-in-law loved animals and to this day has never admitted to feeding Emma from her plate but she begged for food after a week of living with them so you tell me where she learned it?

Rufus survived his first bath in two years just fine. I nearly didn't. The amount of dirt that escaped his matts nearly made me pass out. I dried him off and told him he was a very good boy. I open the door to go get him good-boy-for-taking-a-bath treats and Jim is sitting on the couch, twisting his entire body around, staring at the bathroom in a position he has clearly been in since I took his dog to the bathroom. His eyes are as wide as saucers and he anxiously says, "Is he ok?"

"Yes, of course, he's just fine. He needs treats now why don't you do that part. Make sure to say good boy and say the word bath a few times so he knows what the treats are for."

Jim was all too happy to go get his poor abused dog a handful of treats. Rufus ate them then scratched on the front door. Jim goes to open it and I say, "No he should stay inside until he's dry." Jim looked at me like I was a monster. "Dogs go roll around after a bath and get dirty again. That's what he's trying to do. Keep him inside."

Jim looked from Rufus, to me, then back again. It clearly took all the strength he possessed to tell his dog, "I'm really sorry Buddy. Stay inside for...just a little while. I'll let you out as soon as I can." He walked away from Rufus' sad eyes, for all the world as if he was abandoning him at the gallows and went gloomily to his study. Rufus watched his traitor of a dad tell him no for probably the first time ever and stared in confusion.

This is not the first man in my life to be a giant baby about his dog. My dad had some health issues lately. It turned out to be cancer (surgery was successful, he's cancer free today) but while we were trying to figure out what it was he had to suddenly stay in the hospital a few days. I went to go watch his dogs. It was very scary for everyone because the pandemic had just started and Dad was in the at-risk group for fatality if he were to catch it. No one could stay with him in the hospital, and when he had left he was struggling to breathe so when I finally got a call from him my heart skipped a beat or five and I asked how he was doing.

"Oh I'm fine Honey. Running some tests right now but the doctors are on it. Can I talk to Ollie?"

Of course. What my dad is worried about is his giant, ill-behaved American Bulldog. I roll my eyes and put the phone up to Ollie's ear. I hear my dad's voice coo through the phone, "How's my baby? Are you a being a good boy? Oh of course you are. Daddy loves you. You be good for Desi. I'll be home soon and remember Daddy looooooooooves you."

I put the phone back to my ear and my dad says, "Ok Honey I'm gonna go now. Talk to you later." No reminder that my "daddy loves me." I laugh and give Ollie's wrinkled, drooling head a pat.

Emma was relatively young when she passed. I was actually living at my dad's at the time. I had only meant to stay for a few months but then Emma had loved it so much there I kept finding excuses to stay. She had some separation anxiety but when we lived there she had retired Grandpa to hang out with all day. He lived out in the country in the middle of nowhere and there were a few neighborhood dogs who were friendly enough to roam without fences and she was one of them. One day I couldn't find her as I left for work so I was a little nervous but as I was driving passed a house a few down from us, I saw her with a group of kids at a huge barbeque. It was clearly a family reunion of some kind because there were dozens of people in the yard. I rolled down my window and said, "Hey, that's my dog. Is she bothering you guys?"

"No she's great she comes over all the time!"

I said, "Ok, well, be good Emma."

She gave me this look like, "Mom you're totally cramping my style please leave."

She was about eight, maybe ten (you never know with rescues), years old one day when she got a stomach ache. I wasn't surprised because, as I said earlier, she had a sensitive tummy. So I made a vet appointment just in case for the next day and snuggled her in bed that night, assuming I'd have to call and cancel the appointment tomorrow after she digested whatever it was in her tummy that wasn't agreeing with her. The next morning she wasn't any better as I had to coax her to go outside to go pee before I left for work, which made me a little nervous. I called my dad around ten that day and asked how she was doing. He said just fine, just napping. But something was bothering me and I left work a little earlier than I needed to for the appointment. My dad had gone to the store and when I got home, a full hour before I needed to get her to the vet, I found my little Emma laying in her bed, her face laying in a pile of vomit. That's when I knew, really, but I wrapped her in a towel anyway and told her she would be ok.

I sped faster than I've ever driven to the vet, the nearest to Dad's house still twenty minutes away. I prayed and pet her and kept lying to her, telling her she was ok. I walked in and my voice shook as I said, "I have an appointment for later this afternoon but I absolutely need to see the vet I think my dog is dying." The receptionist quickly went to a back room then returned saying to bring her in. I was shown into an exam room. The vet calmly, comfortingly, began an examination. I remember he looked at her gums, showed them to his tech, and they shook their heads at one another. The vet asked me to leave the room for a moment.

It had been cancer, apparently. She was bleeding internally, a tumor had likely burst. The vet explained this to me and said he could always do an exploratory surgery if I wanted.

"Does she need..." I couldn't even say the words at the end of my sentence, but I didn't need to.

The kind vet looked at me and said, "I think that would be best. I'm sorry."

I nodded and said I needed to make a call. I called my best friend, Josh, who didn't pick up. I called my younger sister and my dad then sent mass texts to them all. "EMMA IS BEING PUT DOWN ONE OF YOU NEEDS TO GET HERE ASAP."

My dad showed up as the techs were gently preparing my best friend for her death. There are two injections. The first was described as "something to make her comfortable." After that shot, the tech wrapped her tiny leg just above her paw in a bandage with. She said, "We've got some cute elephants for her today."

"I love elephants," I said.

She looked at me with pure understanding and said, "You're doing the right thing. I'm so sorry. I had to put my little guy down last year. It's so hard but I promise you're doing the right thing."

