You Had Me at Woof

by Julie Klam

  14. People point at us, occasionally wanting a picture, occasionally telling me that the puppies are in fact (a) Aztec Chihuahuas or (b) Ibizan hounds.

  15. We turn around and the process happens in reverse.

  16. I am awarded the Medal of Valor for all that I’ve done (in my dreams).

  17. A few hours later I do it again.

  I have a theory about my dogs’ behavior issues. It’s that saying “All dogs go to heaven.” They hear it all the time. Why bother curbing yourself if you have this Get Out of Hell Free card?

  In between those times there are a lot of laughs. Paul, Violet, and I sing songs about the dogs like, “Wisteria has bigger ears than any doggie should; Wisteria is prettier than an old block of wood” to the tune of “Born Free.” I yell at the dogs in a Carmela Soprano voice, “Dahlia Marie, get ya little ass down heah!” We give the dogs full names—Fiorello Luigi Parmegiana and Wisteria Louis-Dreyfus (sometimes Wisteria Louise Johnson and sometimes I can’t deal with the mouthful that is Wisteria so I call her Francine)—and we announce their entrance into the debutante ball in our living room.

  Violet treated Wisteria like a sibling. There were days when she would say she hated Wisteria and others when she couldn’t wait to torment her. But Fiorello was the love of her life. She carried him around awkwardly from a cozy spot on the couch to sit on her lap in the bathroom while she went. Whatever he did, she had a good explanation.

  Me: “Fiorello peed on the bedspread!”

  Violet: “He doesn’t like the flowered pattern.”

  Me: “Fiorello peed on my jeans.”

  Violet: “They shouldn’t be on the floor, Mom.”

  Me: “Fiorello peed on the bath mat.”

  Violet: “What a good boy! He knew to go to the bathroom in the bathroom.”

  Violet is a true dog person. She doesn’t mind being licked on the mouth or jumped on. She thinks about the dogs’ feelings and tells me that when she grows up, along with being an artist, she’s going to rescue puppies, too. I explain to her that she already is.

  At other times, I’m breaking up fights between Bea and Dahlia and always getting bitten. I tell my friend Robin that as much as I love them, the four dogs are getting impossible. Dahlia had become flagrantly incontinent, regularly walking up and taking a giant pee by my feet. It was a lot and even I was getting tired of our apartment smelling like the corridors of the Union Square subway station. Robin told me about how she had two old dogs, a male and a female. The female couldn’t stand to be away from the male so Robin, an Emmy Award-winning TV writer, sat her down one day and said, “Listen, I want you to know that if he dies, you’re going to have to die, too.” The next day, the female was standing in the living room and she looked at Robin, took a breath, and keeled over onto the floor, two X’s in her eyes. It was good to have someone to laugh about it all with.

  WHEN DAHLIA’S PUPPIES HIT eight months, she still licked their ears and nuzzled them. She yelled at them for being annoying, but she was never, ever aggressive toward them. She was still a wonderful mother, and for that alone I had to love her.

  Paul and I had the discussion on a daily basis. Four dogs are too many. What are we going to do? Let’s let my brother have Wisteria. We can’t. Let’s let Uncle Dan take Beatrice. We can’t. Let’s find a new home through Petfinder and try to place Dahlia and one of her puppies. We can’t. There wasn’t a solution. The best I could do was keep talking about possibilities. I hoped that my parents might take one (or two), but my father didn’t want them because he likes fuzzy dogs whose coats suit his winter sporting habit. We continued to discuss future maybes, but in the end, we just couldn’t let any one of them go.

  I have a saying: “In every life a little dog you don’t want must fall, and that’s probably going to be the one that buries you.”

  These puppies, whom we’ll probably call “the puppies” until they’re fifteen, chew our shoes and piss up our rugs; when you yell, “No!” at them, they wiggle around like you just told them they hit the lotto. And it’s messy, very messy, but it’s miraculous. And if I get up to go to the bathroom at 4 A.M. or come home at four in the afternoon, they’re as happy to see me as if I just came back from a tour of Vietnam.

  One week, Dahlia and Beatrice got into a bad scuffle. For the first time in a long time, Dahlia was the one who got hurt. A gash in her leg. Fiorello, now fully grown, sat beside her, licking her wound and tending to her like a good Italian son.

