Paws and Reflect_Exploring the Bond Between Gay Men and Their Dogs

by Neil S. Plakcy

  But never have I felt as gay as I did the last few weeks of my Cocker Spaniel Casey’s life, when I took her for “walks” under the vet’s instructions not to let her walk.

  The doctor on the case (who was fabulous) was upbeat but slightly evasive about the prognosis. Diagnosis, too, was slightly uncertain, but she did give Casey treatment: a steroid to encourage the marrow of her aging bones to crank out red blood cells; puppy Pepto to calm the stomach so she could take the steroid; antibiotics; and soft food, special stuff that looked, the doctor said, like paté. “She loves it,” she said. “She has been chowing down all day. Only feed her this. And no exercise. Out the door to pee, right back in, and rest.”

  Permanently. She was supposed to do nothing but eat expensive pâté and sleep. It’s a dog’s life, indeed.” But Dr. Fab,” I said. “I live on a boat, about 200 yards worth of dock from the shore. We have to walk that far for her to get to where she can pee.”

  “No, ” replied the doc.”That’s too far. You carry her.” Silence.

  “Well, OK, ” I said. I let Casey do her business when I got her home, then carried her down the dock. This wasn’t too bad, as she only weighed thirty-five pounds, but I had a strong sense that it would get old fast. I eyed up the dock carts. I’d nearly killed myself the year before when carrying my other dog, Bear, up to the shore for a vet visit. Bear weighed in at eighty pounds.

  “Hmmm,” I thought.”Maybe I’ll get a nice big one that’ll fit both dogs, and then neither will have to walk . . . assuming they’ll let me push ’em. If they don’t, that’s a wasted 250 bucks. I’ll wait.”

  As I was coming back from walking Bear that evening, Patty and Dennis, my neighbors in the marina, asked what was wrong with Casey. I explained, and they offered a little dock cart they didn’t need. About twenty minutes later, Dennis knocked on my deck and said, “Here it is! You’ll have to hose it down, but it should work for her.”

  I climbed up on deck and thanked him, and then looked at the dock cart.

  It was small. It was red. It was cute.

  I was doomed.

  Eleven o’clock rolled around, and it was time for Casey’s late night—well, I suppose one ought not to call it a walk—“outing.” I took some puppy blankets up and lined the bottom of the cart, then carried Casey up on deck, deposited her in her little cart, and started down the dock.

  So. There I was. A forty-seven-year-old, six-foot-two, 200-pound man, pulling a small, fluffy golden dog down the dock in a cute, little red wagon.

  Gay.

  And the next morning, in daylight, it was worse. People could see me.

  I admitted it to myself: I was puppy whipped.

  I had lived for eight years on a sailboat in the San Francisco Bay with my two dogs: Casey, the Cocker in question, and Bear, a giant, aging, increasingly incontinent Schnauzer mutt. If a kid drew a picture of a little house with one door, one window, and a chimney with a pig’s tail of smoke coming out of it, Bear was the dog that lived there. Casey, however, was a Cocker from the shallow end of the gene pool. Both were rescue dogs; Bear was completely cheerful and phlegmatic, while Casey was neurotic and high maintenance. But of the two, she was the one who bonded with me, who made me Her Human—and she was My Dog. And now she was sick.

  She had always been a bit of a hypochondriac drama queen: Camille with claws. If she bumped her foot on the dock or got a pebble between her pads, she started limping in the most pathetic fashion imaginable, looking at me with huge sad brown eyes, asking why the world was so cruel to her. She would not take a step until I lifted the paw, examined between the pads, and massaged it slightly. I never found anything. Then she’d be off and running as usual, her hips slightly skewed from her front legs, her big ears flopping. But running. She knew a racket. She knew how to work one.

