The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) (25 page)

Maybe my year hadn’t been so bad after all.

Percival saw Chris reach for the harness and hightailed it to the dining room “safe zone.” Many of his toys, or, more precisely, shreds and remains of his toys, were scattered about under the table in a gruesome tableau of squeak-carnage, and he was in the middle of the mess staring at us while also clearly hoping we somehow couldn’t see him. He loved walks but still hated car rides, and thus the harness was something to be wary of. Until we strolled past the door leading to the garage and out the front gate to safety, Percival did not relax and enjoy the idea of a walk. Daphne, on the other leash, began jumping up and down and heading for the front door the moment she felt us thinking about a departure of any kind. Be it walk or car ride, Daphne was game, as always.

“Sorry, buddy,” Chris said. He maneuvered the harness onto the uncooperative dog. “It will be fun, I promise.”

Percival’s face registered both doubt and betrayal as he looked up at Chris. Unmoved, Chris scooped him up.

Daphne danced her way out to the courtyard and raced up to the garage door. I let her in and opened my car door. She hopped in immediately and turned, facing forward, waiting while I seat-belted her in. Chris placed a rigid, unhappy Percival on the blanket in the backseat and latched him in as well. I handed treats to both dogs, and while Percival took it, his mood was unchanged.
Not
happy!
his whole countenance screamed.

We were going to a dog birthday party. Unfortunately for Percival that meant an hour drive to Los Angeles. Since I myself didn’t fully understand what a “Zoom Room” was, I could not adequately explain it to the beagles (and yes, I recognize the futility of explaining things to dogs anyway). Daphne was willing to trust that wherever we went would be fun. But Percival…well, understandably, Percival had trust issues. And car sickness issues. Mostly, that.

Driving to Los Angeles is always an adventure, and that’s the best spin I can put on it. It takes anywhere from an hour to three days, depending on—all together now—TRAFFIC. It’s difficult to plan for, even on a Sunday. Thus, it’s difficult to decide whether to risk stopping and letting the dogs out for fresh air, or if that will cause us to miss that narrow window where traffic was tolerable. Also, there’s that whole thing about risking one’s life getting out of the car in East Los Angeles, which is what happens to be between us and West Los Angeles. Thus, we decided to take advantage of the open freeway and keep driving. Percival rewarded our decision by spewing his breakfast across the backseat. Daphne moved aside and leaned up against the car door, her disgust and embarrassment over the little brother evident.

We endured it until we arrived. Then Chris and I both sprang from the car.

“You walk them around the parking lot. I’ll go inside and get paper towels,” I said.

“You’d think by now we’d travel with them. Note to selves.”

I lifted the green, stiffened Percival from the backseat and put him on the ground. He remained perfectly still. I reached over him to leash the wiggling, barking Daphne Doodlebutt, who was making absolutely certain she did not miss one moment of the excitement, even if she had to walk through vomit to get there. This might be our first and last L.A. doggie birthday party. We’d be the family that arrives sick, smelly, and cranky. Fun! At least we’d remembered gifts—toys for the birthday girl and wine for her parents.

The birthday beagle was Indie, who had been rescued at four weeks of age by Beagle Freedom Project, along with her siblings and their mama, Grace. Mom and babies had been subjected to toxicity testing by a laboratory that at least turned the animals over to BFP when the tests were over. Indie’s humans, Roy and Laurie, had come to our Words, Wine, and Wags fund-raiser for Beagle Freedom Project, and we’d hit it off immediately. Anybody who loves beagles and wine is pretty much top-notch in my book (hmm…literally
in
my
book
!). Laurie had been present at several of the BFP rescues, and she and Roy had five, six, seven dogs…depending on what day it was, since they also fostered dogs in need.