  Wisteria became my shadow. Wherever I went, she was right behind me, and then she insisted I take her into bed at night. When the same thing happened with Violet, I realized it was simpler to cave in and let her sleep with us than spend nights going back and forth with her. I’m of the same mind with the little black dog. I remember the point when Otto stopped sleeping with me. One day he just didn’t have the energy to hop up. I relish the warm dog by my feet, and feel like if she wants to be near me that badly, I should let her.

  One night I got into bed alone. Then Wisteria came up, and Bea came up and Violet jumped in and Paul got in. And Violet went to get Fiorello, though he only stayed for a minute because he wanted to go back to his mother.

  “There are too many heartbeats in this bed!” Paul said. “We’ve got to do something about this.”

  And Wisteria jumped up and started furiously licking him and I realized that was the answer I should have been giving him all along.

  WE SPENT THE FOLLOWING summer taking trips with the dogs to the beach and my parents’ house. It was an exceptionally lovely summer, perfect weather and lots of fun visits with family.

  Toward the end of August, Violet and I went to my parents’ house, and Paul stayed in Manhattan to work. The first day there, Dahlia seemed uncomfortable to me. I planned to take her to the vet, but I had an idea that it wasn’t any one thing. I spoke to Sheryl on the phone, and we both thought that having the puppies had just taken too much of a toll on her poor body. I sat down next to her on the couch and petted her and kissed her and she fell asleep. We lost Dahlia the next day.

  It was one day short of her one-year anniversary with us. Though it had been probably the most intensely hard on her physically, I also believed it was the best year of her life. She had her puppies and got to keep them and she knew they were safe.

  Walking through my parents’ fields of wildflowers, I explained to Violet what happened, emphasizing that Dahlia was quite old. Once again we were talking about heaven. Violet was so very sad, most upset at the idea that the puppies were now orphaned. They’d never had a dad and now their mom was gone. When I suggested to her that Paul and I could be their mommy and daddy, too, she was profoundly relieved. I think I was as well.

  In that amazing way that kids do, she started elaborating on the images I’d given her of heaven—not the heaven I imagine now, but the one I believed in as a kid. She named all the people we’d lost who would be waiting for Dahlia there: Grandpa Roger and Baba Jean and Uncle Ernest and Aunt Phyllis and Aunt Susie and Aunt Iris and Otto and Moses. Dahlia would be healthy and not old and have anything she wanted to eat and all the toys she wanted to play with and the days would all be bright and warm. “Oh!” she said, remembering, “and Dahlia can have all of her teeth again!”

  By the time we headed back to the house, the sun was setting. The clouds were the colors of the inside of a peach. I held Violet’s hand and I think we both felt some peace thinking of Dahlia up there in heaven.

  LESSON ELEVEN

  How to Find the Right Fit

  If you’re going to P. Diddy’s clambake on the North Fork of Long Island and you need to know whether a Pinot Blanc or a Riesling works better with Montauk clams, you could consult with my friend Jessica. If you want to know which toaster oven will leave the smallest carbon footprint, talk to my dad. If you’re thinking of traveling to an exotic, yet comfy, locale and need a recommendation, ask my friend Jancee. And if anybody has a dog question, they come to me. You know, like: I have a dog and it’s sick/not housebrok
en/biting people. I want to get a dog, what kind? My neighbor’s dog never stops barking; can I write them an anonymous note? I found a stray dog; what do I do? Do you think the Monster of Montauk is a bulldog? Etc. . . . I have the distinct honor of being known by friends, fans, followers, and family as the dog expert, to my face anyway. Behind my back it’s the dog nut.

  For over a year, a friend of mine, Andrea, has been asking if we could get together and talk about dogs. She has three children and they desperately want a dog. She had a brief, unsuccessful adoption of a mutt from a shelter, and she doesn’t want to make another mistake. She’s essentially starting from zero, as in, she didn’t have dogs growing up, she’s not a woman who stops to pet every dog on the street, she’s really not a dog person. We make a date for Violet and me to come over. Our daughters will play Polly Pockets and we will chat canines.