  Bear was not a hypochondriac. He had been in a long, slow decline for at least two years. About a year before the incident with Casey, he had a very bad patch and couldn’t walk at all. I ought to have put him to sleep but couldn’t bring myself to do it; his mind was still there. He still had an appetite. He was still glad to see me when I came home. He regained much of his mobility but his nerves were deteriorating (or so the vet believed), leaving him with less and less control over his back legs and motor functions. By the time Casey was ill, Bear could walk and was cheerful, but I had to pick him up and carry him off the boat.

  All of this had happened so gradually that I hadn’t really noticed. I’d just adjusted to the situation, equally gradually. When I stepped back and looked at it, I would say to myself, “You are a fucking idiot!” But . . . it crept up. Few pet experiences in my life have been as difficult as that last year with Bear, but every time he staggered over, wagging his tail and rubbing his head between my knees as I squatted down to pet him, I knew why I put up with it: He was happy, even if he was hurting, and every day there were new smells to sniff, and every night new rabbits to chase in dreams.

  Bear was the old dog. The sick dog. The dog who would go first. I was ready for it.

  And then Casey got sick. She’d been slowing down for several weeks, but since we all were moving slowly because of Bear, I thought little of it. And then she stopped eating. I called the vet, made an appointment, and took her in.

  “She’s sick, ” I said and left her there for tests.

  I got back in the evening and met with the vet.

  “Well, ” she said, “she’s sick.”

  Duh.

  She talked about MRIs and made “chemotherapy” noises, and I looked at her like she was insane. This was a thirteen-year-old dog, in middlin’ health. How miserable should I make her? I agreed to a series of tests, noninvasive, but no MRIs, no exploratory surgery. If she had cancer, she had cancer. After a couple of weeks of blood work, a switch to a new doctor, and several hundred bucks, they figured out what was wrong. Apparently she had an immune reaction to her own blood.

  And that was when the doctor said, “She doesn’t get any exercise. Maybe ever. You carry her.”

  Feh. Who cares? I didn’t really care that I was behaving like a complete lunatic where my dogs were concerned, because, hey, they’re my dogs. They depend on me for everything. And they give everything back. So we soldiered on. Or, rather, I did.

  Morning walks now took close to an hour and a half. The same with dinner walks. And night walks. No matter. Casey still slept curled in the crook of my knees, and Bear snored and twitched in his dreams on the floor beside us.

  But of course all things end. Time wins, and even the most loving heart cannot defeat it.

  One morning about two weeks later Casey was much worse. She was having trouble breathing, and it was clear she wanted out. So . . . I let her go. I took her to the vet’s, placed her on her blanket on the table, and held her head in my hands until she was gone. I’d promised her when I got her that no matter what, I wouldn’t leave her alone when she went home.

  I kept that promise.

  I was wrecked. I didn’t know what to do. I’d never been in California without her.

  She was my girl. And she was gone.

  Bear was not. And, as dogs do, he got me through.

  For a month he rallied. He was much more affectionate, he tried his best to climb on me every time I knelt to hug him on the dock, he sniffed and snuffed all over the marina when I took him on his slow, painful walks. But eventually he started to slide again. And finally, one Wednesday morning, after he’d lost control all over the boat in the five minutes it took me to wake up, get out of bed, and put on my pants, I reached the breaking point. I called the vet and scheduled a time.

  It’s hard to make that decision, when, unlike Casey, it isn’t clear that he’s ready to go. It’s hard to make an appointment to let go of a dear friend at a given hour on a given day. But sometimes it’s the only thing to do. So six weeks after Casey died, after walking Bear late that last night, lying abed an hour that last morning and watching him sleep, walking him slowly in the morning and afternoon (both
times letting him sniff to his heart’s content), and stuffing him full of all the soft food and biscuits he wanted, I took him to the vet’s.

  It was a relief, I think, for both of us. The vet approved; she said he’d slid a lot since she had last seen him. And as he lay on the table, his head in my hands, and looked at me, I knew it was right. He was ready to go home, too.

  Another promise kept.

