by Nick Trout
“Sounds good,” I said, and then, without thinking, added, “Have you started asking mother about the possibility of another dog?”
Though it came out as a question, it was really a declaration of something we had both come to appreciate over time—for some of us, living with a pet can be a bit like finding religion; once you’ve been converted, it’s hard to imagine life without them.
“Not yet, son. It’s early days and you know what your mother’s like.”
I knew all right.
“Duncan,” I mimicked, “that was our last dog and don’t be asking me for any more.”
“That’s about the size of it,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Thankfully,” I said, “I’ve heard that one before.”
“Me too,” he said. “God willing, me too.”
Perhaps the idea first crossed my mind when I was thinking back to the heyday of Whiskey and Bess. Maybe it seemed like a possible solution to the problem of Sophie’s antisocial behavior. Whatever the reason, the idea was already rattling around the back of my mind when my daughter exploited a moment of inescapable paternal weakness.
As I have mentioned before, Emily’s CF required periods of hospitalization during which she was bombarded with an assortment of hardcore intravenous antibiotics. Ever since she was an infant, Emily’s body has chosen to reject these medications in the form of allergic reactions ranging from unrelenting itchiness with disfiguring skin lesions all the way through to life-threatening blood-clotting disorders. In short, her body abhors the very drugs that help to keep her alive.
For this reason, these hospitalizations were always mingled with anxious anticipation and fear, not least when Emily was started on a new drug.
“Look, we’ll begin in the ICU and desensitize her to the antibiotic. By increasing her dose in tiny increments we can fool her body into accepting the drug.”
Her new pediatric pulmonologist spoke with the confidence of someone who had yet to discover the challenges of treating Emily—in time he would come to realize who and what he was dealing with—but for now we played along, preferring his proactive rather than reactive approach. And so, one morning, at around 2 a.m., I found myself sitting beside Emily in the intensive care unit of Children’s Hospital in Boston. Despite the hour, despite being entangled in the tentacles of wires and leads from so many monitors, despite the hubbub of noise and nurses all around, nine-year-old Emily in her pigtails and modest johnny was busy pretending to stick needles in my arms, ripping sticky bandages off my hairy flesh, savoring every wince and whine, thankful she could release her pent-up fears and pain on someone she trusted.
She had just convinced a passing nurse to photograph her tormented father with a Polaroid camera, when she said, “Daddy, do you think you could buy me a yellow Labrador?”
Her voice was so small, so innocent, the timing too improbable to feel anything other than spontaneous. It felt like a cry for help—a pure request for companionship, the stress of this moment, the anticipation of more untoward side effects, the need for unconditional security helping her find the words.
Ordinarily I might have offered my daughter a wan smile, reminding her that Daddy works for the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, a facility with its own animal adoption shelter.
“Why would we purchase a new dog when there are so many abandoned dogs in need of a loving home?” I might have said, and that would be that, Emily nodding her understanding, looking a little bashful for being insensitive to the problem of pet overpopulation. Truthfully, I wish this had been the case, but at that moment in time, in that precise situation, watching your daughter being poked and prodded, with tubes and cables running in and out of her body, frightened about how her body will react, I defy most parents not to be vulnerable to a child’s wish, no matter what it is.
“Of course,” I said. “Once we get out of the hospital, we’ll get you a dog.”
What is it with children? Even soused with medication, at an ungodly hour, she still managed to spot the discrepancy.
“Not just a dog,” she said. “A yellow Labrador.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Yellow Labrador.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” I said, kissed her on the forehead, and melted as she smiled.
12.
And Miles to Go Before I Sleep
Let me make it clear: there is no reneging on any promise made to a child in a hospital bed. It cannot be done. Don’t even try to claim selective memory loss, distortion of the facts, sleep deprivation, or stress-induced delirium. Your child will be able to recount your promise like the Pledge of Allegiance, word for word, incontrovertible, and because it might as well be chiseled in stone, she will be irrationally impatient for it to be honored. Stat!
Instinctively I tried the customary conversation, the one in which you try to make the child see beyond cute and cuddly, trying to wear them down with the tiresome responsibilities: watching out for empty water bowls and filling when necessary, helping out with feeding and not just unwanted vegetables slid under the dinner table, thorough backyard seek-and-destroy missions to defuse land mines when on “poopy patrol,” active involvement in all aspects of training including enthusiastic participation in walks regardless of inclement weather. But as soon as I started stringing sentences together I realized that inside my head I was actually hearing the words in my mother’s voice before they came out of my mouth. It was exactly the same as when I was a kid begging for a dog, and like all kids before her, myself included, Emily would not be swayed, nodding her accord with stern and indomitable fervor, as if this dog would be revered like a deity, her loyalty and responsibility unwavering. And like most parents we nodded back and didn’t believe a word of it.
To some extent, I was on board with the concept of a second dog and, more important, a dog that would be close to Emily. Whitney and Sophie were joined at the hip, so why not try to balance the canine budget, to see if Emily could develop a relationship that culminated in the same kind of devotion, dependence, and empathy. There were always times when Emily was sick and had to stay home from school, isolated from her friends. Here was a chance to have a constant companion, a playmate who never feared catching your cold, always cheerful and content just to share your space, guaranteed to make your down feel up.
