For me, it was an ideal situation. I knew Candice was special. She balanced me in a way that felt right. While I had barely graduated from college, earning my last credit the day before graduation (by getting a five-point independent study credit) courtesy of my parents paying full-freight admission for four years, Candice had double majored, earned enough credits to graduate in three years, and had done so while working part-time to get a head start on paying off the considerable student loans she had taken to earn her degree.
Even after graduating, while I used my news reporter job as an excuse to gallivant across the globe, hanging out with the likes of Jihadis and narco-traffickers, weapons dealers and motley gangsters, Candice was fixed on getting a medical degree and entering the world of medicine. Where I was fundamentally incapable of thinking through what I really wanted out of life, she seemed to have been born with a sixth sense that told her exactly what she wanted. As we had started dating when we were essentially still kids—both of us eighteen years old at the time—and managed to stay together all through college and now into life after school, we knew each other in a way that no one else, even in our families, did.
That’s partly the reason my mind raced ahead. Assembling the facts together as I knew them. Candice was already beyond the point of “thinking about getting a new dog.” She had already made the decision and was now orchestrating things to make it so.
“Okay . . .” I said hesitantly, carefully feeling out the murkiness between us. One wrong sigh, a subtle turn in tone, let alone saying something stupid, could result in catastrophe and a horribly high phone bill.
“Don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to do anything,” she said sharply.
Incredible, I thought. She had smelled out my anxiety before I had even identified it.
“It’s . . . not that,” I stammered. “I just . . .”
It was totally that. I was happy where my relationship was with Candice. Why rock the boat? Why introduce another being into the equation? Even though it had been well over a decade since Nicholas, I remembered what a commitment he was. And now I realized, the real commitment was not going to be to the dog in this case, it was going to be to each other.
“What do you think?” Candice asked.
“What do you want me to say?” I offered, saying the exact wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong tone.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she fired back. “I want you to say whatever you want to say.”
No, she didn’t. I knew this terrain well. I was quickly becoming Harry Potter, lost in the shadowy woods, with the threat of Lord Voldemort quickly closing in on me. Candice had something she wanted me to say, all right, but she wanted me to say it without her prodding and prompting me. Even worse, she wanted me to mean it.
But it was too late for me. “What kind of dog is it?”
A beat.
“She’s really cute, Gotham,” Candice gushed.
It was as if I had thrown a Hail Mary pass to myself. Steering the conversation to how cute Cleo was, albeit unintentionally, was the first of many times that Cleo would save my ass from certain doom.
“Her mom’s a Maltese. Not sure what her dad is. Or who her dad is. Oh my God, Gotham, she’s so adorable. She fits in the palm of my hand. She’s so tiny!!!!” Candice was rolling now. She was near tears. “So you think I should get her? I should totally get her, shouldn’t I?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said trying to convince myself. “Definitely . . .”
“Awesome!” she screamed gleefully. “I need you to send a hundred dollars. That’s how much she costs and I only have ten dollars in my bank account!”
I often joke with Candice all these years later that Cleo’s one-hundred-dollar worth was the most misleading price tag I’ve ever encountered. For the record, we’re still paying off those damned student loans.
“Don’t forget,” Candice likes to remind me these days, “I’m the mother of your son. That’s priceless.”
Touché. Truth be told, in her own way, even when I met her for the first time a few weeks after Candice brought her home from Jersey, Cleo too proved to be priceless. In the weeks that had passed, she had grown from the size of a little puffball of fur that fit in the palm of one hand to a slightly larger puffball of fur that fit into both palms placed side by side.
At night—then and now—Cleo likes to curl up beside me when she sleeps, tucking herself usually snugly against my legs or even my chest if I’ll indulge her. Candice jokes it’s because she likes my smell, which I’m guessing is not a compliment. Early on when I’d linger around Candice’s dorm room, waiting for her to get back from class and then shower off the formaldehyde smell she’d earned dissecting human cadavers, Cleo would loyally follow me around wherever I went—from sitting in bed to reading a magazine to watching television in the living room, to sitting in the bathroom reading a magazine—always mindful to ensure that one of her extremities was touching mine. It was an odd trait I’d never really noticed in other dogs. Cleo’s need for physical contact was obvious and deliberate. Gradually I became more adventurous with her, taking her on long walks up in the Cloisters and then on the subway downtown, where she’d join me as I ran errands until Candice would again be free.
One afternoon after a long day out in the city, Cleo and I fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV. Candice returned in her medical scrubs (she had been working an ER shift) to find the two of us curled up, keeping each other warm. I woke up to find Candice sitting on the opposite couch, staring at us, an unreadable expression on her face.
“Okay,” I said as I lumbered up from the couch, Cleo shifting slightly but not ready herself to get up, “this dog’s all right.”
Candice started to cry. Quickly her gradual tears turned to big heavy ones. I stared at her, concerned. “What?”
“I witnessed my first death today in the ER,” she sobbed.
