One afternoon, walking the road home from her two-room public school, Sandi came across a cluster of caterpillars, sprinkled like furry orange confetti across the hot blacktop. Passing cars were a rarity but when one blew by, highlighting their peril, she felt compelled to act. Pulling the bottom of her T-shirt out of her shorts, she fashioned a collecting pouch, squatted down, and hopped across the asphalt gathering the vulnerable grubs. On an ordinary day the walk home from school took fifteen minutes, door to door, but Sandi’s rescue mission and the delivery of every single endangered and wayward caterpillar to the safety of a green leaf in a nearby tree took over two hours.
Triumphant, bursting through the back door, Sandi shouted,
“Mom, mom, guess what I just—”
“How … dare … you!”
Sandi heard the words before she saw where they were coming from, heard each syllable crushed between clenched molars. Then her mother stepped into the kitchen, gloved hands on hips, dressed as though she were about to drive into town.
“You knew I had a hair appointment this afternoon. I specifically reminded you this morning, but once again you were only thinking about yourself. When are you going to wake up from that dream world you live in?”
The lambasting continued, extinguishing all the delight and sense of accomplishment in her daughter’s eyes. At some point most parents would interject phrases like “worried sick” or “something might have happened to you,” defending their anger with fear. Not so Sandi’s mother. We could cut her some slack, after all this was the early sixties, a time when children were routinely turned out like horses, encouraged to use their imagination for play, a time before cell phones, when a holler out the back door was enough. Still, a belief that your child had to be safe seems like a poor excuse for not looking.
Later, exiled to her bedroom, Sandi tried to fathom why her mother would care more about a haircut than about helping innocent creatures. Standing at the window, imprisoned and crying, this little girl did not know how to articulate her feelings, but she was certain that looking right could never be as important as doing right, and that tears and isolation were no reward for offering nature a small but helpful hand.
Animals began plugging the holes in Sandi’s life, giving her purpose and something to love. She wanted to love her mother, but the abandoned and hopeless cats and dogs she rescued were quick to teach her that love requires reciprocity. It is a game requiring a minimum of two players. You get back what you put in and if one side loses interest, there’s not much point in playing on.
The lucky beneficiaries of her mother’s affection were mostly, and always would be, men. There had been a father, somewhere along the way, but he had disappeared, along with all their family photos, robbing Sandi of the evidence and what few memories remained of his pathetic involvement in her childhood.
Replacement fathers came and went, and during the gaps in between her mother might seek refuge and affection from her daughter. At these times Sandi’s mother absorbed love like a black hole absorbs light, insisting on being loved. She sought reassurances regarding the freshness of her physical appearance, berated herself and then justified all her weaknesses as a mother. As soon as the hiatus between men ended, Sandi knew this temporary vulnerability would vanish, forgotten, the frigid and detached relationship with her mother instantly restored.
Pets were never so fickle in their emotions. They were always there for her, reliable, trusted confidants, attentive to a whispered secret and sworn to a vow of silence. They shared her moments of happiness and licked away her tears of sadness or the pain of a scraped knee, hugged away her loneliness. They became her most important social outlet and she engaged them in conversation regarding all the events of the day. One of these pets was Rocco, a beagle that had belonged to a neighbor of Sandi’s aunt, a dog on death row, guilty of competing for his family’s time and affection after the arrival of a new baby. Sandi lobbied, pestered and eventually sprung the dog, rewarded by an affectionate and loyal hound. Unfortunately, in one memorable incident, the depth of Rocco’s appreciation proved hazardous to his health. Losing out to a squirrel gifted in the art of street fighting, Rocco sustained a significant injury to his manhood, a vicious bite that necessitated a visit to the vet and a number of carefully placed stitches. Every day Sandi rushed home from school to attend to her latest patient but as the days passed, the wound refused to heal, the stitches repeatedly splitting, tearing through the delicate tissue.
“God damn it,” shouted her mother, “I’m not spending another penny on that stupid dog, do you understand?”
