The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) (26 page)

We’d had Percival for three months and Daphne for four when we loaded them up into our rented Ford Explorer and headed for our week in Paso Robles wine country. This would be Daphne’s second trip to wine country, which I was pretty sure made her a certified wine dog, especially since she’d also spent many days in Chris’s wine shop as the unofficial greeter.

A half hour into the drive, I looked in the backseat to see that, even buckled into their harnesses, the two dogs had moved to the center of the backseat and were sleeping soundly, pressed up against each other.

“Awww, look. They’re practically cuddling,” I said.

“Awww, look, I’m driving,” Chris said, gesturing to the road before him.

I turned back to the dogs and snapped a photo on my cell phone. Everyone on Facebook would see it before Chris, but he’d see it eventually.

We’d moved past détente with the dogs. We’d found peace. And maybe I was reading too much into it, but I think Percival felt better in the car with Daphne next to him. Daphne was so fearless about cars, and so many other things, it had to be rubbing off. Very shortly thereafter, we’d learn what other behavior Percival was learning from Daphne.

An hour and a half into the drive, Chris pulled off the freeway.

“Dog park number one!” he said as he lifted Percival out of the car.

Concerned about Percival’s comfort on a five-hour drive, Chris had carefully mapped out dog parks and dog-friendly restaurants where we could stop along our way. It was a very compassionate and thoughtful thing to do, and if Percival wasn’t already so madly, obsessively in love with Chris, this would have sealed the deal. Daphne hopped down and headed up the trail to the park, which was surprisingly empty for a Sunday afternoon. She burst through the gate and I removed her leash while Chris talked to Percival and coaxed him in.

Daphne ran the perimeter of the park, nose to the ground, white-tipped tail upright and flagging the hunters (not us, but somewhere in her bloodline, there was no denying this dog was bred to hunt). She got on the scent of something—Rabbit? Squirrel? Another dog long gone?—and raised her head, letting out a hearty
BAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOO
. And then again and again.

I looked back at Chris and laughed. “I’ll never get tired of that sound.”

“I know. Luckily no one else is here to hear it.”

BAAARROOOOO!!! BAAARRRROOOO!!
Daphne continued to howl and I continued to laugh, but then…

Roo…roo…rooo…aaarrroooo!
Percival ran after Daphne, his mouth in the full beagle howl mode but the bay at about one-third the volume. Raspy, seal-like, but definitely a beagle howl.

I looked back at Chris. “He’s howling!”

“I hear that.” Chris was playing nonchalant, but this was a big deal. Percival had been debarked by the breeder who sells beagles to the labs. He hadn’t howled for the first part of his life and had never been around other beagles that could howl. He wasn’t supposed to be
able
to howl. We had been so used to first Seamus and his constant, demanding, and hilarious whiskey howl, and then Daphne and her umpire’s shout, that Percival’s silence had been surprising. We called him Stealth Beagle because he made so very little noise. He was tiny, so his walk didn’t make much noise, he didn’t snore (Daphne did enough of that for both of them), and he didn’t growl, bark, or howl. The only noise we’d ever heard out of him were the yips and yelps from his night terrors (which were rapidly becoming a thing of the past) or the fights with Daphne, and then it was hard to tell which dog was making which noise. Now, though, it was clear which howl was Daphne’s (
BAAARRROOOOOOOOOOOO!
) and which was Percival’s (a tenuous and raspy
roo? roo? aaarrroooo!!
)

“Good boy, Percival! Good boy!” I shouted.

“Oh, great. Reward the dog for barking! That’s going to be terrific when we get him back home.”

“True. But I’m so excited to hear him howl. Look how proud of himself he is!”

Percival was following Daphne around the dog park, sniffing where she sniffed, howling on occasion, and periodically dropping down into play position in a futile effort to engage The Commissioner in a little fun. He was quite the happy little clown.

Chris and I moved to a park bench and watched them roam about for a bit, but very quickly Percival noticed Chris’s available lap and ran across the grounds to hurl himself into Chris. Chris picked him up, turned him on his back, and held him on his lap, rubbing his belly. Dog parks were fun, but not nearly as much fun as the jungle gym that is Chris, as far as Percival was concerned.

