Yesterday we found out that, after a long medical ordeal, our dog is probably not going to recover. There's still some hope, but it's limited, and if we choose to keep him alive, it will not be a good life for him, or for us. One person said to me, "You know who loved that dog the most? You." and another "This is going to be hardest for you." And I realized that these things are probably true.
When you're the mom, and your family makes a decision to get a dog, there is at least one secret part of you that thinks, "Great! A fucking dog! One more thing for me to keep alive. I'm glad you all are happy." But somewhere in the day to day (Come on, let's go out. Come on, let's go in. Come on, let's go out. Come on, let's go in. Walkies? Ready to eat? Where's your toy? Who needs treats?) I fell in love. He is my constant companion. Because I am so isolated (for many reasons), with Ali is sometimes the only adult conversation I have in a day. I talk to my students, I talk to my kids, but Ali is my only grown up friend. I tell him about what's happening. I ask him questions. When I'm gleeful, the days I dance in the kitchen and sing along to Dirty Diana, he's the only one who knows. He's the only one who has ever danced with me. To him and me, a good dance in the kitchen before you mop the floor makes perfect sense. When I sing, he doesn't roll his eyes or request silence. He wags his tail and follows me around, waiting for me to pat my chest and say "Up! Dance!"
Ali is now and has always been a terrible, terrible dog. The day we got him was early spring. I was still an undergraduate student with four kids to entertain and less than no money. So, I got the brilliant idea to take the kids to visit the dogs at the animal shelter. "We're not getting a dog," I said over and over. "We're visiting the dogs." Rookie mistake. As soon as I saw the little room, five black and brown puppies stumbling around, I knew. "We're getting a dog." I called my partner and told him to meet us at the shelter after work. It was shockingly easy. I filled out some paperwork, handed over a check. The kids chose him. He wasn't even the one I wanted. I wanted the girl puppy with the sad eyes. Instead, they picked the trouble maker. The people at the shelter told us he was a lab boxer mix, and he'd grow to be about 70 lbs. This was a lie. We each chose a name and put them on scraps of paper in a hat. I wrote Jack. The kids picked "Ali," The world's greatest boxer (I repeat-- he's not a boxer. Animal shelter people lie. I don't know what he is, but strangers find great joy in guessing).
We took him home, and almost immediately Ali began his reign of terror. He pooped every where, he bit the kids so much they refused to be around him ("He's MEAN! We want a different dog.") he found so many ingenious ways to run away I started yelling "We've got a runner!" seven times a day. He terrorized the neighbors with little dogs by running after them, trying to "play." He stuck his head through the fence and bloodied his eye, he scraped his hair off trying to crawl under the fence. He jumped, he licked everything and everyone obsessively. He ate shoes and every toy the kids left on the floor or anywhere near it. He got into the garbage. He ate every scrap of food the kids dropped on the floor, and many they hadn't even had the opportunity to drop yet. If we don't push the dining room chairs in, he climbs up on them, cleaning the table after dinner. I tried taking him to the park, but as long as I kept him leashed he would take up the most horrifying caterwauling I've ever heard the entire time we were there. It's embarrassing. His idea of fetch is for you to throw the toy, and for him to either take off and hide it, or insist that you play tug of war with the nasty, spitty piece of a rag. He tears up his toys, he refuses to learn any skill except "Sit," and then only when the treat is clearly visible. And, worst of all, he KNOWS he's not allowed on the furniture. Yet every time we return home, I find fur on the love seat. Yesterday, when the doctor finished describing the surgery he said, "Oh, and by the way, we found a foreign object in this stomach that we had to remove." The damn dog ate his bandages. He's a terrible, terrible dog.
But when I say, "Wanna fight?" he stands on his hind legs and waves his front legs at me as I wave my hands at him. When I come home from the store he gets super excited, because he knows I always bring him something, and when I don't I have to say, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. Not this time, bud." When I'm trying to ignore him he stuffs his wet nose into my hand and holds it there, blowing hot air until I give in and pet him. When I work in the kitchen he sits in the doorway, watching my every move. When I vacuum he tries to get between me and the vacuum, barking to protect me. He does the same thing with the broom. Or garbage bags. Wind. Silence.
When my daughter woke up this morning, she told me she'd had a nightmare. There were ghosts. We had to escape the house. Leave the state. "And we had to leave Ali behind!" she kept saying. "We would never do that," I said. Then I realized that we would. "I'm sorry you had such a bad dream," I said instead. "That sounds like a terrible dream."
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