Dog Medicine
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
DOG MEDICINE
“Anyone who has ever opened their heart and asked an animal to teach them how to live—and there are so many of us—will be deeply moved by the story of Julie Barton and her soulmate Bunker. In this honest, gloriously unselfconscious and compelling memoir, she does great honor, not only to her dog, but to the miracles made possible when logic, and even language, is not allowed to stand in the way of love.”
— PAM HOUSTON, AUTHOR OF SIGHT HOUND
“Dog Medicine is the kind of memoir that will bring tears of sadness and joy to anyone who has ever felt rescued by a pet. It is about how the right animal can inspire not just hope but mercy. Julie Barton’s prose is lyrical and unflinching, a gorgeous howl in the darkness that leads the reader into the light.”
— STEVE ALMOND, AUTHOR OF CANDYFREAK
“Dog Medicine accomplishes what only the most authentic writing can do: craft language so that readers live an experience. In this brilliant and lyrical debut memoir, Barton has written a narrative of inescapable appeal. The bond, here, between human and animal isn’t easy or sentimental—rather, it’s archetypal and magical. There is a Buddhist story of a Bodhisattva, an enlightened one, who refused to enter paradise until an ailing companion dog could also enter. Dog Medicine relates an equally powerful story of devotion, only related in real, worldly terms with heartbreaking consequences and rewards.”
— SUE WILLIAM SILVERMAN,
AUTHOR OF THE PAT BOONE FAN CLUB: MY LIFE AS A WHITE ANGLO-SAXON JEW
“There are times when another creature can hold our love until we can hold it for ourselves. And then, in perfect symbiosis, the beloved can become the lover, until they are one force. Dog Medicine shows us that this is not just possible, but sometimes, a matter of life or death.”
— LAURA MUNSON, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THIS IS NOT THE STORY YOU THINK IT IS
“Julie Barton’s memoir Dog Medicine is the most heartbreaking and heartwarming book I’ve read in years. It tells both the harrowing story of a depression so severe that Barton felt it might ‘vaporize her into millions of tiny molecules’ and the consoling story of her eventual recovery through the love of and for her beloved dog and ‘spirit twin,’ Bunker. Reader, this book about how Barton’s dog changed her life will change your life.”
— DAVID JAUSS, AUTHOR OF GLOSSOLALIA: NEW & SELECTED STORIES
“Dog Medicine is so powerfully written, so lyrical and true, I felt I’d experienced every moment, all the loss, the crushing depression, the compassion, the great unstoppable love. So much love. Julie Barton’s journey with her beautiful dog Bunker from despair to hope was a profound exercise in how to be healed. For that, I’m deeply grateful for having read this amazing book.”
— ALAN HEATHCOCK, AUTHOR OF VOLT
“In Dog Medicine, Julie Barton has the cure for the common memoir. Not only an account of the unshakable bond between dog and woman, her tale is a clear-eyed exploration of love, both given and received, which heals our damaged souls and makes us whole again. You’ll come back to this book again and again.”
— SAMANTHA DUNN, AUTHOR NOT BY ACCIDENT: RECONSTRUCTING A CARELESS LIFE
“Julie Barton’s wise, wonderful, impeccably written memoir is not just a book about how a puppy can help keep at bay the gray wolf of depression. It’s also a book filled with love stories and stories of people finding their better selves, all dramatized with novelistic suspense and complexity. In this age of hour-long therapy shows and sensationalistic self-depiction, Barton’s book holds true wisdom as it tells the hard-earned truths of mental illness, self-doubt, abuse, hope, family, forgiveness, connection with self and others, and finally something close to salvation. Barton gives real insight, conveyed through incisive, evocative prose. And she proves the adage that purpose comes not only from how well we are loved but by how well we love.”
— TIM PARRISH, AUTHOR OF FEAR AND WHAT FOLLOWS AND THE JUMPER
“A raw and honest memoir about Julie Barton’s clinical depression and how the love of a dog helped pull her back from hell. An eloquent testament to the resilience of humans and the healing power of canine love.”
— SUSAN RICHARDS, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF CHOSEN BY A HORSE
“It is not easy to explore the frightening landscape of depression with depth and surprising beauty. But Julie Barton has done just that. As someone who has lived with chronic depression for many years, I can tell you from personal experience how daunting and misunderstood this disease is. Not surprising that it takes the love and loyalty and unwavering sanity of a dog—any pet, really — to reach those of us struggling to find a way through the grips of melancholy. This, I know from experience, too. Read this book if you or someone you love is wrestling with depression. Read this book if you love dogs. Read this book if you want to remember what hope feels like. Just read this book.”
— SUSAN CHERNAK MCELROY, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF ANIMALS AS TEACHERS AND HEALERS
“Julie Barton was haunted by a major depression that threatened to topple her. What could one small puppy, Bunker, do in the face of such calamity? Only when Barton created a sacred place where she and Bunker could meet, a place without ridicule, doubt, sorrow, or anger, could the true healing begin. Her meticulous rendering of this transformation honors the power of love.”