When Percival batted Chris’s face with his little paw (and probably because we’d been in the car with the radio on for quite some time), he earned another theme song. This one was courtesy of Lady Gaga’s “Applause”:

My paws, my paws

I beat you with my paws, paws,

Beat you with my paws, paws

Live for the way that you cheer and scream for me

The paws, the paws, the paws.

• • •

We had five days of blissful indulgence in Paso Robles, easily now one of our favorite places in the world. Daphne and Percival got used to wine tasting rooms with us, and quickly learned to sit or lie down in the sun spots in any of the tasting rooms, patiently waiting for either a treat or for us to finish and take them back outside to roam the vineyards, the gardens, and the lawn areas, Daphne howling after the bunnies, vineyard workers, or, heaven forbid, other dogs, and Percival pulling backward to gain any leverage that took him in whatever random direction he felt the need to go.

At night they slept together on the couch, not exactly curled up together and sometimes not even touching, but they seemed to enjoy being together. When Chris and I retired to bed, Daphne usually followed us but Percival stayed on the couch. In keeping with our philosophy of letting them each be who they were, we let him be. In the mornings, he usually made his way into the bedroom for a little family cuddle time. And then I’d quickly take him and Daphne both outside—the house did not have a doggie door.

Dining out with one omnivore, one vegan, and two beagles was not difficult in Paso. There were several restaurant options, a farmer’s market, and of course, well-stocked grocery stores. We were even able to take the dogs out to lunch at a country club that had a patio and boasted a doggie menu.

But toward the end of our week, we decided to stay in and cook dinner at home. We bought “Smart Dogs” (vegan hot dogs) and potato chips (still vegan! But yeah, some habits die hard). Then we realized we forgot mustard. And what’s a hot dog without mustard? At the last winery we visited that day, I picked up a jar of caramelized onion mustard in the gift shop. Perfect.

I was about halfway through my hot dog, smeared with the mustard, when Chris mused, “I wonder what they whip the mustard with?”

“A whisk?”

“I mean what ingredient.” He headed into the kitchen to get the jar.

“Does it have to be with another ingredient? Don’t they just whip it and make it fluffy? –er?”

He read the back of the jar: “Mustard seed, white wine vinegar, onion, and…there we have it. Cream cheese.”

“Cream cheese? In mustard?”
Always
read
the
ingredient
list!! I blame the wine
…

“Yep. That’s what they whip it with to give it that texture. And creamy taste.”

“Great.” I put my hot dog down. “So I’ll be having chips for dinner. It’s like old times.”

“Sorry, baby.”

Well, it’s not like I was going to burn in hell, or break out in a rash, or have some sort of allergic reaction. (I did have one heck of a stomach ache all night, though.) Vegan is a choice. Not a religion or a medical condition. Or a cult. A tribe, sure, but not a cult.

The “cheese incident,” however, stirred Chris. All summer I’d been making cashew nut “cheese” from one of the vegan cookbooks I’d picked up in the past year, and it was very good—Chris enjoyed it too—but we’d both wanted to find a recipe for vegan blue cheese. He was convinced such a recipe existed and, surprisingly, convinced it would be delicious. We’d been talking about it again since he’d had a blue cheese burger for lunch. While I went to the kitchen for more chips, Chris searched online for a vegan blue cheese recipe.

“I found one. I don’t understand some of the ingredients but I found one,” he said as I joined him on the couch and looked at his computer screen.

“Okay, I understand sauerkraut. And the cashews, of course. And yep, lemon juice. Even tahini I get. But um, blue-green algae culture? And acidophilus? Are we making cheese or conducting a science experiment?” I was reminded of a roommate long ago who used to clean out my refrigerator from time to time, calling it a “science project sweep.”

“I don’t know what acidophilus is or where to buy it. That’s going to be the problem with this recipe. But that’s what Google is for!”

“You Google. I’ll get the wine.”

I walked across the room to the kitchen, and as I popped the cork out of the wine, I heard Chris burst out laughing.

“This is either awesome or horrifying,” he said.

