I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship (16 page)

We were the chosen ones. The fully trained little dog needed us.

Jeremy had a huge work project due right after Thanksgiving, so I took Argo out to the kennel to meet his new friend by myself. Luna was about half the size of Argo. She had beautiful traditional German shepherd markings, long skinny legs, a delicate nose, and ears that were too big for the rest of her, like a coyote. She cowered behind her owner when I tried to pet her, but when I sat on the floor, she marched over to me and licked my chin, like she realized right then and there that I was going to be the wonderful lady who would change her life.

We'd been looking for a second dog for months. When we finally thought we'd found the perfect dog for our family, a pretty little spaniel mix, and introduced her and Argo, she snarled and barked at him, leaving us all feeling a little rejected and insulted. Even though Argo had no interest in Luna, and was more interested in leaning against my legs and being clingy, Luna was fascinated by him. Her eyes filled with awe, her tail wagged. She trotted around him like she was dancing. It was beautiful, and it made me fall in love with her instantly. Anyone who loved my dog that much had to be a good egg.

Her owner arranged to drop her off at our house the next day, and I was so excited. I envisioned a bit of an adjustment, of course, but we'd been through that with Argo. When we first brought him home, he paced around the house for about twenty minutes to get his bearings. A few days later, he chewed a shoe, but when we scolded him in a slightly angry voice, he cowered in the corner and looked completely devastated. Otherwise, Argo fit seamlessly into our lives, making us laugh, giving us unconditional love and tons of sloppy dog kisses. And in my dog inexperience, I honestly thought that was the norm. That is what I expected from Luna. But as soon as Luna's owner left and I shut the door behind her, Luna morphed into a whirling mass of destruction, tipping over plants, chasing our poor old three-legged cat across the living room, knocking books off the bookshelves, chewing everything she could get her mouth around (including my arm), and herding Argo like a poor lost lamb until the only place he could stand without feeling her wrath was perched on the arm of the couch, like an elephant balanced on a ball at the circus. He looked as bewildered as I felt. Luna was like a turbocharged wild animal. I'd never seen anything like it.

“Luna!” I yelled. “Sit!”

“Rauooo!” she howled at me, before bounding off to chew on the leg of the coffee table.

“Luna! No!” I yelled.

She didn't even look at me.

“Luna!!!!”

Not even a glance my way.

Over the next few days, I learned some things about Luna. She did not know that her name was Luna. She did not have an understanding of any sort of “no” command. She would sometimes sit when told, but her success rate was so low it was quite possibly coincidence, not obedience. And while Argo hung on my every word, cocking his head from one side to the other while I talked, hoping the next thing I said would pertain to him, Luna didn't seem to understand that words could mean anything to her at all. She never made eye contact. She barely reacted to me.

And then there was the peeing. No matter how many trips around the block we took in freezing, Rochester winter weather, Luna would not pee. I spent hours walking her, teeth chattering, scared I'd slip on ice and crack my head open whenever she yanked at her leash to take off after a squirrel, or attempt to protect me from a fearsome three-year-old making snow angels. No matter how long it had been since she last relieved herself, Luna would not pee while she was on a leash. I started to worry that she might explode.

Luna would only pee in the backyard, off leash, after pacing around in circles for at least twenty minutes trying to find the exact right spot. The second she was done peeing, she'd take off, racing through the neighbors' yards, or down the street, or across the field behind our house, leaving me to chase her, yelling, at all hours of the night.

She'd pee perfectly in the backyard and come back in immediately like a little saint just often enough to fool me into thinking she'd gotten the routine down; of course, the next time I wouldn't bother to bundle up for the quick trip outside—and she'd choose to take off. I'd have to chase after her wearing slippers that would fly off my feet as I ran, and my ratty old pajama pants with a big hole down the side of one leg, letting the single-digit temperatures creep in and giving my neighbors a full display of my pathetic ineptitude.

By day, Luna needed to be watched constantly, so my days, which had previously been filled with work and cleaning, leisurely cups of tea, and occasional phone chats with friends, were suddenly completely consumed by the sole purpose of keeping Luna from chewing things and torturing our other pets.

