Stepdog
Authors: Mireya Navarro
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UTNAM'S
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Publishers since 1838
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375 Hudson Street
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Copyright © 2015 by Mireya Navarro
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© James Sterngold
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© Monica Almeida
All other photos © Mireya Navarro
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Navarro, Mireya.
Stepdog / Mireya Navarro.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-698-14511-5
1. DogsâBehavior. 2. DogsâPsychology. 3. Jealousy. 4. Love. 5. Human-animal relationshipsâUnited States. 6. Navarro, MireyaâMarriage. 7. StepparentsâUnited StatesâBiography. 8. Dog ownersâUnited StatesâBiography. I. Title. II. Title: Stepdog.
SF426.2.N38 2015 2014047108
636.7'0887âdc23
Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author's alone.
Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved.
Version_1
For my mother, Dinorah, and my cousin Alma, and for all the women who left me too soon and those still in my life who continue to inspire me.
For stepmoms everywhere.
Sparks and Fireworks (And No Crazy Dog)
Stepparenting 101: The Fun House
New Beginnings (A Dog Gets Old)
The Dog
I
underestimated the dog. On the first night I slept at my future husband's place in Los Angeles, Eddie peed outside the bedroom door.
“He's never done that,” Jim said, mystified.
Jim rushed to get a cloth and cleaner to rub the yellow from the cream-colored carpet as I paid no attention whatsoever to the incident. I lingered in bed instead, savoring the memories of the night before and our moments together. I was visiting from New York and had just met the dog. What is there to say about a dog? A bit peculiar, no doubt, but he seemed harmless enough. In my bicoastal romance, the dog was an afterthought. What a dope I was. Love blinded me to the conniving manipulator behind the wagging tail.
Eddie was cute, I'll grant that much. About forty pounds, with dark spots on white fur, floppy ears, and a rump that looked absurdly comical in motion, Eddie never failed to draw oohs and aahs as he sniffed his way down the street. The spots appeared to be his charm and a great object of curiosity.
“What a cutie! What kind of dog is that?” people often asked.
“Just a junkyard dog,” Jim replied proudly. He loved that his dog was manly, with a ferocious bark and, as I would soon discover, a taste for brawls. Jim could go on and on about his precious Eddie.
“Based on what our vet told us, he has the markings of an Australian cattle dog known as a blue heeler. The blue comes from that little bit of gray behind his ears. For some reason the gray is referred to as blue.”
Fascinating.
“. . . When he plays with other dogs, he nips at their haunches, which is a kind of herding mentality. Blue heelers have that instinct to herd cattle.”
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
J
im liked to point out that he and Ralph Lauren had the same taste in dogs. But the blue heeler in a Ralph Lauren newspaper ad he showed me was a more regal blue heeler, and not just because he was posing next to an exquisite denim-and-tan-leather handbag. The elongated profile didn't look anything like Eddie's boxy head. Eddie seemed more pit bullâish than blue heelâish.
“That's Eddie's ancestor,” Jim insisted. “That's his forebear.”
Whatever. A disagreeable muttâthat's all Eddie really was. It took no time for him to drop the niceties. He behaved like a dog with Jim and a jealous mistress with me. All we had in common was that we loved the same man. When I fell in love with Jim, I had braced myself for stepkids. Never, ever, did I worry about a stepdog.
In case you're wondering, I'm not a cat person. I like dogs. In fact, I love dogs. Mitsuki, Tweety, Peluche, Rubi, Sophie, Jade, Esperanza, Bailey, Pinky, Canelo, Spencer, Riley, Bridget, Raniâthese were dogs from my childhood and dogs that belonged to friends. They were loving and funny and made you happy. But these dogs usually knew they were dogs. They were the kind that are ecstatic to see you and jump around in circles and greet you like it's midnight on New Year's Eve. They don't ignore you or stress you out or play head games or kick you when you're down.
Initially, I ignored Eddie's passive-aggressiveness, although marking his territory outside Jim's bedroom was certainly creepy. But he soon became confrontational. He barked at the sight of me. He physically came between Jim and me when we tried to kiss or dance. He raced me or intercepted me when I approached Jim. When we shoved our way to our man, I usually won. Oh, could the mutt whimper. But Eddie had already beaten me to Jim by nearly four months. They met in January. I didn't show up until April. I was the intruder.