“Someone you knew?” I asked, concerned.
“No.” She shook her head, composing herself. “A family, they had been in a car accident . . .”
The details were considerably worse. A couple with their two young children had gotten into a wreck on the West Side Highway. The mother had been pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital, and the medical team in the ER—of which Candice was a part—was unable to revive one of the little girls. She too had passed away in front of their very eyes.
“I don’t think I could ever, ever . . .” Candice started to cry uncontrollably again. “I mean, if you knew that was going to happen to you, I don’t think I could even love someone, have children, you know . . . if I knew I was going to lose them.”
I took her into my arms and tried to soothe her. “It’s okay.”
For another hour, Candice cried until she gradually drifted off to sleep. As if sensing her despair, Cleo left my side and wedged herself tightly beside Candice.
From that moment on, I’ve always believed Cleo has an amazing ability to read those she is close to. In particular when someone she cares for is sad, she expresses her empathy by touching him, spreading her warmth, and making sure that he knows that in her, he has a companion that will stay there for as long as necessary. Likewise, when excitement grips the house, it pulses through Cleo. She runs around the house, barking loudly, skipping in circles. On lazy days, especially when Candice wants to lie around the house, eat breakfast in bed, watch a movie, Cleo can lie still for hours, keeping an eye on her master just in case the mood should change. She’s connected to us at some emotional and spiritual level—that I am sure of, and I’ve never needed any elaborate experiments nor studies to validate it.
I’M NOT BIG into weddings and all that goes into them—the elaborate dress codes, the endless formalities and bizarre rituals, the lame toasts and cheesy bands are all too much for me—so having the built-in excuse of a child, especially one as rambunctious and impatient as Krishu, is a real gift. I often find myself with Krishu hanging outside chapels and reception halls alongside smokers while the str
ange chicken dances and conga lines ensue inside. The real prize, however, is that when I’ve reached my tolerance after several hours donated to a wedding, I get to cut out and use my boy as an excuse: “Shoot, would love to stay but he’s had a really long day! He’s overtired. Don’t want him to get unwell . . .” Krishu is great at playing out his role. He cries and wriggles at all the key moments. He’s really got spectacular timing, a Brando-esque instinct for playing up the drama at just the right time.
To Candice’s great chagrin, I spend most of my time at weddings fixated on how to make sure that my son loses his shit just when I need him to. Admittedly this really undermines any chance that I will appreciate any part of a wedding. Of course, Candice is just the opposite. She loves them—especially the super-melodramatic parts like when the bride walks down the aisle or the couple takes their vows or does their first dance to the tunes of those same cheesy wedding bands. There’s a reason, of course. It’s these souped-up rituals that really capture what marriages are about—commitment and companionship. A successful marriage is an ongoing commitment to each other and nurtures a growing sense of companionship over time. But those special rituals, so well choreographed in the all-consuming endeavor that is a wedding, are the iconic moments that commemorate them.
At the New Jersey wedding in question, the union of a college friend with his beautiful bride, all the various forces of the universe gloriously aligned. Candice got her fill of dramatic emotional moments—the bride actually went off script at the wedding and confessed to the sadness of her late father not being able to be there—and I got to carry Krishu around looking at the Statue of Liberty through the extended cocktail period. Conveniently, Krishu busted his nut some ten minutes into dinner—just when the lame toasts were beginning. Exit Chopra family.
Add the fact that both Candice and I were acutely aware that my father had been left alone with Cleo (or vice versa) for close to seven hours, and getting out of that wedding we were like Bonnie and Clyde after a heist.
“Do you think Cleo and my dad did okay?” I asked Candice as I held Krishu’s sleeping body in my lap as we rode the PATH train back to Manhattan.
“I’m sure they survived.” She shrugged.
Basic survival, of course, was not quite what I was hoping for. That I was counting on.
“We have to show confidence in your dad,” Candice asserted. “If we are not confident in him, how can he be confident in himself ?”
This felt familiar—Candice manufacturing confidence that would translate into self-esteem and empowerment, in this case for my dad. It was nice to know that he was now included in our motley crew.
“Stop worrying,” Candice insisted. “They’re fine.”
There used to be a time when merely inserting the key into the lock drew Cleo’s attention. If there were multiple locks to be undone, you would hear her whimpering and clawing at the door.
These days, with her deteriorated hearing, she’s not as sharp in her responses. Hence it’s my job really to locate Cleo when we get home, lasso her with her leash, and take her for a walk. She tends to doze in a few familiar areas—atop a piece of dirty laundry if she can score it, or on a bed (preferably unmade), or as a last resort, in her own dog bed. My parents’ Manhattan apartment, however, was a whole new frontier for Cleo and I had no idea where to look first.
As I lurked around the apartment, I noticed a variety of dog toys spread around the main living room. Newly opened plush toys, chews, a rubber bone, two pinkish rubbery balls, and a pig’s ear lay scattered. Bits of dog food dotted the dark wooden floor. Still no sign of Cleo to go with her obviously new accoutrements. Next up, the kitchen. Another pig’s ear lying between two dog bowls—one filled with water and another with milk.