Part of me hoped a feline addition to the family might fulfill my obligation. We all missed Reggie, and part of his legacy was a fresh appreciation of the powerful bond possible between a human and a cat. Emily’s pulmonologist wasn’t receptive.
“For someone with a respiratory condition, the effect of cat dander can range from problematic to downright dangerous. If you have to have a pet, I’d say stick with a dog.”
Not that this kibosh on a feline replacement made the slightest bit of difference. Emily was not budging.
“Yellow, and Labrador.”
“Why yellow?”
“Yellow, and Labrador.”
“Why not something hypoallergenic, like a standard poodle?”
“Yellow, and Labrador.”
“Okay,” I said, “I get it. What about male or female?”
Emily canted her head to one side, as if to confirm that the dog’s sex was not a significant consideration.
“Whichever will be best with Schmoopy. I’ll let you decide.” Sophie’s name had become something of a movable feast—Schmoopy, Soapy, Sofa. “So long as it’s yellow and a Labrador.”
I thought about the prospect of teaming up a terrier with a retriever and it seemed to be an odd mix, like pairing together two contrary athletes, a scrappy featherweight boxer with a compulsive triathlete, and insisting they become partners in training. Terriers are independent, mischievous, clever, and feisty. Retrievers are team players, loyal, energetic, and desperate to please. Not exactly opposites, but hopefully different enough to attract. To be honest I wasn’t worried. Every day at work I see all manner of bizarre canine combos. They all sort
themselves out and find their natural rhythm. No doubt Sophie would assert herself, the archetypal example of “little dog syndrome,” certain to point out her seniority and established position in the family dynamic. I knew Sophie would defend her private parking spot on the couch next to Whitney and gloat over the way she was swept away to Whitney’s bedroom at night, thumbing her nose at the new upstart, but I had to believe Sophie would rediscover her social graces and not a recipe for Labrador tartare.
When it came to the sex of this yellow Labrador I was torn. I wondered if a male dog might be a better foil to Sophie, a little more yin to her yang. With Reggie MIA I now lived in a household of four females. I would enjoy the camaraderie of a fellow slave to testosterone, but sadly this thought led me to Whiskey, all dominant and prone to misbehavior and the temptations of the opposite sex. It was all the flashback I needed—a Labrador bitch made the most sense after all.
My quest began with a perusal of the animal adoption center at work. It’s hard to wander around among the cages and runs, inciting the dogs into hopeful barking, drilled by eager and pleading eyes, and pretend to be “just looking.” One of the volunteer staff was quick to pounce. There were too many dogs out there in need of a home, fine dogs, dogs that, in my opinion, would make the perfect pet for Emily. But this wasn’t about my opinion and I needed to bear this in mind. Feeling awkward, I tried to phrase my inquiry as if I were asking for a friend, but it felt all wrong, as bad as asking your doctor about a friend’s embarrassing sexual dysfunction when everyone knows you are talking about yourself.
“For some reason, this crazy person is after a purebred yellow Labrador. I know, it’s so selfish and insensitive, I mean what’s the chance of a pedigree dog like that being surrendered?”
I’m not sure she bought into the snobbish fanaticism of a third party as my excuse, and I can’t say I blame her. She’s working every day to place all manner of pit bulls and pit bull mixes in loving homes, fighting to keep them off death row and here’s a veterinarian, who should know better, shopping for the perfect abandoned Labrador as if it were as easy as the point and click of a mouse on Amazon. com. And now that I had committed to my “friend,” how could I clarify the demand with “But my daughter was in the hospital, and she was in the ICU and I promised”?
Sadly the shelter does receive a number of purebred dogs, including Labradors, but they are sporadic and, as you might expect, quickly snatched up.
I reported back to Emily, the furrowed brow and pouty frown letting me know what she really thought about Dad’s “wait and see” approach to a shelter dog. Happy to remind me of the circumstances in which the promise was made, she suggested I might want to try harder, prompting me to contact our local Labrador rescue group.
“Do you ever rescue puppies?”
I thought back to the essential criteria for my mission—yellow and Labrador. Sex had been left up to me and age had not been stipulated. It was hard to imagine how a little girl could not see herself rocking a yellow ball of love back and forth in her arms, like a baby, but this vagueness had offered me a little wiggle room.
“Not often,” said the woman on the other end of the line, all business, sounding as though she was used to calls from people who regarded rescue services as a cheap breeding facility. “Most of our dogs are adults. Some are elderly, some are puppies, but the majority vary in age from a year to ten years. Have you ever owned a dog?”
“Yes.”
“So you have a sense of the responsibilities necessary to take care of a dog?”
“I think so.”
