The wretched cats still walk the earth. In fact, they seem to like life at our address. Living with all the animals is so relaxing. One of the cats wanders the halls at night, with the creepy habit of wailing at the top of its lungs, as if he or she is perishing in pain. Meredith could sleep through a nuclear attack. Not me. I am up, wondering if this is the ghost of Christmas past.
My new theory is that the wailing comes from both cats, their collective guilt for torturing and, well, let’s say, helping other animals into the big sleep. Certainly it couldn’t be that they are crying out of sheer joy, knowing that once again, they are enriching our lives.
In school, facts like these were known as context; in our case, they’re the backdrop for the ascent of Jasper in our lives. The blessed feline beasts have only been a sideshow for the kids. The dog is the main attraction.
Of course, our children had their own lives, school, soccer, the stage. What did they care? They could fiddle as Rome burned. I was in a different place. Four barking dogs, three French hens, two prowling cats, and a partridge in a pear tree were more than enough for me.
Sam had retired out West, and it really had been time to stop; this time for sure. But there is no stopping my good wife. I do not know why. Meredith still manages to keep a straight face, clinging to her claim that Gabe told her that animals restore joy in families.
The woman has been dining out on that one for years. Of course, there were no witnesses to Gabe’s observation. My son is at school in Chicago now, presumably living, well, a colorful college life. He has no recollection of the statement, but the old memory bank may just be overdrawn.
Born to Bark
Our menagerie currently resembles an Al Qaeda cell. I fear for the community. Jasper’s bark is big now. Bigger than he is. I wish I could describe the horrible noise that passes for a bark. It is an insult to dog dignity, an embarrassment to hardworking four-legged creatures. And this dog barks the way I breathe. Constantly.
I look around, indoors and out. Nothing is going on. There are no intruders or wild animals in the vicinity, just peace and quiet broken by his arbitrarily spaced barking. Jasper barks for the same reason other male dogs lick their private parts. Because he can.
Jasper was born to bark.
That shrill noise had come close to getting us evicted from a borough of New York City. In 2004, we were set to renovate our house: tear it down and try again. The project would take more than a year. We would be displaced to the Bronx.
Our kids still lived at home and considered themselves prisoners of the suburbs there. We were living in a small village along the Hudson River and owned enough land so Jasper only annoyed the hell out of me, but this move would place us in the big time, Big Town. This would be the Big Apple, where no prisoners are taken.
We would be in New York City in the heart of a tough borough. People live on top of one another there. I imagined Jasper would make enemies fast and meet a violent end. Maybe there would be a gangland killing, an end to the dog. Okay, I said. I’m there.
Meredith, inventing her own reality, assured me that the neighbors, though some were living ten feet from us, would have no problem with Jasper. In my mind’s eye, I still saw a hit. I mean, this was the Bronx. Da Brawnx. The move went off without a hitch. I waited patiently. It did not take long. The barking started.
The neighbors reacted. The cops came.
To my horror, the police were nice about the barking, even understanding. “That’s what dogs do,” one said. I cannot say the same about the community reaction, which was less charitable. The kids fielded irate phone calls. Angry passersby came to the door and vented, even to Lily, who was barely twelve at the time. Jasper brings out the best in people.
We lived a half block from a sprawling apartment complex. One day, a petition showed up, stuffed under the front door. The document demanded that we get rid of the animal and was signed by a large group from the apartment house. Finally, Meredith was upset. “What are we going to do?” she asked nervously. “I’m going to sign the petition,” I answered.
The protest went nowhere. Their bark was worse than their bite.
Back to cats for a moment: While we were in the Bronx, Beanbag, another cat that enriched our lives (remember Spike, the petrified cat? Beanbag was her brother), gave Gabe a present. We were up at 4:00 a.m. to get Gabe ready for a school field trip to Quebec. Beanbag had slept on Gabe’s new parka and confused it with the men’s room at the bus station. I don’t know about you, but cat urine is one of my favorite aromas.
