“She’s such a little lady, a princess,” I said, squeezing her to my face.
“What about Please-Dad-don’t-get-rid-of-me?” my mother laughed, reaching her hand over to pet the puppy’s ears.
The puppy felt so right in my lap. I looked down at her and couldn’t believe this was real. Years later, I’d recognize this look as the way a few of my friends gazed at their shiny engagement rings, like they are about to start their lives, like their adventures were about to begin. That’s how I’d felt with the dog in my lap, looking into her marble eyes traced by tiny eyelashes. I felt as though I’d fallen under a spell, enchanted. Wait a minute. Enchanted. (I may or may not have watched this Disney musical a million times.)
Giselle.
“Mom! What about Giselle? Like the princess in Enchanted?” Giselle had such a fun ring to it, and based on a lovable naive character it seemed a fit for this innocent puppy.
“Yes! That’s it. Love that!” Mom cheered. We decided to spell it with a z for a little extra spunk.
“Hi, Gizelle, hi, girl!” I cooed, cradling her in my arms like a doll. (A heftier, pug-sized doll with longer legs.) “But what are we telling Dad?” I worried, fondling Gizelle’s extra neck skin in my hand. Though I knew when it came to this new puppy, he wouldn’t be mad. Dad was the most patient person I knew. So he’d probably end up nodding his head, as if to say, Of course they brought home another animal, and then he’d end up taking care of said animal like he always did, with a minor silent grudge. But he’d get over it. Still, Mom wanted to come up with something that would smooth Dad over, just in case. Something that would lessen the shock of a new puppy. (The new puppy that just happens to be the biggest breed in the world.) So we came up with a plan.
We pulled up the long driveway to our brick house on the hill. As I headed inside, Dad was in the living room practicing his golf swing in front of the TV. As planned, I greeted him and explained that I rescued a puppy from a place I knew nearby called Noah’s Ark Animal Hospital. I told him her adoption was free, and that I was only fostering her until they found her another home. I couldn’t just leave her there to die! I couldn’t believe I had been so lucky to rescue her just in time! What. A. Miracle!
Dad studied me with a puzzled look, club still in hand. Usually, Dad would hand me the nine iron and say, “C’mon, let’s see that backswing of yours, Fernie. It’s really looking great this year!” But he didn’t do that. Not today. Instead, he stared down at the size of the huge paws of the puppy cradled in my arms as I worked to pose Gizelle so her adorable head and heart-melting eyes were working for maximum effect. He looked at me again. He didn’t channel an angry, “No. We have two dogs and a fish and Mom brings home too many pets. Take her back where she came from at once!” like a lot of my friends’ parents would say, and he didn’t go the whole, “Yes, let’s foster her until she gets a fur-ever home! Way to give back, Fernie!” route. He just said, “Okay,” drawing out the “ay” sound at the end, almost like he was asking a question. And when he squinted his eyes and opened his mouth to say something else, I jumped in. “We aren’t keeping her for long!” Once I started lying to Dad, I couldn’t stop. For a brief second, I could hear a faint voice inside whispering, Psst! Stop! But I told that girl to shut up, that we are meant to have this puppy, and that I will do everything I can to make it work.
2
Sisterhood
Lauren with Yoda, Bertha, and Gizelle
One month later, Gizelle and I were lying on the cold kitchen floor facing each other, me with one arm over her body, she with all four paws tucked into my belly. Yoda glared at us from a kitchen chair. Bertha lumbered in snorting around for crumbs. Gizelle’s eyelids began to flicker into an afternoon dream and I was about to close mine, too, when—
“How big’s this dog gonna get?” Dad’s voice made me jump. “Is it me or is she growing kinda fast?” He looked down as he took a wide step over Gizelle and me.
I stood up to examine her. She was about fifty pounds and if I was going to be honest, she looked more like a full-grown lab than a three-and-a-half-month-old puppy. “I bet not that big, Dad. She’s still easy to carry.” Bending over to pick her up and show off Gizelle’s slenderness, I wrapped my arms around her silky tummy and attempted to lift her in front of my father, but for a moment she didn’t budge. I squatted and tried lifting from my legs, but Gizelle was like lifting an office water jug. I planted my feet as widely as I could, engaged my core, gripped my toes to the floor, three, two, one, heave! I let out a short, pathetic grunt as I got her off the ground. Oof. Her front paws dangled out in front of me, and I had to thrust my pelvis forward to keep my balance. But I was holding her. I could hold her. Dad squinted his eyes at us.
