I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship (19 page)

On one of my grandmother's first mornings with us, as I was showing her how I make chocolate milk with the last of my Cocoa Puffs, my mom, engrossed in the paper, was mindlessly scratching Cindy under the chin. Ginger, as usual demanding to be the center of attention, wedged herself between them, and Cindy, without dejection, trotted off, accepting her new standing like a faithful old housekeeper quietly performing her duties when the pretty new chambermaid catches the mistress's attention. Ginger reveled in the attention while my mom tousled her ears, kissed her on the snout, and whispered, “What is it, pretty girl? What is it? Yes, you've been through a lot. I know, I know.”

Whenever she spoke to Ginger that way, I'd get furious at my mom's lack of sensitivity. Sure, Ginger had been through a lot, but what about Cindy? She'd been abandoned, possibly abused, and had languished in a filthy shelter for God knows how long. That Cindy was so accepting of her second-class status made me crazy.

I also hated the way Ginger shamelessly threw herself at my father, who, despite his macho-free demeanor, was the alpha dog in our family pack. His return from the office had always been the big event in Cindy's day, but with Ginger going mental, pawing him and whimpering in ecstasy the moment he walked through the door, Cindy resigned herself to her new place in the pecking order. She'd stand a few feet back, waiting patiently for Ginger's fit to subside and for my dad to give her a few seconds of attention before he kissed my mom and looked in the refrigerator.

Twenty minutes after the two dogs had been taken into the Pooch Parlor, Cindy emerged from her makeover. Although Donna charged my dad for the complete spa package, there wasn't much different about Cindy's appearance. But I fussed over her manicured nails and, assuring her how elegant she was, kissed her repeatedly. The poor thing seemed embarrassed by the attention—like a tomboy in a puffy bridesmaid's dress—and curled up under a tree to wait for Ginger to make her entrance.

Finally, half an hour later, Ginger, shiny and manageable, bolted out of the van, eager to show off her new do. The girl in the tube top fawned over her as she gave Ginger a final once-over with a metal comb. “You are such a beauty! You're gonna have gorgeous babies!”

“She's fixed,” I yelled.

“What a shame, you could've made some nice money.”

I hated the girl and her wrinkly belly. I knew she'd never say that about Cindy—nobody would. The morning my mom and her friend Jen Wolf berg took Cindy to get spayed, I begged them to let her have puppies and was told by Jen, “The last thing we need are more unwanted animals that need to be euthanized.” I wanted to spay Jen.

We humans are often unaware of our own prejudices, and it would never occur to a lot of us that there might be anything wrong with treating a dog differently because of its looks. What does it matter anyway? It's just a dog. They're inferior to us; on the tree of life, they're on a lower branch; canine brains are less than one-fifth the size of ours.

True, but this size difference has more to do with our highly developed neocortex, which allows us to reason, and less to do with the limbic system (the evolutionarily earlier sections of the brain that dogs and people have in common), from which emotions arise.

And aren't our emotions what make it a joy—or at least a profound experience—to be human? The ability to do algebra or write poetry has its advantages, but no matter how elegant a quadratic equation or well-crafted a sonnet, neither penetrates my heart as deeply as a wet nose and a wagging tail. If I ever had to choose between surrendering my intelligence or my feelings, the decision would be easy: I'd rather be an idiot than a sociopath.

Dogs avoid the great human quandary of reconciling their emotions with their intellect. They know exactly what to do. Comforting without hesitation and confronting without second-guessing themselves, they manage to live in the moment without “Just for today” tucked into the corner of the bureau mirror. Aside from Wile E. Coyote, canids are guileless.

I realized all of this that evening, after the chubby girl helped Donna maneuver the Pooch Parlor out of our driveway, and my parents left to play cards at their friends'. It was the night I fell in love with Ginger.

Standing at the sink, slathering cream cheese on the chocolate chip cookies my mother had hidden in the vegetable crisper, I could hear my grandmother in her room off of the kitchen wake up from “just resting my eyes.” When her TV didn't immediately come on, I poked my head in the door. Granny, her bad hearing allowing me to spy, was seated on her upholstered green rocker, staring into silence, the cemetery expression ruining her face. She gazed down at the table beside her, at a photo of Syl and Lenny at Tracy's sweet sixteen, and sighed. At the sound, Ginger, snoozing in the corner, looked up and raised her ears. “Some life, huh, Gingie?”

