The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) (17 page)

When Chris later woke, I proudly reported my morning’s accomplishments to him. He looked bemused and horrified.

“Did you order some tribal drums too?” he said.

“I just care about animals. I’m not going off the deep end. “

“You kind of are. Am I soon going to be living with a hippie in a hemp skirt?”

“Would you rather be dating a hypocrite in high heels?”

He paused and pretended to think. “Can I get back to you on that?”

• • •

Chris was joking. I hoped. But he probably saw more clearly what was happening than I did. He’d been watching it build for a year.

Following my early-morning diatribe that had (nearly) ruined steaks for Chris, I had tried to tone things down a notch with him. He had watched some of the documentaries with me, and of course he’d been listening to me as I worked my way through my lifestyle choices. To his credit, he tried and enjoyed many vegan foods with me and was always game to check out vegan restaurants. Once he ran out of kale jokes, he didn’t try too hard to come up with new ones, and there are only so many hummus jokes one can make as well. He did not choose to join me in a plant-based diet, but he did begin to search for meats certified as “humanely raised.” I didn’t want to become the hemp-skirted hippie he feared, but I wondered if his “humanely raised” idea was his Ape Adam—a story he told himself to make his meat-eating lifestyle work. But I refrained from discussing it.

As I was learning about true compassion for all animals, it behooved me to remember to be compassionate to human animals as well. Since Chris was my favorite human on the planet, compassion for his choices seemed a good place to start. After all, I was the one who had changed.

I was, however, losing patience with what others felt free to say to me. The things I heard regularly from otherwise intelligent beings who discovered I had turned vegan gave me almost as many nightmares as my reading had.

“Oh, aren’t you worried about broccoli’s feelings?”
Yes, because that’s a real thing—broccoli has feelings. I’m going to take you very seriously if that’s how you start a conversation with me about food. Or anything
.

“I grew up in the Midwest, and let me tell you, cows need to be milked.”
Because
that
makes
sense. Evolution or God or some higher (but apparently stupid) power designed an animal that would be entirely dependent on another species to pull on its private parts or it would…explode? And did everyone who grew up in the Midwest (a) live on a farm and (b) then move to California so they can lecture vegans?

“It’s part of the food chain. We’re the top of the food chain. It’s nature, baby!”
And
the
hormones
and
antibiotics
we
inject
into
these
animals
to
make
them
grow
faster
and
fatter
so
we
can
slaughter
them
sooner, that’s natural?

“Look, in the wild, the lion kills the gazelle. Every animal does what it’s got to do to eat.”
Does
the
lion
confine
the
gazelle
to
a
crate
for
most
of
its
life
before
it
kills
it? Does it keep several gazelle and artificially impregnate them to have a fresh stock always on hand? I mean, it does, right? So your comparison totally stands up!

“You can’t eat cheese?” says the shocked cocktail party attendee.

“I can eat cheese. Just like you can eat kale. I choose not to eat cheese.”

“I choose not to eat kale!”

“And I’m not making fun of you or feigning shock.”

“That’s because I’m normal. Cheese is awesome.”

And, oh, the bacon comments. There must not be a carnivore alive who can refrain from exclaiming about the ecstasy of bacon immediately upon finding out someone is vegan.

And where do I go from there? Like a reformed smoker, my tolerance was low and all I wanted to do was explain everything I’d been learning, reading, seeing. I wanted to scream at everyone to wake up to these atrocities that we’re all contributing to. But as much as I wanted to, it’s not “polite” to explain in a restaurant, at a country club, at someone’s dinner table, even in a bar, about the torture endured by the cow that produced that cheese, or the pig that was slaughtered for that strip of fat you now call ecstasy. It’s very convenient for agribusiness that the dinner table, indeed anywhere food is served, is a sacrosanct controversy-free zone where one cannot talk about anything crude or gross or disgusting…like where that food came from.

The better argument, and one I only learned of from reading, not from (surprise!) dinner conversations, is just how nearly impossible it is to live without killing
some
animals—and in particular the deaths of rodents and insects when vegetables are farmed with heavy machinery. It makes me wince, and makes me sad, and frustrates me that life does indeed work like that (animals die; humans die), but still…I’m more bothered by the intentional torture and slaughter of animals for our meat than the collateral damage wrought by vegetable gardening. It’s one thing to have a rodent die quickly and accidentally in a combine harvester one year into its two-year life expectancy, and quite another to abuse, torture, and then kill a pig six months into its twelve-year life expectancy in a gruesome profit-making routine that is no kinder to the humans working in it than it is the animals.