“So how long we keeping the puppy?”
“Oh, not much longer.”
I had to strain to get the words out.
Of course, “not much longer” in my dictionary meant forever and ever. And my dumb teenage self actually thought . . . what? That Dad would fall in love with the “foster” puppy, agree to keep her, and never ask another question again? I was living in denial. I was very good at living in denial.
* * *
When we first brought Gizelle home, I was convinced our new pet was a sign my mother was sorry, and that this time she would take responsibility, work on a recovery program, and get sober. For a few days she was more like the mom I remembered as a child—first up in the morning, feeding the dogs, burning toast, and arranging fruit in the shape of smiley faces. She was out in the yard with me doing “puppy poopie pickup,” as she called it, laughing and joking as she helped pick up the smelly dog poo.
But as the novelty of the new puppy wore off and the responsibility of the new family member set in, she started sleeping in again. Late. And sometimes she went to bed early—like sun-is-still-up early. “I wasn’t feeling well. Didn’t sleep well last night, girls. The Sudafed really messed with me!” She was always making excuses, and with Mom, it was difficult to filter out what was true and what wasn’t.
Then one afternoon I found her passed out on our big blue denim couch, cheek smooshed into the pillow, her mouth agape, arm dangling from the couch, fingertips brushing the floor—almost like she’d fallen into this position. Yoda was sleeping, too, snuggled up against Mom’s chest and cradled in one arm. The house phone rang. A muffled ring, coming from underneath Mom and Yoda. Mom’s cheek didn’t leave the pillow, but her eyelids flickered.
Should I wake her? Force her to pull herself together before Erisy and Dad got home? Erisy hated seeing Mom passed out. But if I woke her, I would then have to deal with her. The phone rang again.
Mom began to move. She reached in slow motion to answer it, but instead grabbed Yoda around the midsection, nuzzling her cheek into the Chihuahua’s belly.
Grrrrrr, Yoda growled. (You did not disturb Yoda midslumber.)
“Hulloooh?” Mom garbled.
Yoda growled again, louder this time.
Mom continued murmuring into our angry Chihuahua’s belly until the ringing came to a stop. Then she released her grip on our sweet dog and Yoda scurried back into the warm crevice between Mom and the couch.
I let out a short frustrated exhale and stood for a moment, unable to decide if I should laugh or cry. “Mom!” I finally called out, shaking her. Nothing. She was back asleep. So, I did what most teenagers would do: I called my older brother, named the incident “Yoda-phone,” and we carried on with summer, trying to pretend we didn’t care.
* * *
Carrying on with summer was easier to do with a new puppy around. Maybe I knew what Mom meant when she’d said I was a big-dog girl, because Gizelle and I had a thing from the start. When I got home, Gizelle would follow me from the living room to my bedroom, then back down the stairs and even into the bathroom, where she sat, at my toes, as though I needed her support. I learned quickly that I couldn’t step backward without looking. She loved resting her muzzle on my knee, lap, foot, hand. And if she couldn�
�t reach her whiskered snout to some part of me, she resorted to the next closest thing—resting her jowls on the ledge of the tub, or sniffing under the door to try to find me, letting out sad whimpers when she ended up on the wrong side of a wall.
But as my mother struggled more and more with addiction that summer, routine in our house began to break down. Mom couldn’t hold eye contact or conversations. She tumbled and stumbled around the kitchen and screamed at us if we accused her of being drunk. She served us half-frozen chicken for dinner, and smiley-faced breakfasts gave way to sleeping in and a drowsy “Come and kiss me good-bye before you and Dad head out the door.” I knew that I was leaving the house at the end of the summer, but Erisy wasn’t.
