Sister Mother Husband Dog: (Etc.) (9 page)

M
y dog’s name is Honey Pansy Cornflower Bernice Mambo Kass.

She has more than one name because, when I was about twenty, I was having a hamburger, fries, and a Coke in a coffee shop near my apartment. I was hanging out with friends, but I was drinking my soda the way I did with my parents—sipping it slowly to make it last the meal. Suddenly it hit me:
I’m on my own. I can have more than one Coke. If I can afford it, I can have two Cokes, and, if I don’t care if my teeth rot, three.
This was a pivotal growth moment that somehow led fifteen years later to giving my first dog thirteen names. And my
second dog, six. (The second-born’s arrival never gets as much attention as the first; that’s my sense of it as a second-born myself. The second-born is sweeter, however, at least in the case of my dog.)

At this point it is only fair to say that if you don’t have a dog, you might want to skip to the next essay. Talking about one’s dog can be as boring as people talking about their grandchildren. Dogs are the dog owners’ revenge on grandparents—unless you have a dog and grandchildren, too, in which case you are a double threat in the boredom department. There are apparently some 77 million dog owners in this country, which adds up to a lot of boring talk, a portion of which I am responsible for (much as it pains me to admit it because, in the family I grew up in, being called boring was like being called an ax murderer). I might have that statistic wrong. Perhaps it’s 77 million dogs, not dog owners. I can’t keep facts straight. Numbers especially. Either way, it’s an awesome statistic.

I did not grow up with dogs. For a short time we had two ducks. I or one of my sisters won them at a carnival. They were very cute yellow ducklings and they grew up in a flash to be very large white ducks. (I know it’s obscene to have city children win baby farm animals, but that’s what happened at the spring carnival at El Rodeo
elementary, and, as far as the fifties go, that was the least of it.) They lived in the garage and swam in a small inflatable kiddie pool until they disappeared one night. I have no idea what happened to them. Most likely my parents had a hand in it, or possibly a roving dog, which is what we were told. We didn’t mourn them. Also I had two very small turtles, Sunshine and Moonglow (possibly also won at a carnival), and it pains me to confess I let the water dry up in their bowl. In other words, I killed them.

Twelve or so years later, when I was taking a required science class in college, I had to cut a planaria in half. A planaria is a flatworm and, if you cut it in half, it regenerates, grows another head and tail. I cut mine in half, went off to Yale for the weekend, and when I returned my planaria was dead. There was a note from my professor.
I didn’t think you were the sort of person to let a planaria die.
But he was wrong. Because of Sunshine and Moonglow, I knew that I was exactly the sort of person to let a planaria die.

I got a dog because my friend Deena got a dog. That’s one of the best things about friends. Because they do something, you do something—something wonderful that you would never do. At the time I was married and living in Los Angeles with my two stepchildren. (And
just as an aside, if you are a stepparent, rush right out and get yourself a dog. Because it’s very nice to have someone in the house that loves you.)

We had Daisy, a rescue, for thirteen years. She was part Tibetan Terrier, which probably means nothing to you, but she had a coat of white and brown fur so soft and beautiful, you could wear it to a ball. She was about twenty-five pounds (not too big, not too small). Truly gorgeous.

Like gorgeous people, she knew she didn’t have to work hard to get attention. People on the street fell all over her, drivers shouted out of car windows, “What is she?” “A mutt,” I would shout back, knowing I had the most beautiful mutt in the world. Whenever I walked her, she would bark at the wind. This never failed to enchant me. In truth, however, she was a bit of a withholding dog, not one for a cuddle or a kiss.

We lived in Los Angeles longer than we should have because I couldn’t bear to put Daisy in the cargo hold of an airplane. Then the Northridge quake happened.

I had never been in a big earthquake. Only a small one where the ground trembled in a soft roll and you might even ask someone, “Was that an earthquake?” and then call a friend and say, “I was just in an earthquake,” as if something titillating had happened. When this
quake, 6.7 on the Richter scale, struck at 4:31 a.m., we were jolted awake by violent shaking. We lived twenty miles away from the epicenter. Still, it was fearsome.