Of course Sandi understood, but what she didn’t understand was why little Rocco felt compelled to show her his injury, in a frenzy of excitement that blossomed into unintentional, full-blown, and damaging arousal, every time she returned home from a day at school.
Afraid of what might happen, Sandi returned to the vet, describing the ritual of their daily reunion.
“Here, try these,” said the vet, keeping a straight face as he poured a handful of tranquilizer tablets into a labeled plastic container. “Tell your mom to give Rocco a pill about half an hour before you come home from school.”
The panic in Sandi’s face at the idea of asking her mother for a favor, let alone one involving an animal, must have radiated across the examination room.
The vet bit into his smile, squatting down to align his gaze with hers.
“Just tell her the medication will make sure Rocco doesn’t cost her any more money.”
So Sandi did, and Rocco took the drug, the antidote to his emotional Viagra, thereby giving him a chance to restore his delicate sensibilities to full health.
Then there was a rough-coated Saint Bernard that went by the name of Sony who was liable to demonstrate a powerful protective streak when it came to Sandi, contesting the teenage advances of male suitors by attacking the flesh of their buttocks with robust and drooling jowls. And there was a stray white short-haired tomcat who would become Sandi’s constant companion for nineteen years. This cat became privy to some of the most important firsts of her life—first crush, first kiss, first boyfriend, first breakup. When Sandi realized she had met the man she was destined to marry, this cat was the first to know. When she was pregnant with her first child, the same cat received the news before her husband. Like any new addition to Sandi’s menagerie, all domesticated recruits were subjected to intense scrutiny by her mother, their approval always in some doubt. However, from the first encounter with this particular tomcat, Sandi sensed there was something special between them and she was unwilling to chance his rejection. She thought long and hard about how to guarantee his acceptance and when the answer finally came, Sandi knew she would always derive a certain pleasure from turning a cruel recollection to her advantage.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” she told her mother, producing the sleek blue-eyed cat, sweeping back his soft ears, turning him into a miniature seal pup with each stroke of her hand.
Sandi’s mother said nothing—a good sign. And he was awfully cute.
“What’s his name?” she said, and Sandi tried not to smile, knowing they would be together, knowing her choice of a peculiar yet precise moniker for this stray cat was guaranteed to secure his future.
“I haven’t christened him yet,” said Sandi, “but with your permission, I thought we might call him Michael Ashley.”
FAST-FORWARD a decade or so and instead of welcoming a new pet into her life Sandi was welcoming a baby girl. Unlike her mother, Sandi was thrilled to have a daughter, Sonja (her second child would be a son named Jamie). The exact opposite of her own mother, Sandi worshipped her daughter, loved her to the point of physical pain, an ache of happiness to have this joy in her life. Still, there is a big difference between cherishing a stray cat and raising a baby girl, and the consequences of Sandi’s years of emotional seclusion from humans who loved her back began to surface.
When you confide in pets for most of your life, unrestraine
d honesty becomes the norm. Pets don’t stand in judgment. They don’t criticize. They don’t sweat the small stuff. For the most part their gestures and opinions are bold and clear and positive. Sandi was used to baring her heart, spilling her feelings knowing that she could vent the turmoil and always be rewarded by their gentle touch and even temperament. Their understated kindness would restore tranquility. They were never too busy. No rain checks, no bad days. Animals were predictable, reliable, and eager to share. Sandi had no reason to suppose that loving a child would be any different.
Sonja, however, was not a foundling pet. Despite all their shared DNA—the sun-kissed freckles and russet eyes, pale skin and flowing red hair—Sonja Rasmussen was the emotional antithesis of her mother. Perhaps Sonja felt she was loved too much, if such a thing was possible. Perhaps she rebelled against all the transparency of her mother’s feelings. Perhaps she saw her mother’s desire to talk problems out, to instantly address, resolve, and bury conflict, as a sign of weakness. Whatever the reason, Sonja shied away from acts of affection, kept her feelings in indefinite lockdown, and preferred not to confide. Though their love for each other was undeniable, an emotional mismatch evolved and, as the years went by, this specific disconnect between mother and daughter became palpable.