  And now, for the first time in ten years, I’m dogless. This is OK; the last two years of their lives, particularly the last two months, had been tough. I looked forward to a rest. The oddest part has been simply waking up and leaving the boat; I’ve never really done so. But the biggest change was in how I viewed myself. A large part of my self-image was tied up in having dogs. I’m a dog guy, for cryin’ out loud. Dogs ran up to me, because I smelled like a big, funny-looking dog.

  They don’t any more. I’m not a dog guy any more. I’m just a guy.

  We have a peculiar life, we single gay men. We have our friends, our families (sometimes), our jobs, and our hobbies. But when, like me, one has been single for a very long time, what we have most is our dogs. They keep us company, make us laugh, console us when we’re lonely, and snuggle up against us at night. They’re a lot like boyfriends, actually, only nicer. And usually they stick around longer. I know my pups did. And I miss them more than I’ll ever miss a boyfriend, new or old.

  Someday, when all my dogs are long gone, and I’m old and tired and dim with age or whatever will take me away from this life, I’m hoping there’s a little red dock cart to carry me to Rainbow Bridge, where I can laugh and run and roll around again with Casey and Bear and Nudge and Bucket and all of the animals I have loved and will love.

  Until then I’ll wait for the next dog to come my way. Which she will.

  Puppy whipped again, I hope.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Steve Berman: SHI HAPPENS

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The love of dogs connects us not only to our canine companions but to other dog lovers as well. I can’t walk my Golden Retriever down our suburban street without meeting at least one of his doggie friends—and while they play, I’m making connections to my neighbors and fellow dog lovers. When Steve Berman and Don Hardy became friends, their shared love of dogs helped connect them, and when Steve heard that Don’s dogs were ailing, he knew just how Don felt. And though they were separated by the North American continent, Steve had an idea for a present that he thought might help Don cope—a Chinese Foo dog, a souvenir from a trip to the Chinese mainland.

  Foo dogs are found in art as early as 200 B. C. and have a strong connection to Buddha. The Foo dog served as a guard, holding a spear in its paw. The mischievous or devilish look on its face helped in its mission at Buddhist temples of scaring away evil spirits. Foo dogs also graced important buildings and palaces until the demise of the Chinese Empire in 1911. As decorative and symbolic elements, they are ubiquitous both in China itself and in Chinatowns around the world.

  Foo dogs are often found in pairs, the way Steve Berman eventually found his. The word fu means “happiness” in Chinese, and there is a long tradition of giving Foo dogs as gifts.

  Steve Berman didn’t know all this when he found a special present for his friend Don. But the spirit of the dog is ancient, mysterious and sacred, and works in ways that only Buddha knows.

  DOGS GUARD US from many dangers, especially from loneliness. When reading a book, is there anything more reassuring than reaching down from the bed or chair to lightly scratch the fur of your best friend? They create an impression of safety and comfort.

  Perhaps that is why in folklore and myth so many guardian beings were based on hounds: Ulysses’s dog Argos, the only one who recognized him when he returned from his Odyssey; Cerberus and Garm, who guarded the realms of the dead in Greek and Norse myth, respectively. Some threatened any who crossed their paths, but even the nastiest, the demonic black dogs in Celtic legends, would often show a kind streak, warning innocents of impending misfortune and saving their lives. And in the East there are Foo dogs, which bring to mind a good friend of mine. Foo dogs, or shi, are the wondrous stone statues found throughout China.

  Close inspection reveals they actually resemble lions more than any dog. That’s because Buddhist tales of lions originally inspired the shi’s artisans. There was only one animal in the Middle Kingdom that came close to resembling a lion: the dogs of Foo. Nowadays we call them Pekingese. One myth tells how the breed began as a love affair between a lion and a butterfly (how queer!), and only the Buddha’s help allowed them to finally couple. Standing next to these great statues, with their fearsome maws and claws, it’s hard to imagine a cute Peke as the source material.