For lack of a better predawn solution, Meredith sprayed the coat with some awful cleaner and told Gabe to go outside in the freezing darkness and roll in the snow. “That’s okay, Mom,” Gabe said. “I’m just sitting with the guys.” The guys noticed nothing, probably thinking Gabe was wearing some exotic new scent.
Beanbag left the owners of the rental a going-away present. The world’s largest urine specimen on a couch. (Wasn’t that an Olympic event?) We had to buy a new couch, which enriched our bank account. But we were alive, and so was our marriage. I had hated the year, but at last we were going home. Of course, Jasper went with us.
The kids are gone now. They are happy, and so are we. Sort of. The horrible animal now sleeps on the floor of our bedroom. Ugh. Meredith says she likes having that furry burglar alarm around, especially when she is alone. That is hard to argue against, though we never have had a burglar. The dog generally lies around the house, existing, or deterring burglars.
At holiday time, Jasper wears a necklace of jingle bells so the neighbors can tell their children those tinkling bells they hear are Santa Claus in the distance. Hearing the melodious mammal up close is a real treat, though he rarely gets up to move anywhere except, of course, to follow Meredith around or attack me.
It is the damnedest thing. The animal is glued to my wife. Jasper loves Meredith more than dog food itself. He will spend the day outside our room if she is inside and has locked the door (even Meredith has limits), waiting and watching for the opportunity to leap into her arms.
Anywhere Meredith goes, upstairs or down, inside or out, the dog trails her. “Whither thou goest, I will go,” the Book of Ruth tells us in the Bible, “and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people.” Wait a minute. Please tell me I am not one of that shrieking dog’s people, I imagine saying to the rebbe.
A trainer who once took Jasper for a while answered the desperate question, what’s going on here? The guy pronounced Jasper “extremely possessive.” Duh. Jasper follows Meredith from room to room, even into the bathroom. Have you no sense of privacy, woman? I demand. I know you feed him, but this is crossing the line. Meredith just looks through me.
When I hear the dog running down the stairs, it means Meredith is not far behind. The animal is like a Secret Service agent. He functions as a self-appointed bodyguard. When anyone approaches Meredith with open arms, poised to kiss her on the cheek, Jasper snarls and lunges.
If Meredith is lying on the couch or in bed and I move to join her, my jugular is at risk. Meredith simply says, “No, Jasper.” That sure makes a difference. The beast is not playing, just guarding his common-law wife. This mean mammal could pose as a Doberman, except when he is hungry. Then we are fraternity brothers, all for one and one for all.
Meredith insists Jasper is a smart dog. I do not think so. The animal cannot name the capital of New York and is content to eat dog food every day. When he behaves, I promise him water with his next meal. If he is very good, I mean exemplary, there is a special treat. Dog food, again.
I have to trick Jasper into going outside, which he never wants to do. I am smarter than the dog is. Not by much, Meredith suggests. I leave a door open and eventually he sees or hears something and goes out. Genius. Jasper will chase anything not nailed down. Not another dog, of course. That would be too much work. And Jasper’s little l
egs would never work that hard. He would demand a lunch break.
No, Jasper is more likely to go after a leaf gently falling from a tree. He repeats the exercise many times an hour. All the while, his shriek can be heard in the next county or picked up by Navy intelligence from a submarine in the Indian Ocean.
Other dogs run and jump and play outdoors. We have a large enough property with an electric fence, heaven for an ordinary dog. Ours whines to get back in minutes after he leaves the house. There is nothing worse than a whining dog. Man up, I yell to deaf ears. If Meredith is there, she jumps to her feet to let the beast back in.
No response to the bark? The dog is so determined to find Mama and stay by her side that he chews through screen doors and throws his ample bulk at the barrier. Jasper is, well, a bit overweight. A large tear in the screen magically appears. The two are reunited.