Husband Jan and the kids had come to accept Mom’s many strays and rescues as a fundamental component of the Rasmussen family. Pets were an essential ingredient of everyday life, and along the way Jan and Sonja developed a soft spot for Dobermans, something about their stature, presence, loyalty, and eagerness to please. Now eighteen years old, with college around the corner, Sonja was about to get a pet of her very own, but she knew her canine companion of choice needed to contract in size. Using the logic of “Honey I Shrunk the Doberman,” Sonja believed she had hit upon the perfect dog—a miniature pinscher.
Sandi’s own subsequent fascination for Min Pins may have germinated from a chance to help her daughter when Sonja arranged a naive and hasty purchase from a so-called breeder who was really running a puppy mill. When they went to pick up the puppy, scenes from a hidden-camera exposé invaded their senses—the cacophonous barking of animals desperate for human contact and breeding bitches crushed inside converted chicken coops, the smell of the dog waste piling up beneath their caged feet, filtered for convenience through the wire floors on which their pads permanently splayed. This holocaust of factory-farmed dogs was more than Sandi could bear, but reading the embarrassment and shame contorting her daughter’s face, she decided to help Sonja rescue one hostage, even if they had to deal with the guilt of not liberating more.
“He doesn’t look much like a Min Pin,” said Sonja.
And Sandi had to agree. Their misfit had the domed head of a Chihuahua. Not that it mattered. Bruno, as he was later named, may have sported a little Mexican fire in his blood, but deep down on the inside, where it counted, he was a miniature pinscher.
ONE by one Sandi parted company with her children, those on two legs and those on four. Sonja met Dave, married, and was about to start a new life on the island of Bermuda. Jamie headed off to college, and, coincidentally, Sandi’s menagerie of canine and feline waifs began to dwindle until she and Jan were left with an empty nest.
For a while this arrangement made sense. She and Jan were busy, their respective jobs necessitating a good deal of time on the road. Nevertheless, the absence of animal companionship did not sit well with Sandi. She missed the comfort and art of canine and feline conversation. Rescuing strays was such an unremarkable yet vital part of her life. Simply put, it made her feel human. Perhaps the greatest gift an animal has to offer is a permanent reminder of who we really are. And strangely, for the first time in her life, an animal in need had failed to reach out to her. Sandi never set out to help sick or abandoned animals. There was never a plan. They just showed up.
Sandi began to wonder: If animals were not coming to her, did she need to go to them? And perhaps, more importantly, why had they stopped calling?
Even though she had parted with cash for little Bruno, she felt like she and Sonja had responded to his cry for help.
The desire for a new dog began to work itself in, starting to itch, and Sandi allowed herself to wish she could scratch it better. When Sonja finally acquired a genuine miniature pinscher, Odin (her father, Jan, was allowed to flex his Danish muscle when it came to naming pets), Sandi realized that although she was thrilled for her daughter, secretly she was jealous. She began to crave a Min Pin puppy of her own.
Sandi’s fiftieth birthday celebration seemed like an obvious opportunity for her wish to be granted. In fact, many readers will be screaming for Sandi to take the reins, to buy a dog herself and be done with it. Not so fast. Bear in mind the stranglehold of her childhood. The scars may have faded but they remained difficult to conceal, constricting and impeding what you and I might take for granted. Sandi grew up accepting that she never deserved attention. She was much less than special. She had done nothing to deserve reward. Buying a puppy for herself would have been pure indulgence and she would always feel like she had done something wrong, something selfish. But if one were to come to her as a gift … Laying out a minefield of hints and suggestions was the only extravagance she could manage. In the months before her birthday her excitement took hold, with Sonja and Jan conniving through a volley of e-mails and whispered phone calls as the day approached.
On the eve of Sandi’s birthday, Sonja called her mother.
“I’m picking you up first thing in the morning. It’s all arranged.”
“Where are we going?” Sandi’s euphoria did not mix well with the pretense of ignorance.