And now I’d immersed myself in the horror of animal testing too. My frustration and my anger were growing. It was getting harder and harder to remain a polite citizen. Didn’t I have a stake in this? If Percival couldn’t speak, shouldn’t I? It’s not polite to talk about the food, but does an animal really need to be tortured for your shampoo? I can talk about that,
right?

I was sleeping less and less. My brain was shaking more and more. I worried about animal welfare in general and in my living room specifically. And I’d forgotten one important detail in my own life.

I was overdue for my oncology checkup.

I put off making my doctor’s appointment in favor of focusing on Daphne’s. I needed to get her in for the surgery, but I worried about her recovering while she and Percival were each still seemingly hell-bent on being the only dog in our house.

I had spent two more nights on the couch and Chris had resorted to closing our bedroom door, with Daphne inside with him, so that we could avoid the morning confrontations. On the fifth morning, when Daphne came down the stairs and growled at first sight of Percival, Chris spoke up.

“I’m not sure this is going to work.”

I tightened my grip on Percival’s collar and pulled him closer to me. “It’s only been five days. They’re still getting used to each other.”

“They’re not getting used to each other. Not at all. They hate each other.”

“It’s not hate. Dogs don’t hate.”

“Whatever it is, it’s no love match.”

I slumped into the couch. “I know. But we knew it wasn’t going to be easy.”

“You don’t do ‘easy’ dogs. But it
was
easy with just Daphne.”

I had no response. It had been easy with Daphne, but easy wasn’t the point. I wanted Percival. I wanted to
help
Percival. I was
compelled
to help Percival.

We let go of both dogs, and after sniffing each other on alert for a minute or two, they happily trotted outside and did their morning business.

“See, there’s hope,” I said.

I made my morning coffee, wondering if, really, there was hope. I don’t ever remember as a child, when our family had many, many pets, having any issues adding in a new one. But then, they were running on an acre or more of land, and there were five family members to give attention, any one of whom was likely to be home. In contrast, Daphne and Percival had traumatic lives before coming to us and now were suburbanites with daily walks and free access to sunshine and fresh air, but in a courtyard that wasn’t big enough for a full run. And they were frightened. That was the thing we’d have to remember. They needed stability, love, and a roof over their heads. Didn’t we all? They also needed time and patience.
Yeah, me too
.

That night Chris and I arrived home at the same time—he with Daphne and me with Percival. Other than a longer than usual sniffing session with hackles raised by both parties, the dogs did not fight. Each may have curled a lip slightly, and there was definitely some dog dissing going on, but there was no open attack. I liked to think of that as progress and said so to a skeptical Chris. I petted both dogs and handed out treats. Chris got a kiss. Positive reinforcements all around!

The dogs behaved all evening as Chris and I played with them, fed them, and cuddled on the couch with both of them. Since I dearly missed my own bed, and in an effort to ease Chris’s concerns (and perhaps because I never learn), I decided to test our luck. I headed upstairs to our bedroom, both dogs following. We all piled onto our bed to watch television, read, and sleep (Chris, me, and the beagles respectively). Daphne stayed next to me, curled up by my side, her head resting on my belly. Percival was next to Chris, splayed out, getting his belly rubbed until he drifted off to sleep. I was in bliss.
This
was what I had imagined!

Over the course of an hour, Percival burrowed under the covers and slept soundly somewhere around Chris’s knees. Daphne moved herself down to the bottom of the bed, against my feet but on top of the covers. I fell asleep with my book on my chest. Chris removed and closed my book, turned the light out, and joined us in slumber. One happy little family.

Until… “
AR! AR! AR!
”

Percival’s hoarse bark woke us all at two in the morning. Unfortunately, he woke Daphne the quickest, and she pounced on the strange noise coming from under the covers. Percival scrambled to come out from under the weight of Daphne and the dark, strange place he’d found himself in. When he did, he was face-to-face with a frightened and snarling Daphne, who obviously believed the best defense is a good offense. They bared their teeth, white and sharp in the dark night, and lunged for each other. Chris and I each grabbed for whatever we could and pulled them apart.

Chris held and rocked Percival. “It’s okay, buddy, you’re with us. It’s okay. Calm down. Shhh, baby. It’s okay.”