  Her building on Riverside Drive is one of those grand, elegant prewar buildings that you imagine Katharine Hep-burn stepping out of to hail a Checker Cab.

  Past the doorman and the elevator attendant, we get to Andrea’s and she ushers us in with warmth and affection. Right away I notice the distinct lack of smells. The next thing that catches my attention is that there are no pee-soaked newspapers on her hardwood floors. It’s tidy and photogenic. I make Violet take off her boots; I take off my sneakers and we go inside.

  Andrea gestures for me to come and sit on the creamy suede couch, whose legs are suspiciously without bite marks, the fabric free of tears from tiny teeth and nails. There’s an oriental rug without faded yellow stains; lovely art and sculptures sit undisturbed. Beneath the glass coffee table, there are no chewed orthotics or Dora the Explorer toys bitten in half like an extra in Jaws. The last detail I take in is Andrea’s pants—clean and dazzlingly white. The apartment whispers to me, “Dogs do not live here.”

  I sit carefully on the couch facing the view of the river and think about the similarities between Andrea’s and my homes. Well, we both have walls and floors and ceilings.

  “So!” she says. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “That’s fine,” I assure her. “I didn’t know anything before I got Otto. Why don’t you describe for me your ideal dog.”

  The thing is, Andrea’s not really the one dreaming of the dog. Her children are, mainly her nine-year-old son.

  “Well,” she says slowly, “the problem with the dog we adopted was it had very bad emotional problems, like severe separation anxiety. ... We were totally ill-equipped.”

  “I understand,” I say. “I understand,” I say again. “That’s totally . . . understandable.”

  We talk a little more about the dog who didn’t work out, with me understanding, and then she tries to put into words what she wants. “Not terribly needy.” Her husband travels frequently for work and her children are in different schools. Then she adds, “Not high maintenance.”

  I start talking about good apartment dogs.

  “I don’t want a very small dog, like a Chihuahua,” she says, wrinkling her nose. I nod. “Not too small and yappy. But not too big.” She holds her hand about three feet above the ground. “Like maybe this big?”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod. I am thinking of the perfect dog. Martha. From the children’s book Martha Speaks.

  “Not a dog who barks a lot.” She pauses and then blurts, “I don’t want to sound awful saying this, but you know how some dogs smell?” At the word “smell,” she seems to recall a very foul dog-related odor.

  “Yeah,” I laugh, “I don’t think you sound awful.” I really don’t. I see how much Andrea just doesn’t really want a dog, but her kids do, and she loves them and wants them to be happy. She’s being as honest as she can be so she doesn’t end up with another situation that doesn’t work and hurts her family.

  “In terms of smell, I think there are some dogs that are smellier than others,” I say, clinically. “I also think all dogs have some smell.”

  Andrea looks worried.

  “Though,” I say quickly, “my aunt Mattie’s basset hound, Norman, smelled like cigarettes and my aunt Phyllis’s poodle smelled like Estée Lauder’s Youth Dew.” I stop. “Poodles are great!”

  “I don’t want a poodle. I don’t want a poofy dog,” she says.

  “Well, not all poodles smell like Youth Dew and they aren’t all poofy either. It’s how people decide to cut the hair. You know, go to the groomer and ask for a Continental cut or whatever with the pom-poms?” I go into my poodle rap. “We had a standard poodle growing up. She was called Misty because she was gray. She just had evenly cut hair—well, not so even because my dad did it in our basement. ...” She wasn’t convinced. “Poodles are very smart, and they don’t shed.”

  “Oh!” she says, remembering. She shakes her head no as she says, “I can’t have a dog who sheds.”

  “Boston terriers don’t shed,” I say, putting in a quick plug for the home team.

  “What about French bulldogs?” she asks.

  “They shed more than Bostons, and I think they tend to have more health problems. A lot of them suffer from joint diseases and spinal disorders.” I do love French bulldogs, but I think they’re a breed for a more experienced dog owner.

  Being a dog person is not something you can force. Sometimes I watch people who want to be seen as dog people, but they really aren’t. They pet and scratch a dog with a manic intensity. “Here’s the spot!” they say as the dog seizes up, twitching, looking more bothered than anything, like it might succumb to shaken dog syndrome. After they’ve made sure everyone has seen them petting the dog, they sneak off to bathe in Purell.