By Meredith’s count, this has happened seven times. The animal breaks through. The door is repaired. That is called perpetual motion. And we are left supporting the local economy.
“Why don’t you leave him out and let him pretend he is a dog?” I ask. “You are a broken record,” she responds. Jasper prefers sounding off from a corner of the couch in the family room.
This is how smart the smart dog is. He routinely stands in front of our car and bites the license plate as we start to pull out of the driveway. He remains in front of the car as we pick up speed. A slip of the right foot would turn him into a pancake. At the last minute, Jasper steps aside and barks himself silly as we pull away.
Smart.
Jasper’s claim to a working brain comes because, after watching us push down on our horizontal door handle for years, he finally has learned to jump on it and use his weight to pop open the front door. The animal seems to be particularly fond of popping the door open on frigid winter days. My study sits directly up the stairs from that door. Instantly there is a subzero wind tunnel that I have to deal with.
Going up and down stairs to close doors is hard for me because I have multiple sclerosis and walk with a cane. I move at a glacial pace and see glaciers forming as I head for the door. If that animal is so smart, why doesn’t he learn to shut the freaking door behind him? Jasper just sneers as I close the door. He knows I cannot catch him. I am just grateful he doesn’t pull the door open as soon as I get back upstairs.
When he’s not attacking, the dog makes a show of not just ignoring me, but pretending I do not exist. I can walk by him, though if I get too close, the little darling growls under his breath and shows me his teeth. That is just his gentle gesture of contempt to remind me he is still here.
When Meredith goes away on business, Jasper is beside himself. More than that, he is pissed off and expresses his displeasure by using the living room as his personal bathroom. You can’t flush a floor. Meredith calls and I calmly tell her the dog has enriched our lives all over the living room.
We raised three children. Who needs a dog that acts out? You guessed it: Not me.
Meredith has traveled the world and left me alone with the kids. She trusted me, and if she had qualms about passing the baton (mothers usually do), she did not share them. But she does not trust me with Jasper when she leaves town. Meredith routinely checks on the dog’s health when she calls.
Always, the same question finds its way into the mix at the end of the conversation: “By the way . . . how is Jasper?” I think she believes she will detect something in my voice if the dog is already suffering from a bad case of rigor mortis.
My wife delights in telling anyone who will listen that Richard hates dogs. I do not hate all dogs. I like other people’s animals or those I cannot have. And I do not hate our dog. I hate the word hate. I do. Hate is imprecise and so overused. I just want Jasper to go away. “Run away, Scar,” Simba commands. “And never return.” That worked in The Lion King.
Our dog, I mean Meredith’s dog, can lie peacefully in a comfortable position with a bed of rose petals under his head or in front of a moving dump truck for all I care. That is his choice, and I will defend his right to make it. But I am resigned to a basic reality. Jasper is here to stay.
The dog will continue its annual ritual of scaring cute kids away on Halloween. The dog will keep shrieking at dawn, a special pleasure after a late night. Meredith will keep feeding Jasper leftover steak from the table so he can enrich our lives all over the place overnight. And best of all, Meredith will have to keep asking for Jasper’s permission to kiss me good-night. Unacceptable.
And Jasper will live to bury me.
Dogs are survivors, though according to Thomas Berger’s Little Big Man, they were a staple in the diet of Native Americans making their way across the Great Plains. I will not even bring up the common assumptions about Chinese restaurants. And yet dogs have wormed their way into American culture. Of course, the dog is ritualistically celebrated by authors in search of books and movie directors looking for surefire winners at the box office.
Forget the silver screen. It is real life that drives me crazy. It snowed last night. That blanket of white is a seasonal constant and reassures me that all is right in my world. Then I open my newspaper and make a cup of coffee. I read about war and politics, but I jump out of my skin when I learn that Pet Airways is in trouble. Pet Airways? What the heck is that?