I held Daphne’s collar with one hand and reached for the light with the other. Daphne strained and growled in Percival’s direction, her hackles up all the way down her spine. I put both arms around her and held her. “No, Daphne. No.”

She barked in response, and Percival shrunk into Chris. I could see from his face he was still disoriented and unsure, still trying to figure out where he was, but seemed to sense that Chris, at least, was safe. I got out of bed and took Daphne with me.

“Back to the couch I go.”

“No, you need to sleep. You stay here and I’ll take Percival downstairs.” Chris stood up and lifted Percival off the bed. “Just watch her while I throw some clothes on.”

I held Daphne by the collar while Chris dressed, with a nervous and very still Percival glued to his side.

As he left the room, Chris said, “Still think this is a good idea?”

• • •

I slept better than I had in a few nights, but that was a low bar to clear. I had thirty-five pounds of beagle pressed up against me, leaving only a ten-inch width of a king-sized mattress for me. Still it was more comfortable than the couch. I woke to a beagle snoring in my face and as quickly as my eyes were open, hers were too. She flipped to her back and thumped her tail. “
Belly
rubs, please!
” Of course, I obliged. I could see her grin and that doggie look of pure ecstasy and innocence even upside down.

“Baby girl, couldn’t you just be this nice and cute for our little Percival too? He’s had a tough life and he needs us.”

Daphne licked my face and squirmed back and forth on her back. I wished I could take the gesture as an understanding, but it looked a lot more like a no.

I made my way downstairs and Daphne followed right behind me. I had taught Seamus to wait at the top of the stairs until I was all the way down because originally he had this unnerving habit of racing under my legs ahead of me. Not wanting to tumble down the stairs to my death or permanent maiming, I managed to teach Seamus that one bit of manners early on. Daphne did not need that training. She always followed either right next to me but off to the side, or a few steps behind me. She never raced ahead—she wanted to be only where I was, not ahead of me. She barely glanced in Percival’s direction as she followed me to the kitchen, doodlebutt in full swing.

Percival tapped his tail against Chris’s stomach but did not rise. Chris opened one eye. “Did this couch get smaller?”

“I find that happens around two and then again at four in the morning.”

“He’s a little dog, but he certainly can take up a lot of space. And he insists on being right on top of me. This was not comfortable.”

“I know. Thank you for doing it.” I ground the coffee beans and filled the filter. “I’ll sleep down here tonight.”

“Aren’t we kind of young for this separate bedrooms thing?” He sat up, moving Percival off his chest to a space next to him on the couch. Percival leaned back into the crook of Chris’s arm. “How many more nights are you planning on doing this?”

I flipped the coffeemaker on and leaned down on the kitchen counter. It was a good question. I hadn’t planned on doing this at all. I had a plan (strengthening daily) to stop harming animals. I had a plan to rescue two beagles. I had a plan for a love match and cute little family of four. I did not have a plan for the dogs not getting along. No, my plan had been:
He’s cute and he’s coming home with me
. That was my plan with Percival just as it had been with Seamus. Once again, I’d thought no further than that.

The coffee dripped—rich, fragrant, and necessary. There were going to be a lot of couch nights and coffee mornings in my immediate future, I could see that now.

“Well, I’m guessing we’ll do this at least until Daphne has her surgery and recovers from that,” I said.

“Which will be when?”

“Right. Um…she’s scheduled for tomorrow.”

Chris stopped petting Percival and covered his own face with his hand, then looked up. “Great. So she’ll be on pain meds, stitched up, and in a cone while all this goes on. What could possibly go wrong?” Percival pawed him in the face to redirect his attention.

“Believe me, I know. I’ve thought of that. But I’m worried about postponing it. I’m worried about that lump, and what if she comes into heat?”

“True. Well, maybe spaying her will mellow her out. And maybe the cone will keep her from fighting.”

I grabbed a large white mug from the cupboard and poured coffee into it. “After I drop her off tomorrow morning, I’m going to go get a large crate that she can recover in safely. The kind that it’s easier to see out of.”

“Another crate? Another hundred bucks?”

“Cheaper than vet bills if they hurt each other.”

Daphne gave up on getting any food and trotted over to and out of the doggie door. She hopped up on the retaining wall and walked back into the bushes where she squatted and did her morning business, staring back at us through the glass French doors.