Milk! The move of an amateur. Cleo’s digestion is dodgy to say the least.
I made a beeline for my parents’ bedroom. Dim city lights poured in through the window, just enough to make out the large pillows scattered across the floor. They’d clearly been tossed from the bed haphazardly to make room for Cleo and my father, who both were in a deep, hard slumber. Predictably Cleo lay curled and tucked against my father’s legs. She was the first to stir, hearing me at last.
“Come on, Cleo,” I beckoned her, “you want to go for a walk?”
She lumbered up, her tail wagging. Arching her back, she stretched herself out before skipping toward me, her tongue wagging now with equal energy.
Cleo’s movements stirred my father. His eyes flashed open.
“You’re back?”
I nodded, hooking Cleo’s leash to her collar. “Yeah. Looks like you guys had quite a day. Did you give her milk?”
“She asked for it,” my father said with a nod, “when I was putting it in my coffee.”
There was nothing to say. “Okay—I’m going to take her around the block,” I said.
My father nodded again. “I’ll go with you.”
SUMMER NIGHTS IN New York City are the best. While the days can be sticky and oppressive, a stroll under the stars is unlike anything else. The warm air, the brisk breeze—it makes for the perfect backdrop to walk your dog when you may need a decent runway to make sure her imminent diarrhea arrives before heading back upstairs. Tonight, that runway is Broadway.
“Probably want to avoid milk next time,” I noted to my father as we turned the corner onto Broadway.
“She’s hard to say no to,” he answered. “She wanted pretty much every toy in the store.”
“I noticed.”
“She’s funny, though,” he reflected.
“In what way?” Punch line please.
“She’s very affectionate. Just followed me around all day. Whatever room I was in, no matter what I was doing. I almost fell over her a few times.” He shook his head.
“Are all dogs like that?” Papa looked down at Cleo curiously.
Cleo is indeed a people dog in that way, more than a dog’s dog at least. She likes company, especially as it relates to the family. I’ve never regarded her as particularly needy, but admittedly it’s a fine line.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Could have been the pig’s ears. She loves those things.”
“I can’t believe they are real!”
I knew exactly where he was coming from. The discovery that pig’s ears are really, well, pig’s ears, is a frequently disturbing revelation for the amateur dog owner. But Cleo loves them like nothing else.
“I’m sure everyone thinks their dog is unique, but Cleo is definitely one of a kind.” I guided her toward the little dirt patch on the sidewalk, hoping we could get this party started. She peed out of obligation but moved on. No dice.
“Her persistence is infectious,” he continued. “All of a sudden when she wasn’t following me for a minute, I started to worry. I went looking for her.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, relating. “She’s like that.”
“That’s the thing about all dogs, isn’t it? Nicholas, Cleo, when you get them you know exactly how things will mostly play out. You’re going to form an intense bond with them, even through no effort of your own. You’re going to grow together, play together, and love each other. And then, the dog is going to die.” He was silent.
“Dogs are different from humans that way. Even the best of marriages are unpredictable. You don’t know what life is going to bring your way. People change, but dogs don’t. Not really.”
It’s hard to argue. Cleo is the classic case study. Since the day Candice brought her home in the palm of her hand, and even now with age slowing her down, she’s remained the same playful, loyal dog with the same idiosyncrasies and deep bond to family.
“So why, then, if the trajectory of the relationship is predictable, and fated to end in emotional pain, do we endure it?” Papa looked down at Cleo.
I shrugged my shoulders. I knew I didn’t really have to answer in this case. No matter—Papa is used to answering his own questions. It’s the root of his success.
“Because of the comp
anionship. The emotional fulfillment that we draw from the relationship is worth everything else that comes along with it.”
Is that really that different from the relationships we form with one another?
It’s one of the things I think about often as I watch my son grow every day. What sort of boy will he become? As his personality further evolves and matures, will he and I have things in common? What if we don’t? Sometimes at night, I lie awake and stare at him and wonder to myself if I am prepared for the emotional attachment that I have already made to his being, and the increased one I make every day. I think back to that day Candice as a young medical student witnessed a family torn apart by a horrible car accident. Every day bad things happen to good people. Tragedy tears apart families, rips to shreds the deepest connections that we make with one another.
“Fear is a big part of human relationships, or often why we don’t fully form them. The fear of emotional pain and suffering, of making yourself vulnerable to someone else, the threat of loss and hurt that can come from that vulnerability.
“Marriages, children, friendships, all the various forms of companionship—they are intrinsically dangerous because we can never predict where they are going. And yet, we have to go into them with the same willingness, courage, and enthusiasm with which we form our bonds with our dogs.”
Cleo set her sights on a pigeon a few feet ahead of us. She yanked her leash toward it. Papa and I followed.
Walking Wisdom Page 6