Guess. No more cargo holds for Phoebe, one lady’s ten-year-old miniature schnauzer, according to The New York Times. Now, get this. Attendants cater to the animals during the flight, and there is a pet lounge “for the emotional goodbye at the airport.” The airline was founded by some California guy. What a surprise. I glance out the window. The snow is gone.
Writer Bruce McCall had it about right. He is sufficiently sick of the animal scene to serve my cup of tea. McCall soothed my spirit in The New Yorker with “Pet Books Proliferate,” served with a choice of corn syrup or saccharine. McCall told the tragic tale of “Tess, the Orphan Earthworm.” “Tess was inside the toaster, napping. Chuck decided to make himself a Pop-Tart. . . . A few hours later, still sobbing, I carried the dangling little question mark of charred gristle that had been my Tess out to the back flower bed.”
No sloppy high emotion here. I, for one, could not figure out if this sad story was fiction or a true account of a wonderful worm story. Chuck could not be reached for comment. My comment is that I worry about our culture: that it is in peril and possibly going to the dogs.
Well, I just cannot worship our dog, if you hadn’t guessed. If dogs guide us on our journeys, if it takes a beast to show me the way along life’s obstacle course, I will end up in the Hudson River. I am a two-time cancer survivor and have battled MS for decades. No dog has eased my pain. I am legally blind and have stepped where I should not have too many times. Wiping off my shoes for the millionth time is not my idea of how I want to live.
I would like to take our animals and box them or put them in a crate marked “Return to Sender.” My good wife operates under a different, perhaps more honorable value system that is hard to argue against, and so my wishes go unfulfilled.
“You don’t get rid of a member of the family just because they are difficult,” I heard her tell a visitor to our house, “or they don’t quite work out like you want.” Hell. Not just the dogs, but I will be toast if she changes her mind about that.
I have apologized many times in my life. Not this time. For those I have offended, I say, tough nuggies. Jasper gets to sleep indoors and feed his face twice a day. What else do I owe him? I will have no pet pedestal erected on my property. It is only one more place to clean up after Jasper.
Long ago, when my thoughts wandered to the very idea of owning a dog, I visualized a dignified, lumbering animal by my side. A man’s dog, if you will. He would be powerful yet gentle, with a deep bark used sparingly and only when necessary. Above all, the dog would value loyalty and be my friend.
“He guards the sleep of his p
auper master as if he were a prince,” George G. Vest wrote in his book Eulogy of the Dog, published in 1870. A dog lived for the master in those days, right up to the end. “There by his graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws and his eyes sad but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true, even unto death.”
Yup. That’s Jasper, a trusted friend and canine companion who will be by my side, even as I go to my grave before he finds his. In floods or fire or famine, my dog will guard my resting place. I know that.
Actually, the beast will relieve himself on my grave, I am pretty certain. His pals Felipe and Sweet Pea will have discovered a new litter box. Eternal humiliation.
I tell myself that life is good and everything works out in the end. Maybe next time, I will have better luck.
Did I say next time?
Acknowledgments
By now it must be evident that Meredith and I find ourselves on different pages in the endless doggie debate. But if this is as bad as it gets in our marriage, screw the dog. Jasper lives, and I will survive the hideous howling until the animal screams his last meaningless mouthful. I mean, how long can the loud loser keep going?
Actually, I do not want to know.
I do want to acknowledge Meredith’s long-standing support for this book, though she knew from the get-go that she would cringe at every harsh judgment I would offer. It must have killed her. Meredith is a real friend, a great journalist, and true professional who appreciates the power of story. She does not seem to care what I say about her, which I find mildly insulting. Very Queen Elizabeth.
Before Meredith read the manuscript, I asked my agent if there was anything she had read that might hurt Meredith’s feelings. “No,” the woman replied thoughtfully. “Meredith comes across as a kind, caring person.” And me? I asked. Linda paused. “You come across as an asshole.” Good, I quickly replied. My work is done.
I Want to Kill the Dog Page 4