  WE SPEAK FURTHER AND I suggest that Andrea look at dogs when she’s walking around and if she sees one she likes, find out what it is and then we can investigate the possibilities together. As she walks me to the door, she asks if I know about golden doodles or Labradoodles or cockapoos or Portuguese water dogs. I honestly don’t, but I suggest she get a basic dog book that breaks down the breeds and characteristics.

  We leave and I think about my knowledge. So much of what I know about dogs, like what I know about trees and birds, I learned listening to my father. Chows are mean, Jack Russells are a friggin’ pain in the neck, beagles howl, terriers roam, golden retrievers are gentle and sweet. But I then rolled that information into my experience and have come to the conclusion that every dog is unique. There are absolutely dogs who are true to breed in their traits, whether it be stubbornness or mouthiness or gentleness. But I’ve known hyper and mellow boxers, sweet and vicious German shepherds. It depends on the dog, where it came from, who bred it, how it was raised and socialized. And though a howling beagle might drive my father crazy, there are events where people with beagles get together with their dogs for a massive howlelujah chorus.

  I am always interested in what brings a kind of dog to a certain person. It’s like when you see a really odd couple—like James Carville and Mary Matalin—and you try to figure out what attracted them to each other. With dogs, it’s pure. You never find a person who chose a dog because it has a trust fund or an endorsement deal with Nike.

  Unsurprisingly, the people who like Boston terriers often go for French bulldogs, too, and the whole flat-faced line. I do love all dogs, although some breeds, I must confess, I just don’t get. I never understood the appeal of Chesapeake Bay retrievers; to me they appear decidedly uncuddly, like they’re made out of wet clay, like Weimaraners. Pulis, with their mountains of matted dreadlocks, are also not attractive to me, nor are clumber spaniels with their Omar Sharif eyes. Believe me, this isn’t a judgment; they’re just not my type. I know some people may not think Boston terriers are beautiful. Some men don’t like women with long hair; some men don’t like women. I don’t choose dogs with protruding noses (though the two of them running around my apartment don’t know that). And for the most part I don’t go for big dogs, though I do love Great Danes. I always wanted to have a Great Dane just for the odd image of me walking it with a Boston terrier. I’d glare at a
nyone who stared at us and yell a crazy, “What are you looking at?” And actually, it isn’t that I don’t go for big dogs as much as I don’t want one sleeping in my bed, and that is where they’d always end up.

  Certain dogs are better suited for different lifestyles. People who fly a lot and bring their pets along need them to be under twenty pounds to fit in a carrier under their airline seat. That’s a real consideration.

  If you’ve got allergies, it wouldn’t be smart to choose a triple-coated breed, like German shepherds. In New York City, certain stores don’t allow dogs, but if you carry them, it’s okay. I could not manage that if I had a rottweiler.

  I feel very strongly that people shouldn’t choose a breed that resembles them. The goal should not be to potentially end up in the local newspaper contest of people who look like their dogs. Though I understand that that may be unavoidable. I was once in a bodega with Otto reaching for something on a high shelf. Behind me I heard a woman say in a heart-stopping voice, “Oh my God—that dog is breathtakingly beautiful!” I looked at her; she was Otto in a blond wig.

  Mastiffs, the dogs I grew up with, were chosen by my parents, and though they had very big noses and reddish blond hair like my dad, I don’t think he picked them for their familial resemblance. They were sort of big English country manor dogs, and we had a large house and lots of land . . . and sometimes my mother made Yorkshire pudding. The main thing was the dogs were the right scale for our home.

  Sounds kind, right? Giving that big dog all that room to roam. Except our dogs always stayed with us in the kitchen. They’d pour their bodies into the tightest corner or the narrowest space between two counters so you’d have to vault over them to get by. This is one of the reasons I tell people I don’t feel bad about big dogs in the city. Our humongous mastiffs had a giant house and acres to roam. They’d go from the kitchen floor to lying on a small spot of grass outside the kitchen door. They didn’t ramble through the fields; they snoozed. Urban people tend to compensate for the space by giving their dogs lots of park exercise and the dog runs. My small city dogs do more with me than my Katonah dogs ever did (or wanted to do).