— JACQUELINE R. SHEEHAN, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF LOST & FOUND
“This absorbing memoir travels along the axis of depression and hope in beautifully crafted prose. Barton uses fresh language to provide a better understanding of the depths of depression, and introduces us to Bunker, her saving grace who throughout the book holds readers in their place.”
— MARCELLE SOVIERO, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF OF BRAIN, CHILD: THE MAGAZINE FOR THINKING MOTHERS
“Anyone who has ever loved a dog will relate to Julie Barton’s Dog Medicine. This memoir is a heartfelt tribute to man’s best friend.”
— ELLIOTT HOLT, AUTHOR OF YOU ARE ONE OF THEM
PENGUIN BOOKS
DOG MEDICINE
Julie Barton has an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts, has been published in several magazines and journals including Brain Child, Two Hawks Quarterly, The Huffington Post, Louisiana Literature, and The South Carolina Review, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in Northern California with her husband, two daughters, and a small menagerie of pets. Find her at www.byjuliebarton.com.
PENGUIN BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
penguin.com
First published in the United States of America by Think Piece Publishing 2015
Published in Penguin Books 2016
Copyright © 2015 by Julie Barton
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
The Eckhart Tolle quote is taken from the book Guardians of Being. Words copyright © 2009 by Eckhart Tolle. MUTTS artwork copyright © 2009 by Patrick McDonnell. Reprinted with permission of New World Library, Novato, CA. www.newworldlibrary.com.
Excerpt from Women Who Run with the Wolves by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D., copyright © 1992, 1995 by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D. Used by permission of Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Rando
m House LLC. All rights reserved.
eBook ISBN 9781101993545
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Barton, Julie (Julie H.)
Title: Dog medicine : how my dog saved me from myself / Julie Barton.
Description: New York City : Penguin Books, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016008933 | ISBN 9780143130017
Subjects: LCSH: Dogs—Therapeutic use. | Pets—Therapeutic use. | Human–animal relationships. | Barton, Julie (Julie H.) | Depression in women—Treatment.
Classification: LCC RM931.A65 B37 2016 | DDC 615.8/5158—dc23
Most names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved.
Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
Cover design: Brianna Harden
Cover photograph: Bev Sparks
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CONTENTS
Praise for Dog Medicine
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part I BOILING POINT, NEW YORK CITY
VERY SPECIAL ME, OHIO
QUARTER ECLIPSE, NEW YORK CITY
SUBURBAN GRAFFITI, OHIO
PARTIAL ECLIPSE, NEW YORK CITY
WANING MAGIC, OHIO
MEN, KENYON COLLEGE & NEW YORK CITY
TOTAL ECLIPSE, PENNSYLVANIA AND OHIO
MIDNIGHT, OHIO
SUNSET
THE WRONG DOG, NEW YORK CITY
SINKING
BLARNEY
LAKE BEAUCHÊNE, QUÉBEC
RHYTHM IS GONNA GET YOU
BOTTOM
TELLING BROTHER
DOCTOR OF PSYCHIATRY
PALE YELLOW PILLS
JUNE 26, 1996
BUNKER HILL
DAY ONE
NO WONDER
DOG MEDICINE
FIRST LESSON
CAN’T STAY
THE LIST OF PROS AND CONS
Part II HOWL
FALLING IN SUN VALLEY
AUNT AURORA’S HOUSE
FOSTER CHILD
BLIND ROOMMATES
429 MAGNOLIA STREET
WORK
FIRE AND AIR
BLOSSOMING
BLIZZARD IN SEATTLE
TWO BAD OPTIONS
AS MUCH AS A USED CAR
NEW FAMILY, TRUE FRIEND
THE BUNKER KEGGER
ON TOUR
LOSING GREG
HE DIES, I DIE
REUNITED
ALL OUT OR ALL IN
SECOND HIP
MARYMOOR
Epilogue: A Few More Things I Want You to Know.
Acknowledgments
For Greg, Mom and Dad,
and forever and always, for Bunker.
The vital function that pets fulfill in this world hasn’t fully been recognized.
They keep millions of people sane.
When you pet a dog or listen to a cat purring, thinking may subside for a moment and a space of stillness arises within you, a doorway into Being.
—ECKHART TOLLE
Listen with the soul-hearing now, for that is the mission of story.
—CLARISSA PINKOLA ESTÉS
PROLOGUE
I believe that when I was suffering most dearly, the universe sent me a healer in the form of a dog. Some people laugh at this idea, think it’s childish, strange, or foolish. That’s fine. Others nod and know exactly what I mean.
I’ve spent the last several years writing about my beloved Bunker. I wrote this book to share some of his wisdom because it truly was medicine to me.
Thank you for trusting me to take you on this journey. Be it a dog, a cat, a horse, any animal, really, I hope you will see yourself and your beloved pet in this story. This is my story, but I would be willing to guess, if you’ve picked up this book, it’s a lot like your story as well.