At night, Luna would flail around her wire crate at the end of our bed. We knew sleeping in the same room was an important part of the bonding process, but Luna was the only one getting any rest. Even Argo couldn't sleep through her scratching and snoring. We were all sleep-deprived, except for Luna, who woke up every morning well rested and ready to take on another day of pulling stuffing out of a couch cushion, or chewing the corner of the living room rug like it was a good piece of jerky.

Jeremy's work project made him something of a stranger for the first month we had Luna. When he got home at night, he was greeted by me in tears, Argo nervously clutching his favorite toy in his mouth and growling under his breath, the cat puking in the corner, and our newest family member barking madly, lunging viciously at Jeremy, desperately trying to protect us all from him.

The day after Thanksgiving, after all the dishes were washed and the pots and pans put away, I made a mess of the kitchen all over again to roast an extra turkey I'd bought on holiday sale with plans of leftovers for easy meals and tasty dog treats.

While I cooked, Argo perched on the arm of the couch, the cat hid behind the toilet in the bathroom, and Luna pranced around, talking back at me with cries of “Rauooo!” anytime I told her to stop her current display of destruction. When the turkey finally finished cooking, I pulled it out of the oven and, distracted and sleep-deprived, tried to transfer it to a carving board, accidentally dousing my hand in boiling turkey fat in the process.

I put Luna in her crate and grabbed my purse so I could drive myself to the emergency room, ignoring her shrieks of protest and the clanging metal as she smashed her body up against the walls of the crate while I searched for my keys.

The emergency room, at eight p.m. on the day after Thanksgiving, seemed blissfully quiet and calm in comparison to being at home with Luna. My burn wasn't bad, and I was low-priority. An orderly put me in an out-of-the-way, curtained-off section, handed me a TV remote, and said, apologetically, “It's going to be a while.”

“Not a problem,” I said, earnestly. My hand hurt, but not so badly that I couldn't appreciate having my own little haven where reruns of
Family Ties
were playing on the television and no one was chewing on anything—at least not that I could see or was responsible for.

Two hours and a tetanus shot later, I was in my car and on my way home. My arm and hand throbbing, sorry to be returning to the zoo our house had become, I thought about taking a wrong turn, getting on the highway, and running away from home. It took every ounce of willpower I had to drive in the right direction, and when I pulled my car into the garage, I felt like my legs wouldn't work. I could not make myself go into the house. I sat in the car for almost an hour, listening to oldies on the radio and checking my e-mail on my cell phone, until it got too cold, and I started to worry I was draining the car battery. I felt like an idiot. I thought it was going to be easy to bring Luna into our lives. I thought it was going to be happy. I thought it would be good for Argo to have a friend, but he was miserable.

And then, of course, as soon as I walked in the door, I had to take Luna out to pee, and ended up chasing her through my neighbor's yard, trying to catch her with my unburned hand. She didn't even pee.

“We can't keep her,” I whispered, sobbing later that night, when Jeremy came home and climbed into bed. “I can't do this anymore.”

We agreed that I would call the kennel in the morning and tell them I couldn't keep her. As much as it was hard to live with her, I knew giving her back would leave a hole in my heart. I'd always have guilt, there'd always be an empty space. I'd always wonder what had happened to her. When we agreed to take her, I'd been assured that the kennel would try to find another home for her if it didn't work out. But how long would they try? When would they have to give up? I'd always fear the worst. But I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want to be a martyr for the next twelve years—at the expense of my sanity and the well-being of my home and family. She wouldn't look at me, she wouldn't listen to me, and I couldn't see how things could get better. In my mind, there was no amount of training that could ever take her from that crazy to anything even resembling a normal dog. And, because she was so aggressive on a leash, the idea of taking her to an obedience class seemed like an even more overwhelming nightmare. I couldn't stop thinking about it, and I couldn't sleep. So when Luna started whining at three a.m., I heard her right away, and took her outside to pee.