“Someplace special” was all she got in return, the confidence in her daughter’s tone a billboard that said this gift would be exactly what Sandi wanted.
Pretending to be excited on the way there would not be necessary. But feigning complete surprise when she was asked to close her eyes, open her hands, and receive a squeaky, squirming black and tan ball of love was another matter altogether. Sandi actually found herself practicing in the mirror, fanning away imaginary vapors like a starlet about to make an Oscar acceptance speech.
When she slid into the passenger seat of Sonja’s car, maintaining the facade became insufferable, the agony of the wait dueling with her resolve not to spoil what her daughter had so carefully planned—until they headed toward downtown London, Ontario. This was unexpected. In her mind’s eye Sandi had seen a drive to a country farm and a scrupulous breeder. By the time her daughter pulled over outside a pet store, Sandi was no longer pretending to be surprised. Ever since the incident with Bruno they had shared a mutual distrust of the source of pet-store dogs. So why change now?
Sandi emerged from the car, hesitated, and then began walking toward the fur and sawdust trapped behind the glass.
“Mom, where are you going?”
From across the street, Sonja waved her mother over. She was standing outside a different type of store altogether.
“Mom, you and I both know I have a hard time expressing myself, but you know I will always love you. I wanted to find a unique way for us to celebrate your big five-oh together and this was what I came up with.”
Sandi hoped the fearful arch in her eyebrows, the incredulity paralyzing her lower jaw might be construed as surprise.
“I want us to get matching tattoos,” said Sonja, putting it out there as a request and a question.
Sandi could have let the disappointment get to her. Instead, in a moment of confusion, with her daughter, her firstborn, searching her face for acceptance, she moved past her own desires and saw the gesture for what it was. For the better part of her life Sandi had been nurtured by the unconditional love of animals. Her daughter was independent, guarded, and emotionally restrained. Declarations of love in any shape or form were rare and Sandi grabbed this one while she could, hugging Sonja tight, their physical bond a chance to recover composure, to accept the loss and appreciate the gain.
“I’m so gla
d you want to do this with me,” said Sonja, her eyes still probing for signs of unwillingness, offering a way out. “What kind of tattoo do you think we should get?”
Never in her wildest dreams did Sandi imagine she would be answering such a question, and though the obvious suggestion was an inky illustration of her coveted Min Pin puppy, she and Sonja eventually agreed upon tiny, matching yellow roses on the inside of their right ankles, which, to Sandi’s surprise and pleasure, became a cherished expression of their friendship.
FOR twelve more months stray pets failed to cross paths with Sandi, and as her fifty-first birthday approached, she allowed herself to dream that this was her year. Once again Sonja and Jan began to scheme online and on the phone, but when the day arrived, instead of a Min Pin puppy her gift was a ceramic pot filled with yellow chrysanthemums. Sandi, the queen of internalization, finally lost it.
“Dear God, Jan, I’m fifty-one years old. I’m not dead. Mums are for grandmothers and unless you and Sonja are keeping something from me, I’m not a grandmother yet.”
In the end it was her son, Jamie, who broke down her reserve, forced a confession, and took it to his father. It was decided: after decades of letting strays find her, Sandi’s family would see to it that she would find a pet of her very own.
Though she did feel a bit like she was interfering with fate, Sandi was determined to do her homework and get it right. She purchased books on how to find the perfect breeder, on selecting the perfect companion. Her lifestyle involved air travel, but luckily, for the most part, her flights were direct and relatively short. According to ASPCA recommendations, having your dog travel under the seat in front of you was the safest way to go. Therefore, based on size restrictions alone, the Min Pin breed remained a strong contender for the perfect canine companion. However, to win the title, he or she would also require a calm demeanor, excellent social skills, and, most important of all, an aversion to excessive barking. Sandi was asking a lot, and she knew it, but after six weeks of extreme surfing and research, she came upon an unpretentious home breeder of miniature pinschers a thousand miles away in Doon, Iowa.
Love Is the Best Medicine Page 3