“Because adopting a rescue Lab is quite different from selecting a puppy from a breeder or a pet store, you know.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” she said, letting me hear the confrontation in her voice. I knew what she was doing and I couldn’t blame her. I would be doing the same thing in her situation. Her MO was to filter out anyone less than wholly committed to rescuing a dog who had been abandoned or neglected, normally because the owner was lazy, selfish, and lacking in the most basic commitment to the dog in their life—time spent in each other’s company. She had a wonderful product to give away, but a product that was not for everyone and a product she cherished and would not part with lightly.
“Go to a breeder and you start from scratch, a nice clean slate. If that’s what you’re looking for, we’re not the right people for you. Our dogs are wonderful and in the right home you will be blessed and thankful to share such a creature, but some of them have had hard lives, difficult experiences. You need to see them, spend some time around them, because what you see is what you get.”
I let her know I truly respected the valuable work she and the rest of her group were doing, while trying to convey my interest in a female yellow Labrador puppy. I felt like a fraud, the rescue mindset at odds with the wishes of my nine-year-old daughter, but I put it out there, gave her my details, and said I would be waiting for her call.
Reporting back to Emily led to a confession about the possible age of a rescue Labrador and clarification on her part. Of course she wanted a puppy, what was I thinking? There’s no point in having a dog if you don’t get to enjoy the cute and cuddly stage. Besides, she said, she wanted to enjoy all of this dog’s life, not just a portion.
I suggested we keep an open mind, to which she responded, “I’m speaking to Mom,” which I have learned is code for “I can see it’s going to take collusion with a woman to get this job done properly.”
Nothing happened for a couple of weeks and then I received a call querying my interest in a four-year-old Labrador named Max. Yes, he was a he, he was not a puppy, and as it turned out, he was black. But, as I pointed out to Emily, Max was a purebred Labrador. To her credit, Emily said she would be happy to meet Max, though she made it clear, this was just a date, nothing heavy, no commitment.
“That sounds good, Em. We’ll just go and see what he’s like. No harm in that.”
For me, this attitude, this unwavering, effortless love for all creatures great and small, is one of the most delightful traits any father can witness in their child. I don’t know whether it works its way out of her DNA or works its way in from her environment. I know my father looked for it in my sister, Fiona, watching it fade and disappear. I have been more fortunate. I knew Emily would gladly visit Max simply because it was an opportunity to befriend a new dog.
And so one Saturday morning, Kathy, Emily, and I took a drive about an hour north to Max’s foster home. Truly, I had no great expectations of Emily falling in love, abandoning all those prerequisites, but I knew we could be in trouble from the moment we knocked on the front door.
“Kath,” I whispered, urging my wife to follow my eyes down to the bottom corner of the screen door where a vicious rip at paw height left the material limp and peeled back.
Then the perpetrator appeared, chest bumping the thin mesh boundary between us.
“Come back, Max,” said a female voice, her hand reaching out to a collar, a second hand required, the dog determined to make his greeting. “I’m Colleen, and this, as you might have gathered, is Max.”
Once we were inside, Colleen released her grip, perhaps overcome by exhaustion, and Max exploded like one of those matchbox cars you rub along the floor several times before letting go, shooting forward, Emily buffeted and tossed about but smiling and happy as she tried to pet him.
“As you can see, Max is strong and determined. But he loves people.”
I reckoned Max had to weigh about one hundred pounds, maybe a buck ten. Yes, he was overweight, but he was also tall and built. “What’s his story?” I asked.
“Oh, the usual,” said Colleen. “Family pet with a family too busy or too distracted to give Max the attention he needs. He also has a tendency to wander. And bark. Not exactly a winning combination in a neighborhood.”
We had excellent security with picket fencing and an electric fence, but I reckoned Max could break out of Guantánamo Bay in a heartbeat.
“Would you mind if we took him for a walk?” I asked.
Colleen thought this was a great idea, so a leash was applied, the leather wrapped tight around my hand in the manner of a bull rider bracing for his eight seconds of glory, and the front door opened.
Sticking with the rodeo theme, walking Max was a bit like being bucked off a horse, getting your foot stuck in the stirrup, and being dragged around the arena. You went where he went and his motivation seemed completely random, across people’s front yards, off sidewalks, making improbable detours at ninety degrees to where we wanted to go. How we got him back to Colleen’s house I will never know.
“Good boy, Max,” I said, having to physically shove him back inside. “Thanks, Colleen, for letting us meet him.”
Colleen was courteous, but she recognized the tone of my remarks. She had been doing this job long enough to see we were not the perfect match for Max. Maybe she knew from the moment we met. But she was never humoring us or taunting poor Max. His was a tough case, nothing disastrous, nothing a little work, time, and affection couldn’t cure, but a case that needed the right person and the right environment. Emily would never be able to take Max for a walk, it was as simple as that. We would be doing a disservice to this fine dog if he was failed for a second time, and I had no doubt Mr. Right was out there for Max, especially if he was a linebacker or professional bodybuilder who lived on one hundred acres.
Kathy had already given me the cold stare and the headshake that said “not for us,” but I still had to feel out Emily as we walked away.
“What did you think, sweetheart?”