“What is your problem? What's wrong with you? Quiet! Stop it! Sit!”
It became apparent that a good chunk of my life would be squandered proving who was more alpha. Never show your fears! The rest of my time would be spent shooing Eddie away, tugging Eddie's leash, nagging Jim about Eddie, avoiding Eddie, and wanting to lose Eddie. It was exhausting.
I used to laugh watching one of my favorite sitcoms,
Frasier
. Dr. Frasier Crane hated his father's Jack Russell terrier, another piece of work also called Eddie.
“Must this dog stare at me all the time?” Frasier grumbled in one episode as the dog watched him playing the piano. Sometimes the two would get into stare-down contests. Hilarious.
I don't laugh anymore.
How can one person's source of comfort and affection be so objectionable to another? Some of us see the dog as a lovable companion but definitely a few ranks below humans. Others treat them as a favorite child or principal friend. Jim fit in between these perspectives, but we still had to reconcile our differences.
To me, Eddie was just a pet. To Jim, Eddie was family.
Dogs had never been on my checklist for sizing up boyfriend prospects. I was more worried about “cons” like “self-absorbed” or “cheap.” Jim dazzled me with “pros.” He was smart and loving and fun and sexy and caring. He was responsible and financially solvent. He didn't have male habits that grossed me out. Who cares about a dog? Anyone can get along with a little doggie. And if the dog was to become a problem, we could always find a more suitable arrangement. Humans always come first. Right? It wasn't like Eddie was any kind of deal-breaker. Jim didn't even mention him when we first met. Jim was not that kind of dog person. He wasn't like those people who make their dogs vet their dates. My Jim was normal.
Not his dog, though. What a sour personality Eddie had. He was aloof and generally unaffectionate to anyone but Jim. He refused to fetch. He licked mostly himself. He was sometimes more cat than dog. Not too bright, he was often more hamster than cat. A possessive hamster-cat. He made you long for a llama.
I'm not saying Eddie was a bad dog, necessarily. He didn't chew shoes. He didn't steal socks. He didn't destroy furniture or dig holes in the lawn or wake us up at dawn. He just hated me. Jim advised to woo him. I tried. But even after I walked Eddie and cleaned up after him and fed him and scratched his empty head, he would not extend his loyalty. There was just no scoring points with Eddie. He just wouldn't share Jim.
“Just ignore him,” our soulmate said when I complained.
“How can I ignore him? He barks and growls at me, he tries to make me trip, his breath stinks . . .” Sometimes I would also catch him looking at me funny, like he was casting some canine spell. What a weirdo. “. . . he snores, he farts, he sheds, he walks into . . .”
At the sound of “walk,” Eddie would perk up from his slumber and look at Jim.
“Is that true?” Jim would coo, scratching away. “Do you snore? Do you fart?”
Then, to me: “He's my pal.”
Then, to Eddie: “Aren't you my buddy, you big galoot?”
I sometimes threatened to get my own pal, a cuddly pup that would be everything Eddie wasn't.
“Right,” Jim said. “Eddie, meet lunch.”
Obviously my prince was not about to gallop to meet me halfway.
To be fair, Eddie was not without charm. He didn't slobber. He didn't hump legs. His tongue didn't hang out except when it was really hot in the summer. And without Jim around he was, indeed, capable of being just a dog, more or less. Anytime Jim traveled for work, he left him in my care, and Eddie took no time in figuring out which side his bread was buttered on. He'd sprout angel wings and turn into new, improved Eddie. When it was just the two of us, he'd follow me as I went through my rounds between the den and the kitchen. He'd stand watch while I sat watching TV or he'd lie at my feet, making goo-goo eyes at me. If I absentmindedly crossed my legs as I worked at the computer, he'd ever-so-gently rest his head on my dangling foot, as if to say: “I can't be close enough to you.”
It felt good being treated with love and respect. Then Jim would come back home and Eddie would dump me and resume hostilities.
Remember Marley's look of concern in the movie
Marley &
Me
, when Jennifer Aniston came home after a miscarriage and sat quietly crying on her living room couch? Remember the dog sitting by her side, still as a rock, watching her every move, being there for her when she finally breaks down in convulsing sobs and buries her face in his fur? Eddie would have never done that. Eddie had only five settings: Walk. Sniff. Eat. Sleep. Inappropriately and noisily lick privates.