We walked around the yard, Luna's leash clutched in my nearly frozen hand, until I got so cold I couldn't stand it anymore. “Why can't you pee like a normal dog?” I cried. My teeth were chattering, and I couldn't feel my toes anymore. I crouched down and balled up, trying to conserve the little bit of heat I still had left in my body.

Luna trotted over and squatted next to me. I heard the trickle of pee hitting the frozen ground, and started giggling. It was weird, squatting next to a peeing dog. I realized that she thought I was peeing, too. When she finished, she licked my face. I cheered, “You did it! You are such a good dog!” Luna jumped around me, wagging her tail. I ran for the house. She followed me in without hesitation.

All she needed was to know that someone was there for her. I realized that I wasn't being a martyr in keeping her. I couldn't let her go. I needed her, too. I needed to be a better person, so she could be a better dog. I'd been so focused on everything she'd been doing wrong and everything she was supposed to be and wasn't, that I hadn't given her a chance to succeed. I expected her to take forever to pee and then run away, and she fulfilled that. But the second I supported her, even if it was accidental, she didn't want to run away. She wanted to be with me, and she wanted my praise. We just hadn't learned how to communicate with each other yet.

The next day, instead of arranging to give Luna back, I went to the library and checked out every book on dog behavior that I could find. I brought them home and read them while Luna snoozed on the couch next to me.

First, I realized, Luna needed a new name. She didn't have any positive associations with the word “Luna.” I e-mailed Jeremy a list of names. “Does this mean you want to keep her?” he asked.

“I just want to try something,” I told him.

We renamed her Stella, and I started walking around the house with treats in my pocket like all the books recommended. Every twenty minutes or so, I'd call “Stella!” and hand her a treat, even if she'd been standing right by me all along. It didn't take her long to understand that the word “Stella” meant good things. She was starting to realize that sometimes words related to her.

From my reading, I learned that Stella might benefit from having a job. So, every morning, no matter how cold or icy, I'd load up a doggie backpack with cans of beans and a small baggie of treats, strap it to Stella, and walk her around the block, trying my damnedest to be calm and assertive and be her best friend like the books told me. I circled the block in my winter boots and Yaktrax and tried not to think fearful thoughts of slipping on ice and cracking my skull open. If I didn't put my insecurities aside, she would take over, and I'd end up getting dragged down the street on my butt while she chased after a little old man shoveling snow. I needed to give her opportunities to succeed. She needed me to be a strong leader, and it forced me to be one.

When we got home, I'd load the beans back in the cupboard and give her the treats out of the baggie, praising her for her fine work. I don't know if it was the sense of purpose transporting beans around the block gave her, the payola she got at the end, or the simple fact that the backpack full of beans exhausted her more than just a regular walk, but when we got home, she was calmer, and ready to take a nap. She'd press her nose against my leg and snore while I sat on the couch with her and typed. I didn't care if it was crazy to walk around the block with a dog carrying beans like a pack mule. It was working.

Argo started to warm up to her, too. The toys he'd hide from her turned into his tools to entice her to play with him. He'd bring his favorite ball out in plain sight, dropping it on the hardwood floor so it would bounce over to Stella. She'd pick it up, run around with it, tail wagging, and drop it so it would bounce back to Argo. They would play like that for hours, stopping for impromptu naps and water breaks. It was noisy and raucous—the cat kept her distance, and I moved all things breakable out of the living room—but the sound of the bouncing ball and dog nails skittering on the floor was so much better than Argo's frustrated whimper and Stella's teeth scraping away at the leg of our coffee table. It was also better than the sound of Argo sighing around the ball in his mouth when he wanted to play and I needed to work. Stella still looked at Argo with those sweet brown eyes full of puppy love. When I told her to do something and she talked back at me with her big bellowing “Rauooo!” or yanked a houseplant out of its pot and dragged it across the living room floor, or pulled dirty tissues out of the wastepaper basket and left little bits of them strewn across every room in our house, I'd think, “At least she has good taste in dogs.” I'd remind myself that Argo was a happier dog because of Stella. And gradually, I started to realize that I was a happier person because of Stella. She challenged me. She made me work for her obedience and I made her work for her praise. We balanced each other.