Part I
BOILING POINT, NEW YORK CITY
APRIL 16, 1996
The walk from the subway to my apartment was six blocks, but I wasn’t sure I would make it. I focused on the ground: the scuffed floor of the 4 train, the gum-strewn steps to 86th Street, the swirling black puddle at the corner of Lexington and 85th. I’d lived in Manhattan for almost a year, since one week after graduating from college in Ohio. I’d spent that year as an assistant editor at a book publisher in SoHo. My name appeared in the credits of two books. My boss called me his best assistant ever. I had scraped together enough money to pay my rent and bills, on time. I had caring friends and supportive parents who wanted me to succeed. And I was about to have a breakdown.
Only a few blocks out of the subway station, bloody thoughts descended: Walk into the path of that cab speeding up Lexington Avenue. Step in front of that oncoming bus. These were not voices in my head; they were rogue thoughts, terrible thoughts that I did not know how to control.
If you passed me on the street, you would have seen a tired, twenty-something woman. You’d probably think I was hung over or hadn’t eaten a vegetable in months, the latter being mostly accurate. I was tall, usually wearing a baggy shirt over a long black skirt and my worn-out steel-toed Doc Martens. My hair, formerly long and blonde and flowing halfway down my back, was chopped at my ears and had faded to a brown that looked mostly gray in store-window reflections—the result of an ill-advised trip to the drugstore and a three-dollar bottle of hair dye.
I rounded the corner on 82nd Street, past the brownstones with their bay windows and heavy doors, past P.S. 290, where I rarely saw any children. I climbed the steps to my first-floor apartment, unlocked two security doors, turned three more locks, then shuffled in, finally alone. I bolted the door behind me. My apartment smelled like sour milk and dust. For a first apartment out of college, the place was fine: two small, stacked rooms connected by a steep wooden staircase. Upstairs, exposed brick stood opposite a small corner kitchen. Downstairs, they’d carved out just enough space for a small bathroom and bedroom, forever dark and damp, the windows five feet off the floor, allowing only a view of feet and legs ambling by.
The living room had no furniture, just my stereo, the one I’d had since high school. Next to it was a collapsed pile of CDs and cassettes: Van Morrison, Ani DiFranco, Tori Amos, Big Star, Ella Fitzgerald, Metallica. These were my companions in my darkest hours, this music in my ears, because in silence, I could only hear the thoughts in my head. They were thoughts that I did not notice or question, thoughts that said I was worthless, dumb, ugly, and weak. Wrong in every way. Wrong for being alive.
I began to boil water for pasta. I turned on the electric burner, filled the pot with water, and put it on the stove. Such an act might seem trivial, but I felt as if I’d just lifted a boulder. Small tasks had recently become extraordinarily difficult. Putting on shoes. Buttoning a shirt. Waking in the morning. I stood in front of the stove with my eyes closed.
Then I sat down on the floor, wooden spoon in hand. I can’t say whether I was conscious of what I was doing. I remember it, if that means anything. The water began to boil. Erupting water droplets popped and sizzled on the electric burner. I blinked, flattened one palm on the dusty hardwood floor and slid down so that I was lying on the kitchen’s scuffed planks. My left eyelid twitched.
I imagined myself a robot losing power, or a marionette with two snapped strings. I needed to reach the phone. I needed help. Something was real
ly wrong. I recognized, vaguely, that the kitchen floor was an odd place to fall asleep. Then I noticed that the refrigerator door had an old brown sauce stain, a dried, stopped drip. I studied it because it didn’t belong there. I didn’t belong there. My head on my arm, a twitch in my spine, and I was gone.
All sounds became one enormous echo: the cars honking outside, the pigeons’ flapping wings, the people walking and talking outside, the hum of the refrigerator. I lay numb, thinking, nervous breakdown, nervous breakdown. The words echoed in my head, a sorrowful chant, a skipping song. You’re so dramatic, the thoughts continued. You’re not having a nervous breakdown. You’re just a fuck-up. Just kill yourself. Just tie a rope around something, cinch it around your neck, and jump.
Prior to New York City, I’d spent my entire life in Ohio, and I’d grown tired of the Midwest with its distant horizons and dark, quiet nights. Something always felt wrong. For much of high school and college, I figured that I had simply been born in the wrong place. I watched a lot of television and decided that I was a big-city girl—not an Ohio girl. It was all a simple mistake of geography. I couldn’t pin my malaise on my happily married parents. My brother and I fought, badly, but that, I thought, was normal. It would take this breakdown and several years of therapy to realize that it wasn’t.
My life in the city first hiccupped when an acquaintance told me that the boy I’d been dating since my junior year in college, Will, had been sleeping around while I was still at school. He was supposed to be waiting for me to join him in New York, to begin our life together. I confronted him; we fought for weeks, then broke up. He was in a band, said he needed to focus on his music. I knew it was cliché, but I suffered acutely at the demise of our romance. Will was my comfort, and now he was gone. I was a woman who couldn’t feel good unless a man loved her, and it had to be this man. Will. No other. Other men scared me. I wandered alone around the city feeling as if there was no safe haven for me in the world. Then, after weeks of silence, Will would call at 3 a.m. wanting to know whether he could come over and talk. I always said yes, and I always fell back into bed with him, the longing for him so intense, I could feel it like a pull in my skin. When our relationship soured, turned emotionally unsafe, I nearly imploded.