Yet we seldom hear about unlikable dogs like Eddie. We only hear, incessantly, about these holy best friendsâthese overachievers, even!âand the essential role they play in the household.
We have all read the stories about dogs becoming a healing presence for the sick and old. And they can be excellent companions. Jill Abramson, the former executive editor of
The New York Times
, wrote a series of stories for the newspaper's website, then a book, chronicling the first year of Scout, the golden retriever that replaced her other beloved dog, Buddy.
“My two children, who grew up with him but flew the nest years before his demise, joked that Buddy was my one perfect relationship in my life,” she wrote.
This is what Clara, a friend from grade school who is now a radio personality, said of her “four-legged son” Alejandro Alberto (red flag: a dog with a middle name) in a newspaper profile:
“He died after sixteen years with me. I think that when we human beings learn that dogs are superior beings that are here on earth to teach us unconditional love, we'll hang our heads in shame.”
“A cat teaches you dignity,” she told her interviewer, “and a dog teaches you love that knows no limits.”
Please.
It's not that I question these emotions. But a dog is a dog is a dog. We all know Alejandro Alberto's “superiority” and “unconditional love” would have been seriously tested at the sight of a steak. Not even. Cheetos. He'd ditch both owner and “unlimited” love for Cheetos.
Of course, it was unrealistic to expect much sympathy. Friends, coworkers, relativesâthey were all in Eddie's corner.
“Poor Eddie. Can you guys get into counseling?” my friend Bill suggested when I shared my latest grievance. There is such a thing as pet-related therapy, of course, and Bill wasn't kidding. Never mind that his own life was run by two hyperactive “fur babies”âJessica and Stanley, both Chihuahua mixesâthat at one point got him and his partner, Scout, evicted from their apartment in Los Angeles because of a no-pets policy. As they frantically looked for a place to crash with their dogs right before the Christmas holiday, I suggestedâhelpfully, I thoughtâthat they put the rescue dogs in a kennel to make the search for temporary housing easier.
Out of the question, Bill said. “They are our children.”
And I'm the one who needs therapy. (Many years later, after marriage and two actual children, this is what Bill said to me one day: “Do you want Stanley? He's an idiot.”)
Only my sister in Puerto Rico, Mari, a down-to-earth dog lover, would empathize and ask every now and then during our long-distance conversations: “Have you poisoned the dog yet?”
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
C
learly, I would never kill another living thing, not even Eddie. But in my new life as wife and stepmom, Eddie was no joke. He was another willful personality in the household, another tension in the “blended” family, the last straw on a bad day, the extra, unacceptable hardship that sometimes made me want to run away. He wasn't just a dog. He was negative energy, a competitor for my husband's attention, a nuisance, a bad roommate, a total traitor. Against my better judgment, he got under my skin.
At some point, it all got to be too much. I was utterly unprepared to gain an instant family, juggle so many new roles and relationships at once, and struggle with culture clashes. I had been so naive. For some reason I never doubted I would always get my way in my own marriage, just like I did when it was just me. I stepped into my new role ready to change things for the better, to teach the kids and love the husband and make everyone happy, fulfilled, and grateful I had come into their lives. That didn't turn out exactly as I'd envisioned.
And then there was this darn dog. There were so many times I could have used Eddie's allegiance, especially when I felt ganged up on or like an incompetent wife and stepmother. A sane dog would have offered comfort. But Eddie offered me none. No joy, no solace, no support, no love. He took sides right away and it wasn't with Team Mia. It would be me against four. I'd require a blended-family coach, and a shrink or two, to root for me.
One day I was in New York, longing for love but happily unmarried. The next I was in the suburbs of Los Angeles juggling a new job assignment, a husband, two stepkids in their tweens, and doggie dearest.
I, in good faith, endeavored to work things out. How hard could it be when I had already succeeded in finding true love?
So I tried and triedâwith the husband, and the kids, and especially Eddie, who at least didn't talk back. I tried to tolerate Eddie. I tried to be friends with Eddie. I tried to train Eddie. And when that didn't work, I tried to (legally) get rid of Eddie. If someone had to go, it sure as hell wasn't going to be me.