“See that, Percival?” Chris said. “That’s what you do.” Percival looked at Chris and sniffed his chin, continually tapping his tail. Percival used the doggie door to come and go from outside, something he clearly enjoyed, especially if he could sit in the sun. But he wasn’t using the door to go outside to pee. No, for that he used the living room rug (it was a shade of sage green but not at all “grassy.”) After the first time, we put pee pads down. Vanessa had trained him to use the pee pads, but we had hoped Daphne would demonstrate for him how to use the outdoors as the pee pad. No such luck. I was slowly inching the pee pads closer to the door, but unfortunately Percival had chosen to start us off in the spot farthest from the outside. And frankly, we had bigger issues to deal with.

• • •

We swapped dogs. I sent Percival to work with Chris, hoping a strong dose of all that cuteness would win Chris over, though I wasn’t entirely sure Chris thought being batted in the face by a little beagle paw was as cute as I saw it.

At work with me, Daphne was a perfectly well-behaved dog. She slept on the dog bed in my office, basking in the sunlight streaming through my wall of windows and periodically coming over to my chair for a little loving, though inevitably she’d collapse in a puddle of furry affection, wanting her belly rubbed. She did not rush to the door when anyone came or went, and she happily, calmly greeted visitors and my staff. She was as adorable and perfect as Chris had determined she was within twenty-four hours of her arrival.

If only she wasn’t out to get the equally adorable Percival.

Chris emailed that Percival was sleeping soundly. Too soundly. He hadn’t moved at all. I emailed back.

Yeah. I know. It’s a little spooky, but by late afternoon he’s awake and fine.

Chris responded quickly.

I’ll have to trust you on that one. I want to put a mirror in front of his face to see if his breath fogs it, you know, like new parents do for babies?

Ha. Yes. I know. And that’s sweet.

Later Chris emailed that Percival had indeed awakened and then proceeded to chew on the ream of paper left on the floor near the printer.

Oh, right. Vanessa had warned us he chewed paper—magazines, books, and sure, why not a full ream of paper just there for the taking? It’s possible I forgot to warn Chris about that habit.

The following morning, Chris left early to take Daphne to Dr. Davis for her surgery. We couldn’t give her any breakfast—always difficult with a beagle. I fed Percival after they left and he followed me around the house for a bit before climbing up on our bed and curling up on Chris’s pillow. I suspected that’s where he’d been all night long, and I was more than a little envious. He looked so sweet, though. Like a little fawn, similar in color, with his long, thin legs tucked up nearly to his nose, and his long eyelashes clearly visible. It was restorative to have a quiet moment alone with Percival.

Chris came home to pick up our precious boy before heading to work. We still didn’t think leaving him home alone was wise. We wanted him to get used to us, and we wanted to be there for him if he got frightened. So despite how much he hated car rides, we had decided to keep him with one or the other of us at all times. Fortunately, Chris and I both worked close to home.

I went to my office and anxiously awaited Dr. Davis’s call to hear that Daphne had made it through surgery. I would stay home on Friday so I could be with her as she recovered. If Chris and I did not both own our own businesses, I don’t know how we would have dealt with the dogs that seemed to find their way into our lives.

Shortly after three p.m., the call came. Daphne did great and I could come pick her up at any time. “Any time” meant “immediately” to me. I wanted to see my baby girl and get her home, comfortable and settled in for hours before Percival came home and any shenanigans started—
shenanigans
being the nicest term I could think of.

I was waiting in the exam room at Dr. Davis’s within twenty minutes of the phone call. Dr. Davis came in shortly after.

“Surgery went well. That lump on her side was deeper than I thought, though, so that’s got some stitches too. I’m a little concerned about it, so we sent that to biopsy too.”

“On her side? I was worried about the one on her chest.”

“We took that off too, but that wasn’t as deep. So she’s got three areas of stitches, and one of them is pretty deep. You’ll need to keep her from moving around too much. Crate her if you can.”

Oh, I can. I have to
. “Okay. But she’s good? All went well?”

“Yeah, she’s good. Coming out of the anesthesia nicely. But let me show you something.” He clipped an X-ray up onto a light board. With his pen he pointed at spots spread throughout her torso. One, two, three, four…ten. Ten spots. My heart, mind, and body froze.
Not
more
spots
on
an
X-ray!
Of course I was thinking cancer. I tried to focus on what he was pointing at but couldn’t. I just stared at him in disbelief.