Erisy was my little sister and built-in best friend. Sure, she was four years younger, but people frequently mistook us for twins. We loved this and told them we were seven minutes apart. Erisy was the type of girl who mastered everything she tried. She nailed fouetté turns before I ever did, sang and played piano, taught herself guitar, always made better grades, and got Dad’s brain in math. (I got Mom’s.) Okay, fine. I was jealous. But I loved being her older sister, and I wanted be a good older sister. Maybe I could just be better at that than her.
So that summer I tried to distract her—surprising her with doughnuts in the morning, leaving little notes on her pillow, or blowing up balloons and putting them in her room for no reason. When things got really bad with Mom, I’d drive her to the mall and buy us matching sister bracelets. (We went through a lot of matching sister bracelets.) Soon Dad told us Erisy wasn’t allowed to ride in the car with Mom anymore. This came as no surprise. Because of my mother’s DUI, I received a hardship license when I was fifteen so I could help drive Erisy to school. We were often trying to keep Mom from driving at all by hiding her keys or disconnecting the battery.
And while chauffeur duties could have put a damper on my summer, this was absolutely not the case. We’d pile in the Jetta with the dogs and jet down Concord Road, dropping the windows of the car and blasting Justin Timberlake. Fatty took over the backseat, running from window to window, snorting and shaking her Cinnabum everywhere, trying to prop her stubby legs up on the door so she could reach her snout out into the wind, all THIS IS THE BEST RIDE EVER! Yoda curled up on Erisy’s lap, and Gizelle made herself a spot in the backseat, right in the middle of Fatty’s path. This did not stop Fatty. She barged right on over.
At first, Gizelle was a little unsure of what her strange sister was doing with her head out the window. So she’d hang back, watching Bertha’s ears blowing in the wind as though thinking: Well, if Bertha is doing it . . . Then Gizelle would make her way over to the window. She’d prop the tip of her nose out into the air skeptically, constantly looking over at Fatty, then scoot her head a little farther. When the wind hit her eyes, though, she sat back in shock, blinking and shaking her head like she hated this and windows were the worst invention ever. But if Bertha is doing it . . . After a couple of tries, she inched her head out farther, blinking rapidly. And finally one day she went all in, thrusting her head fully into the whooshing air, eyes fluttering furiously like someone was holding a hair dryer to her face. She definitely hated it at first, but soon she loved it, because if Bertha was doing it, she would, too. True little-sister move.
Pulling the Jetta to a stop on a dusty side road overlooking the Harpeth River, Erisy and I would see who could strip down to her swimsuit faster, race to the tree, climb up, and swing off into the muddy water. Whooping, we’d jump in again and again while the dogs hung out on dry land. Once we had exhausted ourselves and cooled off, we’d load everyone back into car. We’d drop the windows again and snake around the windy hills of the South, spreading our arms out the windows to air dry. Gizelle would delightedly thump her tail in the backseat, drowned out by whooshing wind and Justin Timberlake. “Wanna go to the park?” I yelled over the music. Soon our detour turned into being gone all day. And even though Mom was unpredictable and we thought Dad had divorce in his eyes, it seemed like everything would be fine if we just drove away.
* * *
It was summertime. I was nineteen years old, and though I adored Gizelle, that never stopped me from leaving her with “Grandpa.” I started spending the night out more and more, which generated texts along the following lines:
“I just fed your big puppy. Lol dad.”
“Your big puppy still isn’t potty trained. Lol dad.”
“Your big puppy likes to get on the couch. Lol dad.”
“Your big puppy likes to roll in the flowers. Lol Dad.”
Dad thought “LOL” meant “lots of love,” by the way. (He still does.) One day I was at the lake with friends and came out of the water to find a text saying:
“The big puppy is walking funny. Having a hard time standing up. Let me know what u want me to do. Thinking 2 call Noah’s Ark. Lol Dad.”
By the time I got the message, it had been a few hours since he had sent it. Shit.
“On my way home!” I texted from the back of a friend’s truck, with a mastiff-sized ball of lead in my stomach. God, was she okay? And, am I in so much trouble? My friend stepped on the gas, but only time travel could have helped me. It was too late.
I ran into the house to see Gizelle. She wriggled and stretched out of her laundry room crate where she had been asleep and gave me a lick. “Hi, Gizelle!” Her tail knocked against the sides of her box. She seemed fine. Was Dad confused? I eyed the kitchen and the dining room for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Please be out playing golf. Please say you didn’t call Noah’s Ark.