  Before my summer 2005 trip to Beijing and Ulan Bator (the capital of Mongolia), my friend Don had to deal with losing his two beloved aging dogs, Bear (a giant Schnauzer mutt) and Casey (a Cocker Spaniel). I kept abreast of their health through reading his blog. He always worried that he would wake up to find one of them had passed during the night. I felt his pain as Casey became sick. At times he wrote so calmly, but there were many entries where I knew his eyes were wet and his insides were shuddering as he typed the words.

  I met Don by happenstance at a convention. We’re both gay, and sometimes the written word appeals more than a handsome face. He understands parts of my life that my straight friends don’t, as if we share a different language. I grew up under the watchful eye of a sweet Kerry Blue Terrier and know how meaningful a dog can be.

  Don lives in San Francisco. I’m not far from Philly, too many miles to offer much in the way of comfort. Not that it’s ever easy to distract someone who is losing best friends. Don’s the epitome of the dilettante with the hounds; I wouldn’t be surprised if some psychic discovered that in a past life he wore the red jacket and spurs of an expert fox hunter (though he’d feel guilty about chasing those tails). Then again he’s also the sort who likes to roll around on the floor. With his dogs, I imagine, though there have been rumors…

  All I could do was offer to bring him back a gift from my trip. I promised him a Foo dog.

  After eighteen hours of travel, after the long lines at customs at the Beijing airport, the hotel was a welcome sight. Two pale marble Foo dogs stood guard in the driveway; one silently assured me of a safe stay, while the other had a presence that reminded me of my promise to Don. I petted each dog after asking its permission.

  I had no idea that halfway around the globe, Casey’s health had deteriorated to the point where Don knew it was best to send her home. He held her head in his hands until she was gone. I think now of how she must have felt. Soft and warm. The marble beneath my fingers had been cool despite the ninety-degree heat.

  In one sense, I had no difficulty finding shi. Every historical site we visited had them standing proud on pillars and stone blocks. I took pictures not only for myself but for Don. But despite their constant presence, I could not find anything to return with. A Mao watch, even with its snazzy saluting arm as the minute hand, is not much comfort to a dog person (though mao translates as “fur”).

  I looked down many a side-alley bazaar. But enamel masquerading as inexpensive jade or teakwood would have been insufficient. I needed a shi that had presence and significance so it would be a better balm.

  Don has always laughed at my cynicism, especially my disdain for the mystical or supernatural. I suppose it could be coincidence how the shi found me. That would be the easiest explanation. But as I type this, I find myself struck by how purposeful it all seems.

  Shortly before I was due to return home, I was leaving an ancient Mongolian Buddhist temple when an old man stopped me on the broken steps. Stooped over and wearing dingy clothes, he was just one of the many peddlers who tried to sell trinkets to tourists. He pulled out a tiny flask for scented oil, weathered coins, a Soviet-era medal. I shook my head at each, and then he held out in creased hands two tiny bronze Foo dogs. I looked down and stopped, whi
ch encouraged him to smile at me with twin rows of broken teeth.

  I picked one up. It was heavy and warm from being carried in his shirt pocket. Fine details brought back to mind every carved stone shi I had seen on the trip. I looked back over my shoulder at the temple I had just left. A sense of dignity and lost splendor filled me. I felt a blend of melancholy for all that had been lost— for the cultural heritage of that nation, for Don having to bid farewell to his dogs—and yet this sadness was not bitter.

  I pulled out the paltry sum he requested and then doubled it for the old man and bought both. He seemed surprised at my generosity.

  I kept the two bronze shi wrapped and safe in my luggage. They were as precious as the exotic purple jade earrings I splurged on for my mother, more rare and meaningful than the handmade wood demon mask I purchased at the ancient and ruined capital of Karakorum.

  My travels were all safe. Even when I climbed down from a mountain shrine and lost my footing on a treacherous trail, I did not plummet down the rock face, only bruised my tailbone. The prediction of safety made by the Foo dogs at the hotel had come true.