“That shouldn’t be a tough distinction.”

“I give you the Mayo Clinic definition of acidophilus…” He read to me in a mock-serious announcer’s voice, “
Lactobacillus
acidophilus
belongs to a group of bacteria that normally live in the human small intestine and vagina.”

“
What?
”

“Oh you heard me correctly.”

“And we’re supposed to make
cheese
with that?”

Chris started laughing again. “But suddenly it all makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“Remember the art exhibit you went to?
The
Blue
Vagina
painting? It was an ode to vegan cheese! Save the cows, eat blue vagina cheese.” He convulsed in laughter.

“This might be why people think vegans are weirdos.”

He gasped for air. “
Might
be?”

• • •

We spent the last two nights of our family vacation farther south in the Santa Rita hills with Roy and Laurie and their six dogs on their beagle ranch. It has a real ranch name, but it will forever be “Beagle Ranch” to us and “Heaven” to Daphne and Percival. Roy and Laurie had invited us to join them and bring the dogs. We could leave the dogs at the ranch and head with them into the area of Santa Rita dubbed the “wine ghetto” with them for a day, and that was an opportunity too good to pass up. The section was called the wine ghetto because it was a series of industrial park tasting rooms set up by smaller, artisan winemakers, rather than the large gorgeous wineries set amongst vineyards. Their focus was on the wines, not the views.

Indie and Percival ran about the fenced area of the ranch—acres within a larger parcel—like long-lost siblings. In the blurs that they were when running and chasing, it was hard to tell who was who. And they stuck by each other. They were the youngest of the eight dogs, and it was as if each had been waiting for someone to keep up with their energy. Now that they’d found each other, they kept running, side by side or taking turns chasing each other.

Daphne found her personality doppelgänger too. Their beagle Homer was older, sturdier, and much more serious about patrolling the grounds and ridding the property of any intruders of the rodent or hopping variety. He and Daphne headed for the hills and trees and bushes, howling their demands.

I can’t think of a better way to spend an evening than sipping wine on a patio at sunset, watching eight rescue dogs ranging in age from one to seventeen play and romp around wild and free on a ranch. There were a few scuffles (Daphne naturally had to challenge the alpha female of the beagle ranch) and a few scares (
where
is
Percival??
), but not enough to make it less than a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Made better only by the fact that Roy and Laurie are also vegan and talented chefs. I’d noticed that most people affiliated with Beagle Freedom Project were vegans. When you see the effects of exploitation of animals up close like we all had, your tolerance is lowered. It gets much tougher to rationalize certain behaviors.

Everyone was content on our drive home, and the beagles slept hard curled up right next to each other on the backseat. They’d likely sleep for days after their time at the ranch. I hoped they weren’t too disappointed to return to their life in the suburbs.

“You look happy,” Chris said.

“I am. That was a great vacation.”

“You rested. You needed that. You don’t look stressed anymore.”

“Right. I feel very happy.” I paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “I figured out something else I can do. And I’m feeling good about it.”

“Go on. I’m only mildly afraid.”

“Understandably. But I think this one’s good. You’ll be okay.” I looked back at the beagles and then at Chris. “I think I can help by telling my story. By telling their story.” I gestured toward our sleeping beagles.

“The book you’re working on now?”

“That’s the one.”

“I like it.”

“I do too. And I have another Mother Teresa quote to thank.”

Chris laughed. “Weird, but okay. Go ahead.”

“It goes, ‘We can do no great things—only small things, with great love.”

“Awww.”

“I know. But it helps to think like that.”

“See, it all worked out. The dogs are good. You’re good. You’ll save the world one page at a time. You had nothing to worry about.”

“I’m pretty sure you were the one who thought it wasn’t all going to work out with the dogs. I was just upset nothing was going according to
my
plan.”

“Mmm.”

“Right, I know. My plan. I should just not bother planning. My plans don’t really work out.”

“No, I like your plans. You just have to be a little more flexible.” He squeezed my thigh. But I knew this wasn’t a reference to my lapsed yoga practice.

“I have to be more ‘in the moment.’ More golden dog at the Taj. I’m getting better at just letting things be.”