At the mention of her name, Ginger jumped to her feet and threw her front half into my grandmother's lap. Granny laughed and tried to dodge the berserk animal's flank-steak tongue as Ginger covered her with kisses. But the big dopey thing knew what the old woman needed and, with unfettered affection, pulled Granny out of her memories and into the cold-nosed present.

When the licking finally ceased, my grandmother burrowed her nose into the dog's thick mane. “Wuzsha, wuzsha, wuzsha! Wuzsha, wuzsha, wuzsha!” And Ginger, burning the remaining adrenaline off with her tail, barked approvingly, causing Granny to laugh and launch a kissing assault of her own.

I stepped back into the kitchen unnoticed and sat quietly at the table, replaying the scene in my mind to ensure it would never be lost to me.

A year later the big Snuffleupagus was gone. Ginger's hind legs suddenly gave out (a common glitch when humans try to breed “perfect” dogs), and my parents had to put her down while I was on a school choir trip. My grandmother was heartbroken. Elliot had gone off to college by then, and Ginger had been the only one left who'd gone through the devastating losses with her.

I was angry my parents didn't call me home to say good-bye, and I spent the next two days sitting in Ginger's favorite place on the sofa, where I could still smell her. After two or three vacuumings, however, her scent was expunged, and the only pieces of evidence proving she'd been there were a chewed-up plastic frankfurter with a broken squeak and the little haystacks of hair we came across when we cared enough to sweep behind the furniture.

Though I loved Cindy, and was happy to see her shake off her timidity and reclaim her rightful position, I initially equated her exuberance with that of an aging Broadway diva called in to save the show when the starlet who'd replaced her falls ill. But after witnessing the delight that she, too, brought to Granny's face, it dawned on me that perhaps Cindy, the smartest and most sensitive of creatures, had simply been stepping back to allow Ginger—and the rest of us—to have what we all needed.

It was another year before I first noticed Cindy's muzzle beginning to gray, and over the next several years—as I shot up and finally slimmed down—the thud of her paws on the linoleum gradually changed to a dainty clacking. After Ginger, the pink van stopped coming around, and bathing Cindy became an increasingly important experience for me—far preferable to trusting her to Donna, who had dollar signs in her eyes. I loved the aging mutt unreservedly, but with a tinge of melancholy that scored my heart, preparing it for the inevitable break to come.

After the poor thing had limped arthritically into old age, she began having seizures. Though she bounced back somewhat between episodes, the attacks increased in frequency and severity until, finally, we had to acknowledge “it was time.”

We put her down the day before I left for college.

Before we took her to the vet's, my dad shot a roll of film of Cindy and me on our front stoop. The guilt I felt getting her to look into the camera for her final portrait was excruciating. The feeble twitching of her tail brought me to the brink of tears, and I was only able to keep from breaking down completely because I couldn't bear to have a photo of my own face with an expression of grief I'd never be able to forget. As I dug my nose into her fur and rocked my head back and forth—“Wuzsha, wuzsha, wuzsha!”—I took a deep breath, aware that, as with Ginger, I'd soon be unable to recall Cindy's comforting scent.

In the years since Ginger and Cindy, I've lost Granny and my dad. Occasionally, at a party, or perhaps on the subway or in an elevator, a stranger's White Shoulders perfume or Old Spice aftershave will trigger specific memories of them. But it's been over thirty years since I've caught a whiff of anything that conjures up that magnificent show dog or that clever mutt.

Too bad nobody makes a cologne called Old Dog.

My Dog, the Dominatrix

Jenny Gardiner

When I think about it, it's a wonder our rescue dog didn't come into our lives wielding a leather whip, sporting black patent leather thigh-high boots and a spiked collar. While the accoutrements of her temperament did not accompany her, the dominatrix collar would come, eventually. Only to her chagrin, it would be at her expense.

Bridget—our dingo–mush dog mash-up—came to us ready-made with
issues
. So much so that early in our relationship, a friend gave us a book on how to live with a neurotic dog: Everyone in our circle of friends knew that Bridget required coping skills far beyond what's required for your average mutt.