I ran up to my bedroom and threw my wet swimsuit on the floor to change. Then, as I was combing out my lake hair in the mirror, I heard it, the dreaded sound of his loafers clomping slowly across the floor downstairs.
I stopped, brush in hand, and stared at my reflection. “Hey, Lauren. Come downstairs for a sec,” he called up to my room. This was bad. Usually I was “Fernie” or “buddy.” Dad had called out “Lauren.” Oh, this was so bad.
I zipped up my hoodie, twisted my hair in a towel, and crept downstairs. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table. Gizelle was plopped next to him. Bertha and Yoda lay by the windows in a patch of sun. My father didn’t have to ask me to sit down; the chair was pulled out already. Dad was wearing his blue “Life Is Good” shirt, and that Life Is Good cartoon stick figure stared at me clownishly as Dad sat with his ankle over his knee and his arms crossed, bottom lip tight, frowning. Bertha and Yoda watched us, like a jury.
My heart was beating triple time in my chest. Whatever happened, I wasn’t giving her back. I tried to not show that I was nervous. I sat and rested my feet on Gizelle, tracing circles in her fur with my big toe. I have my mom’s big toe. It’s shorter than its neighbor toe.
“I called Noah’s Ark.” Dad said. “Gizelle was walking funny in the backyard. Her legs were all wobbly and she was struggling to stand up. So I called to see if they could help or something.” I didn’t lift my head.
“They told me they don’t even have a fostering program. They don’t know a Lauren or a Gizelle.” He sure had sleuthed it all out, hadn’t he? I lifted my eyes to look at him but kept my chin to my chest. I tried to turn on some tears, thinking they might help around now. He stared at me with his lips pressed firmly together, waiting for me to talk. I had nothing. Is he going to yell? I thought, fearfully. He certainly could have. But, instead, he took a breath, and rested his elbows on his knees to level with me.
“Fernie, I don’t know if honesty is important to you,” he continued. “But it’s important to me, and maybe Mom and I haven’t done a good job of teaching it to you.” (I couldn’t help but think of Mom. Lies came out of her mouth as easily as hiccups.) “I want to tell you . . .” He paused. “I don’t think you are going to get very far in life, or in your relationships, if you don’t tell the truth.” I looked up.
“Take a look at yourself, buddy,” he continued. “Start thinking about the words that come out of your mouth. Don’
t you want to speak with integrity?”
I felt terribly embarrassed. Real tears began welling up behind my eyes.
I should have been yelled at and grounded. He should have given Gizelle away. But this was more powerful. He chose not to yell. He spoke to me like I was a grown-up. Which made sense because technically I was supposed to be one soon.
“Sorry,” I said. My voice may have cracked. I looked my father in the eye and said it again. “I’m sorry.”
“One thing is for sure,” Dad said, reaching down to Gizelle, who was now sprawled across the floor. “I know you love your big puppy.”
He gave Gizelle two reassuring pats on the head as though she had been his detective partner in catching me, and left the room.
I sat in the chair for a moment and looked down at Gizelle. Does this mean we are keeping her? I wondered. If Dad was leaning that way, the pressure was on me to not mess up. My own mom wasn’t around to help anymore. She had gone to rehab for twenty-eight days, at least. Fingers crossed, she would stay the twenty-eight days and get sober. She’d be my mom again, and in the meantime, I’d be Gizelle’s.
* * *
My first lesson as dog-mom came pretty fast, because Dad hadn’t been mistaken about Gizelle’s funny walk. One evening, soon after I’d been busted in the big foster puppy lie, the house was Mom-less and quiet, and Dad was getting ready to grill steaks for me, Erisy, and Tripp and his new wife, Jenna. I walked barefoot into the yard to find Gizelle sitting in the grass. “Come here, Gizelle!” I said, patting my thighs so she’d play with me. She tried to get up, but it looked as though her paws were chained to the ground. She wobbled awkwardly, as if her legs were suddenly lame. “Dad!” I yelled.
“Yeah?” He opened the door and saw Gizelle wriggling in the grass.
Gizelle's Bucket List Page 2