I sobbed and told her thank you.

People always talk about how hard it is to have kids, like little kids. And of course all those little aches and pains of growing are hard to watch. But I've always felt this particular act of fatherhood was probably one of the harder things my dad has ever had to do. He walked in and didn't say a thing. He knew there was nothing to say. He led me to the front desk when the receptionist said it was time to pay. I couldn't think about something like money right then so he walked me through everything. I pulled out the cash in my wallet and handed it to Dad. He counted it for me and it wasn't enough. I asked if I could write a post-dated check for the rest of it. Dad helped me fill out the check because I had lost the ability to do math or even remember what went in which boxes.

I went to back to the exam room. The vet asked, "Would you like to be in the room?"

This question I didn't need help with. Immediately I answered, "Yes."

My mom and I have very little in common. I don't say this to be mean, she actually says it all the time herself. I'll say something about enjoying running, or enjoying writing and she will say, "God I hate that. I'm telling you, if you hadn't come out of me I'd swear you weren't mine." She also doesn't mean this as an insult, it's just the truth.

I did, however, get her love of animals. I like to think I got her strength and toughness, as well and her selflessness. And she's very cut-and-dry about how you handle a pet death. First, euthanasia is kind. When it comes time for your pet to pass and you are faced with either allowing them to slowly pass naturally so you can put it off, or offering them euthanasia to ease their suffering, it's simply not an option to choose the former. You make yourself suffer losing them so they don't have to suffer the pain. That's just how it works. Second, when the time comes, you stay there with them. You're their best friend. You don't let them die surrounded by strangers, no matter how kind that vet staff is. You stay. You hold them. You honor them by just being there for them.

I pulled her face to mine and told her she was perfect and so loved. The vet looked at my father and asked if it was time. My dad held his hands up and said, "She's her dog." I cried and nodded.

When it was done, my dad led me out to the parking lot. I was in no state to drive so he took my keys and helped me into his car. Tears that would never again be licked away by my Emma fell in a steady stream that I found out wouldn't let up for hours. As we left the parking lot we saw a familiar car pull in. Dad pulled over and I got out to meet my sister in the lot. She was crying too.

"Why are you crying?" I asked, "You never liked Emma." It was true. Emma was small and overly excited at times and may have had a habit of walking on people's laps with her very pointy "pencil legs" that people who weren't me may have disliked.

"I know," she said honestly, "but you loved her so much. I am so sad for you."

My mom had always called Emma her granddog. Having a preference for larger dogs, hence the St. Bernard and Great Dane we had growing up, my mom shed some tears too. She said, "That was the only little dog I've ever loved. She was lucky to have you as her mama." Given how much she loves animals, I think that might be one of the highest compliments she's ever given out.

On the way home, my dad stopped at the corner store. He came out with four bottles of wine and asked, "Is this enough?" I smiled fondly at him and said no but it will work.

My brother got home that night to find me curled under a blanket, on my second bottle of wine. If my mom and I are dissimilar, my brother and I are actively enemies at times. But that day he was kind. He didn't complain about what I had on the tv. He refilled my drink. At one point he asked me, "I guess now is a good time to admit that even though you told us not to Dad and I totally gave her treats all day, like every day. And table scraps."

I laughed and said, "I KNEW she was gaining weight!"

Rufus has now gotten used to me bathing him every couple of weeks. Jim can even get through it now too without hyperventilating. I also trim his mattes off. He hates them both but loves how he feels after, and runs around the house like he's a shampoo model with his new haircut. It's hard to watch him get old but I feel blessed to be able to do so; Emma never got old. So we take Rufus to the vet and catch the teeth when they fall out of his mouth and feed him his heart meds every day and help him up onto the couch now that he can't jump. My partner of course has it harder, watching his best friend age. But I keep reminding him to be thankful he has that luxury.

A week after she passed, I returned to the vet to pick up Emma's ashes. As I was waiting for the receptionist to return, I noticed a small tea light in a holder on the table. The holder said, "If this candle is lit, please be quiet and respectful, as someone is saying goodbye to their best friend." I idly wondered if that candle had been lit for me just last week.

I took Em's ashes to the beach. She loved the beach. Don't get me wrong, she didn't swim. The ocean itself was terrifying. But the beach? She could run along that all day. We went a couple times a year at least. I'd let her run until I couldn't see her then call her back and she'd always return. I'd apologize when a police officer came by to remind me she should be on a leash. I'd say sorry I didn't know, then let her right back off once they were gone; she loved running too much for me to have the heart to tell her no. She'd prance up to little kids and try to lick them, jump up on people's legs to greet them. They were never mad, she was too cute. She made the world a better place.

That trip, I took an ink-print of her paw which the vet techs had so thoughtfully mailed to me. I got it tattooed above my heart. Once I saw it on my upper breast I smiled; the tips of her nails in the print were really far away from the paw pads. Because she never let me trim them. I took her ashes to the beach, and walked, and cried, and sprinkled them in the sand, careful that none of them fell in the water.

I suppose I'll have a print of Rufus' paw tattooed somewhere pretty soon. Not nearly as close to my heart as Emma's, but somewhere near. For now, he stays busy. He follows Jim around dutifully. I call it monitoring. He's very serious about it. He seems to think if there is ever a time that he isn't monitoring his dad that's the day Jim will fall into some dangerous trap from which the only one who could save him is his dog. I watch my partner become more and more of a baby about him. Refusing to punish him for an accident, insisting on cooking him eggs instead of pouring kibble because he's losing teeth. And I can't blame him. I know what it's like to truly love a dog. And sure, you eventually do lose them. But it's so worth it. There's nothing that beats the love of a good dog.