An impulse acquisition just a little too soon after the loss of our first dog, Bridget made up for in cute what she lacked in social acceptability. From a litter of abandoned five-week-old pups left on the side of the road to die, Bridget's survival skills held her in good stead long enough to be rescued; her mesmerizing gemstone blue pie eyes gave her the edge in landing a group of suckers who didn't quite need a high-maintenance dog, but would never dream of giving her up once in their care. That would be us: the Gardiners, who never met a pet they wouldn't go to the ends of the earth for, against all logic.

Now some of you may know about my family because of my memoir about our demanding African gray parrot, Graycie, a surprise gift some twenty years ago (the gift that keeps on giving, we like to say). Between our three small children (a fourth, if you count Graycie, with the intelligence and manipulative skills of a clever toddler), a few doddering cats with failing kidneys, and a not-even-back-from-the-crematory dead dog, by the time Bridget came along, we were up to our eyeballs in creatures that needed our undivided attention.

Despite yearning for a break from dog maintenance, lingering in the back of my mind when confronted with the immediate prospect of taking home this adorable pooch was the mantra I'd heard so often in my life about how great adopted dogs are.

“Get a pound pup!” people would advise (unsolicited, mind you). “They make the best pets. They're so grateful for your love, and
much
more well behaved.”

I'm fairly sure these are the same people who'd assured me that my oversized nine-plus-pound newborn would sleep through the night in a matter of days (versus the nine months it took). In any event, Bridget must not have gotten that memo.

Bridget is sharp, both in intellect and appearance. There are no soft, smooth, family-dog curves to her. She's seemingly made up purely of geometric angles, from her long narrow snout and her pointy ears—prone to shift position like satellite antennae when discerning noises—to her angular haunches, which jut up like shark fins when she's poised in permanent ready-to-pounce mode. The only curve to her is her bushy tail, which arches in a regal semicircle, the tip of which sometimes dusts the food on our dinner plates when she walks beneath the table at mealtime.

I've always thought Bridget had the intellect and guile to work in counterintelligence were she human; she's savvy, intuitive, sometimes too smart for her own good. Even at the ripe age of eleven, our girl is perpetually at the ready, void of the capacity to rest at will. Too much to do, too much to be wary of. Rarely does she sleep lying on her side; relaxation does not come easily to her.

Bridget came with three pronounced problems that needed correction: dominant aggression (who knew that snippy pups became bitey dogs? Labradors never do!); severe wanderlust (which meant containing a creature with the single-minded determination to escape theretofore only seen in Allied POWs); and incessant barking (the latter two no doubt being mere subsets of her dominatrix spirit).

The aggression surprised us—we'd brought home an extremely docile puppy. Hell, those first few days, we could've bitten
her
and she wouldn't have complained, sleeping peacefully in our laps as she did. But once we de-wormed her and got rid of a bad case of temperament-suppressing parasites, Bridget morphed from mild-mannered to
wild
-mannered, so dominant she even lifted her leg to pee. So dingo-dominant we took to regularly saying with a pronounced
put-another-shrimp-on-the-barbie
accent, “Dingo ayte mah baybay” when in her presence. She'd put any male dog to bitter shame, hands down. Our first task was to dominate the hell out of the dog by poking, prodding, picking, pulling, and otherwise letting her know we were her bosses. This worked, to the surprise of the vet who'd warned us to give her away because her aggression could be dangerous. But we could never have cast aside a pup our family had fallen in love with, and so we worked within her constraints. Sure, maybe she transferred her dominance of people to dogs, but
that
we could live with.

By then the kids had taken to calling her Lulu, a highly extrapolated bastardization of some Portuguese term of endearment our Brazilian neighbor used with her daughters. It sounded something like
pichulinha
, which the kids changed to Poochaleenia, which then became Smoochie Pooch, which then became Looch, which then became Loochie, which then became Lulu. For good measure we threw in the middle name of Louise, so that when it came time to chastise her for bad behavior (a frequent happening), we had just the right cadence: a commanding
“Bridget Louise Gardiner”
in a stern voice that seemed to elicit far more respect than merely hollering
“Lulu!”