While we were sitting around in the dark afterward (all the lights had blown) waiting for aftershocks and listening to the relentless blare of car alarms set off by the tremors, I said to my husband, “If I die tomorrow, I want to die in New York.” No more “Daisy doesn’t get on a plane.” She had a tranquilizer and survived. Back she moved with us to New York City and she preferred it as we did if you don’t count the time a huge, hideous dog living in the apartment next door tried to murder her in the elevator.

Then she got old and sick and died.

That’s what dogs do. They die on you.

Which is why I avoid reading most dog memoirs, because the dog always dies. And I weep buckets, which I did when Daisy died. I wept and wept and wept and wept.

After that I moped over dog adoption websites. Then I compulsively watched
Crossing Over
. This show had a popular run on cable in 2000 or so, around the time I was grieving for Daisy. Psychic John Edward (not to be confused with political John Edwards) stood in front of a live studio audience and connected with their “loved ones” who had “passed.”

John Edward really did know remarkable things about people who had passed. About hydrangeas they loved or a miniature Christmas tree in a box, or that a woman met her husband on a tennis court, or that a death was violent, a knife involved. He made peace for everyone, and everyone wanted to see their relatives in the afterlife, which I wouldn’t think is true for all people (but was true for anyone who wanted show tickets). Then I started watching
The Pet Psychic
with Sonya Fitzpatrick, an eccentric Englishwoman. Sonya communicated with dogs, cats, birds, primates, pretty much any animal. Lots of them had miserable pasts, tied up, starved, it was heartbreaking. All the dogs were big on wanting their owners to know they were grateful for finally having a happy life. The pets were always saying thank you, thank you, thank you. (Unlike children.) Once, as I recall, sensing a llama wanted to wear her silk scarf, Sonya tied it around the animal’s long neck. After they were done communicating, the llama’s owner tried to untie the scarf. “She wants to keep it,” said Sonya, just as the llama whacked him with her head and knocked him over.

Then there was a psychic summit, which I also watched. John Edward from the Sci-Fi Channel network along with his wife and his two fluffy white dogs went to visit Sonya on Animal Planet. Edward and his wife
wanted to get Sonya to find out why their dogs were peeing and pooping (she called it “whoopsing”) indoors. She didn’t get anywhere with that, but she did know that one of the dogs, Jerily (I think that’s his name) always liked his biscuits broken up into little pieces. Both dogs were wondering about the floor. It turned out the Edwards were installing new flooring. The dogs wanted to know if there would be any carpet, which they preferred. Also a weird shoe thing came up. One dog asked about “the one shoe.” The Edwards had recently opened a baby present and instead of two shoes, a pair, there had been only one. The dog “told” Sonya he wanted the shoe.

What I really want to say about my watching all this is that having a dog/loving a dog/losing a dog turned me into a nut.

What a remarkable love it is if I wept buckets and still wanted another, knowing the new one would die on me, too. That’s possible anyway with anyone—that they might die first—but with dogs, it’s nearly inevitable. Dog years. They’re teenagers, according to my vet, at one and a half or two. They are simply so glorious when they’re around.

I saw a documentary on television about how adaptable dogs are. They’ve figured out humans and how to connect with them. Unlike wolves. You can’t turn a wolf
into a dog no matter how hard you try, which is a lesson about bad boyfriends. Dogs will be around forever. They will outlive the Catholic Church and the Republican Party, just to name two things in the world that seem unable to adapt. Evolution—something many Catholics and Republicans deny—will ultimately be the end of them.

Honey, a Havanese, was not a rescue, which I feel guilty about, but she is a perfect dog—affectionate, friendly, mostly obedient.

As we were driving up I–95 to Royal Flush Havanese in Charleston, Rhode Island, I read
Dog Training for Dummies
, about how to pick a puppy suitable for an old retired couple, which sounded right to me. And I share. First of all, get a girl. I’m not certain that was in the book, maybe it’s simply my prejudice. Second of all, hold the puppy and turn it over on its back. It should resist for a second—its legs will wave around—and then relax (showing that it trusts you). Also the puppy should walk toward you with its tail down, a sign of respect. That means you will dominate the dog and the dog won’t dominate you. Honey did all those things, and the other puppies did not. One walked away and the other jumped all over us.