I let Daphne and Percival sniff about, but there isn’t a lot for a beagle to get excited about in an L.A. asphalt parking lot—not when Pink’s Hot Dogs scents were drifting over from across the street, and there were myriad doggie smells from inside the Zoom Room to inundate their nostrils. Daphne pulled to get inside the Zoom Room and commence with the zooming, and soon enough Percival came out of his transportation trance and did the same. I passed Chris on our way into the building as he came out with paper towels and a spray bottle.

“Best boyfriend ever!” I said.

He shook his fistful of paper towels at me in mock anger.

We walked through the reception area and small gift shop where Percival and Daphne demonstrated the non-zooming portion of the visit by stopping to sniff and strain in the direction of every biscuit, bull “pizzle,” rawhide, jerky, and intricately decorated treat in the place. I finally got them to the gate for entrance to the Zoom Room. And it is well named.

Daphne tore through the gate, announcing her arrival in a series of howls, barks, and jumps. Percival held back a bit, overwhelmed by the number of dogs who pounced on him, sniffing and wagging their tails. Percival ran, the dogs chased joyously, and Daphne chased after them all, barking and demanding…well, we didn’t know what. But she seemed to be demanding something. And she was the only dog barking. Percival and his gang of furry hooligans tore about, going at full speed then cutting in sharp turns in the reverse direction. The room was covered in those black rubber mats usually found in smelly gyms frequented by huge muscle-bound men in tank tops throwing weights around. Instead of weights, this room had toys for zooming: canvas tunnels to run through; bendable pole slaloms to wind through; ramps to run up, over, and down; and hoops to jump through. None of these dogs were doing any of that, of course. Like the kids who play with the boxes their toys came in instead of the toys themselves, these dogs—mostly beagles and mostly Beagle Freedom Project beagles at that—were making up their own games and running around the equipment.

Percival looked ecstatic and quickly made friends with the birthday girl, who, it was hard not to notice, looked an awful lot like Percival. They were nearly exactly a year apart in age—Indie was turning one that day and Percival would be two years old two days later. Both had been rescued from Northern California laboratories. They easily could have come from the same “breeder” and shared a parent. We’d never know. And it would never matter, any more than it mattered if Indie and her siblings could recognize Grace, their mama, when she arrived and joined in the frolicking.

The staff at the Zoom Room joined the dogs and enticed them to try the obstacle agility course. Wisely, they led the pack of beagles up over the ramp, across the bridge, and through the hoops by showing them a treat and moving the treat the direction they wanted the dogs to move. In no time at all, our beagles looked like agility champions. Until she gave them the treats and the beagle hysteria and doggie ADD broke out again.

The humans all stood back and watched, checking on their own dogs from time to time and photographing like we were parents at a child’s first visit to Disneyland. Daphne was still doing her bossy bark, so we tried to quiet her. The Zoom Room staffer laughed.

“It’s okay. We’re a dog playground. We can handle barking. She’s not threatening; she’s just the referee. She wants everyone to behave.”

“That’s what she’s doing? Just kind of bossing everyone around?”

“Not even that bossy. She’s just keeping everyone in line.”

Later I found Chris at the appetizer table with a glass of wine in hand (what kind of a one-year-old’s birthday party would not have wine?). I told him the diagnosis of Daphne’s behavior.

“Well, in that harness she does look like an umpire,” he said. Daphne and Percival wore chest- and belly-padded harnesses with latches that could be attached to human seat belts when they traveled in the car with us. Daphne did look like an umpire, whereas Percival usually looked more like an insane asylum refuge—though that had more to do with the way he felt about car rides and less to do with the voluminous harness padding on his tiny frame.

“Ha. She does. I prefer to think of her as the umpire, instead of the antisocial one.”

“Of course you do. Because she’s like you. She’s against fun.”

“Not against fun. We just want good behavior. We’re against out-of-control behavior.”

“Right. Fun.” He handed me the glass of wine. Maybe so I didn’t smack him, but I prefer to think he just wanted me to enjoy the wine.

Most of the party was fellow Beagle Freedom Project adopters and fosters. Vanessa came to the party as well, and Percival got all kinds of extra lovin’ from his former foster mom. She was thrilled to see him, and I hoped she saw he was happy and blossoming. Shannon was also there—the fairy godmother, devoted aunt, and savior of all these beagles. Her daily work must be exhausting and discouraging as often—or perhaps more often—than it was joyous and rewarding. So a day like this had to be heartwarming for her, and confirmation that her work—her mission—was solid and so very necessary. This birthday celebration would not have been possible without her tireless efforts.

As for me, I was happy to be able to spend time with other BFP folks to learn from them. Adopting one of these dogs is a joy, but it’s not like adopting from a shelter or a litter of puppies where some background is known, or at least can be determined by behavior. These dogs have been through unknown trauma and thus need a lot of patience and understanding. What works with a lot of dogs—crate training for example—isn’t going to work for a dog who had been kept in a cage his whole life and released only when needed for painful experiments. An adult dog who had never been potty-trained because he’d never been inside a house brings his own issues. So make that patience, pee pads, and paper towels that are required. We could share problems like Percival’s fear of anything on wheels (trash cans, suitcases) and can discuss that with people who understand not just that it happens, but why: in the labs the carts that carry the equipment for the experiments are on wheels. And just as importantly, we could bask in the company of people who were doing something—doing all that they could—to
help
.

The menu was all vegan and the vibe was altruistic. I heard tribal drums calling.

It had been weeks since my brain MRI and even longer since I’d had another restless brain…er, um, cognitive dissonance episode. I was so convinced the MRI would show nothing, and frankly so embarrassed that I’d even bothered to have the test done when it was now obvious that I’d allowed my stress to manifest itself physically (it was all in my mind;
all
of it!), that I almost forgot about getting the results. I would have forgotten if only my friends and family (and those wonderful Facebook followers) had forgotten. But
noooooooooo
, it seems when one has an MRI, one is expected to find out the results. Chris also seemed to think this was important. And since we were toying with the idea of a “family trip” to Paso Robles, this time renting a dog-friendly house and taking both beagles, he suggested I find out if I was in the clear before we got too far along with our plans. This was a valid point. It would be very like me to plan a wonderful Alcohol, Books, Chris, and Dogs week only to learn that I would need to have brain surgery instead. Except it wasn’t Christmas, so I should be totally fine.

I called the doctor’s office. They put me through to the physician’s assistant who immediately said the magic words every intelligent adult wants to hear: “Your brain is unremarkable.”

I laughed. I’d certainly experienced enough medical tests and procedures to understand that in the medical world “negative” is positive. It’s the one way I probably could have been a doctor. Hard as I try, I’m generally much more “negative” than “positive.”

“So, I’m all good. No problems?”

“You’re all good. We’ll see you for your next checkup.”

I reported the results to Chris, my father, my mother, and Facebook, in that order (that’s my story). Chris and I naturally celebrated with a glass of wine in the hot tub.

“I knew it was going to be okay,” I said. “I will admit it—I was stressing myself out.”

“That you were. But you’re going to have to continue to watch it. You can’t let yourself get upset to the point of not functioning because of all of this animal rights stuff.”

“I think I’ve got a much better grip on things now. I was reading the
Why
We
Love
Dogs, Eat Pigs, and Wear Cows
book…”

“Wait, wasn’t that the one you said gave you the worst nightmares?”

I took a sip of wine and set my glass down. “Maybe. They all did. But I remembered that the author talked about my now favorite theory—cognitive dissonance. So I picked it up to read again when I got home. She has some really good advice for dealing with all the trauma.”

“Like don’t read her book?”

“No author gives that advice.”

“True. Okay, so, drink lots of wine?”

“Most authors give that advice. But no. Her advice was to look out for yourself too. Have compassion for yourself. I don’t think I was doing that. I was so busy berating myself for all that I didn’t know—all that I didn’t do.”

“And here I just thought you were busy throwing out all our household cleaning products and replacing them with products not tested on beagles.”