Among other things, having a dog provides a more entertaining form of junk e-mail. Along with being inundated with pleas and requests from Guy Cecil, Joe
Biden, Chuck Schumer, Planned Parenthood, and the American Red Cross, today I got an e-mail inviting Honey to participate in a dog shedding competition. It wasn’t about hair. Honey doesn’t shed, anyway. It was a dog reality show like
The Biggest Loser
. Shedding meant pounds. Many dogs are overweight, no surprise. Who can resist giving a dog a treat? They fixate. They stare you into submission. Honey, who weighs seventeen pounds, weighs two pounds too much. That is quite a lot. Without telling you my weight, let me put it this way: Honey losing one dog pound is like my losing fourteen. I didn’t enroll her, however. Much as I love my dog, she is not a career.

Recently, to see how insane the dog world can be, I went over to the preliminary judging of the super fancy Westminster Dog Show. It took place in the huge warehouses used for exhibition on the Hudson River piers. In addition to rings where you could see the dogs parade around while being judged, a huge portion of the space was given over to dogs being prepared to show. As far as the eye could see were rows of dogs on tiny tables getting blow-dries. The dogs were being brushed, combed, and flat-ironed. Lots of flat-ironing. They were being sauced with whipped cream mousse and styling cream, sprayed with Tresemmé Extra Firm. The fur around their mouths—their doggie beards—was parceled into
tiny ponytails, wrapped in cloth and secured with rubber bands, to be certain no eye gunk migrated there, dirtying their faces, turning them into, well, dogs. When the trainers showed the dogs, trotting them around the ring, most had hairbrushes tucked into the back waist of their pants or skirts, and the minute there was a break, the trainer whipped out the brush and gave the dog a sprucing. One other weird thing: While the dogs were awaiting their turns, the trainers frequently bit off a bit of treat in their mouths and gave it to them. In other words, the intimacy was a tad freaky. I hope those treats were actual chicken or cheese, and not yam and venison treats in the form of brown bricks, which is what Honey gets (the only other food she is allowed besides kangaroo).

When I returned home, the second I opened the front door, I heard the thumpety-thump of Honey’s paws on the stairs—there is no sweeter sound—and then she appeared looking like a dirty shag rug in someone’s garage. Show dogs have as much in common with dogs as dolled-up little girls in pageants do with little girls.

When Honey was about five, we had a pet psychic over, who charged quite a bit, at least as much as one month’s telephone bill. The ostensible reason for this visit was that I had written a screenplay about a pet psychic and wanted to meet one.

Just as an aside I want to tell you about this screenplay,
Sammy
, because it’s one of my favorites and it never got made. The setup: a woman who talks to animals falls in love with a man who talks to the dead. Only thing is, she can actually do it and he can’t. Because he’s a fraud, he thinks she’s a fraud. Because she’s for real, she thinks he’s for real. The man has a dog, Sammy. The dog falls in love with the woman and rats him out. As I mentioned, it never got made, but at least, because I have included it here, it exists, albeit briefly.

My friend Carol recommended Jocelyn the pet psychic. Jocelyn had met Carol’s dog, Dainty, and told Carol why Dainty didn’t want to pee on a certain patch of grass but would be happier peeing on another patch. This turned out to be absolutely true and solved a BIG PROBLEM. Jocelyn, a lovely woman in her, I’m guessing, late thirties, was not peculiar in any way except, of course, she could communicate with dogs.

Honey liked her immediately, but Honey likes everyone except really tall people. Whenever anyone new comes over, Honey dances on her hind legs. Isn’t that remarkable? Jocelyn immediately pronounced Honey a happy dog with no traumatic past, which we knew. She sat on the rug and observed Honey. After I mentioned Honey’s incredible attachment to one of her squeaky
toys, a gorilla, Jocelyn said that Honey didn’t mind that she wasn’t a mother, but she did want a litter of squeaky toy gorillas. Then Jocelyn said to me, “Honey is worried about your left thigh.”

The week before, I had had a little growth taken off my left thigh, which turned out to be benign. There was a Band-Aid on the tiny wound, all hidden under my jeans. There was no way Jocelyn could have known about it.

This was startling. And not just because there was no way Jocelyn could have known about it. As irresistible as Honey is and as vulnerable (she trembles in a rainstorm), I have never thought of her as a dog that would run for help if I slipped in a shower or fell through, say, thin ice on a skating pond. I would guess she’d be thinking,
Is it time for lunch, and why aren’t you giving it to me?
But apparently not. Apparently I have a really sensitive dog.