“Percival thanks me for that.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Also, the new products are nontoxic, in biodegradable containers, and won’t cause cancer in us or the beagles.”

“They’re
super
products! They will cure
all
of the world’s problems!”

Have I mentioned I love Chris’s sarcasm? “Well, they’re an improvement. And Percival isn’t chewing his paws anymore.”

I’d replaced our cleaning products but neglected to consider that our housekeeper brought her own supplies with her. Only after two housecleanings that left Percival chewing his back paw until it bled and then finding the cheap, generic cleaning spray left behind on my kitchen counter did I realize my mistake. I put all of our safe, nontoxic, cruelty-free products in a box and asked her to use only those in our house. I now had a “magic” box full of products with names like Ecover, Evolve, Seventh Generation, Earth Friendly, and Sun & Earth (they even sound better, don’t they?). Percival never chewed his foot again, and our housekeeper commented how much better these products were. She was breathing easier herself.

Chris sipped from his glass of wine and then nudged the glass in my direction. “I think you may have strayed from your point.”

“Right. My point. See how relaxed I am about all this? I can even digress on cute little tangents.”

“Toxins! So cute.” He wrinkled his nose playfully.

“My point was that I had to remember to have a little perspective. I can’t focus on all the horror or I’m no good to anybody. And you are going to laugh, but I’m remembering a Mother Teresa quote I read in India.”

“Um, are you about to quote Mother Teresa to me? I’m going to need more wine.”

“I am. Are you ready?”

He faked guzzling his wine from his already empty wineglass. “Sure. Hit me with it.”

“It was a quote in relation to numbers and numbing—how we get numb to violence and tragedy when it happens in huge numbers. Poverty, war, natural disasters…but when it’s one or two people—one starving child, one wounded veteran, one buried earthquake victim, we feel it more. We have empathy. We want to help and often we do help.”

“That’s a quote?”

“No. That’s a conversation. The quote was ‘If I look at the mass, I will never act. If I look at the one, I will.’ And that quote appears in the
Why
We
Wear
Cows
book too. The ‘mass’ in this case being the billions of animals slaughtered for our consumption every year.”

“And the point is?”

“Well, sort of like when I went to India. I wasn’t thinking about helping everyone. Or saving all of the animals. And Buddha knows I was terrible with the group aspect. But I was doing what I
could
do. That’s probably why I liked Mother Teresa’s so much. It was one-on-one, doing what I could do with no expectation that I was going to end disease or suffering. I loved that
everyone
—every one of the women there—did all that they were capable of. Whatever that was.” It was my turn to sip my wine. “That idea of doing to the best of one’s abilities has really stayed with me. I can’t save the world, but I can bring a little joy to a disabled woman in a home for the destitute and dying by painting her toenails red, or reading to her, or playing catch. And I can’t save all of the animals in the factory farms, but I can save a hundred of them every year by staying vegan. And I can rescue beagles.”

“This seems very logical. Finally. Well, except that beagle part.”

“It
is
logical. But that’s not to say I’m not going to keep trying to do more.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that.”

“I need to help where I can. And find more ways to help. I loved being at The Gentle Barn. I love what the Farm Sanctuary is doing. I love knowing those people exist, and it’s better for me to focus on that.”

“
Focus
on
the
cookie
.”

We both laughed. It was our favorite lesson from Seamus. Focus on the cookie at the end of the medical procedure—not the chemo, not the cancer,
the
cookie
.

I smiled. “Obviously Mother Teresa and Seamus shared a philosophy. So The Gentle Barn, Farm Sanctuary, Beagle Freedom Project, the hundred-plus animals I save every year—those are the cookies I can focus on. The torture and slaughter of the animals—that’s the cancer.”

“Good thing that’s not the cookie. That would be a terrible cookie.”

At hearing the word
cookie
, Daphne ran outside and climbed up on the steps to the hot tub. She thumped her tail against the side and peered in at us. Percival followed her out and reached his paws up on the side of the hot tub. Chris’s side of the hot tub, of course.