F: 10/24/02

Work Diary

About five years ago, I left my doctor's office half drunk, full of the
piss-and-vinegar that vodka provides. I'd finished off half a pint
before going; my plans were to finish it when I was done. In fact, I
did, but not before I'd made a big decision.

That week was my partner's birthday. I treat birthdays with a kind of
reverence. Mine was never ignored, and since I am so full of myself,
that should mean something, shouldn't it? I am the last person you'll
see handing over a gift certificate as a present, vodka or not.
Birthdays should be divine, because otherwise, what is the whole point
of being here?

I'd been with my partner eight years, long enough to contrast his
feelings about animals with our lack of same. The week of his birthday,
I bought a newspaper and carefully perused the classified ads, looking
for?what? At the time, I didn't know. Also, at the time, I was drinking
heavily, the result of coming to terms with some not-too-pretty aspects
of my childhood. Therapy has that effect, I guess, which may be why so
many people avoid it. I don't blame 'em.

Anyway, I transposed my scrambled brain with the letters in the
classified section, and finally my finger hit "Dogs For Sale." I
vaguely remembered my partner mentioning his past dogs, as well as his
now-dead mother's sad but hilarious stories about the family mutts. I
recalled the word "Beagle," and somehow "Dogs For Sale" seemed like a
good place to stop.

My partner and I were in our first house, a single story brick thing
with a double backyard that begged for gardens and, at the moment,
dogs. I made a call to a woman who said, yes, she had two Beagle
puppies that she was selling for a friend in Wyoming. I was welcome to
stop by at any time.

My big decision, after my appointment with the doctor, was to stop by
and check out these puppies. I finished off my vodka on the way.

I drove to what amounted to a farm in the middle of the city: Acres of
land, some horses, one of those red barns. The woman met me as soon as
I was out of my car. I was furiously chewing on three strips of gum,
hoping to mask the boozy smell that my doctor had already noticed.
Karen - the woman, whose name I somehow remember - took me through a
gate and into the barn. She talked nonstop, about the weather, her
tomato crop, who knows? That I can't remember.

But here's what I do recall: We were standing there, and Karen's own
Beagle was shyly holding himself up on my knee. Karen talked and talked
while I petted my newfound friend.

And then, around the corner, came a pair of clumsy, rambling miniatures
of those dogs you see in old paintings. They nipped at one another,
bounding backwards, then forwards, hay flying about them as if a tiny
tornado had struck. They ran directly to me, displacing Karen's Beagle
and demanding attention.

"I'll take them," I said, pulling out my wallet.

So I drove home, two whimpering, boxed presents in my backseat. I
discovered one had peed on the way, so I wiped both down with a towel
and then stored them in the detached garage behind our house. They
yipped for awhile, then fell asleep on a blanket I'd laid on the floor.
I couldn't wait for my partner to get home.

When he did, I made him sit on the grass between the house and the
garage, with his eyes closed. Over and over I said, "Are you ready? Are
your eyes closed?" Then I let the puppies out, and you know, it was
just like a movie. They ran directly for him, nipping his elbows and
rolling around for attention.

Though I know better, I wish I could have frozen that perfect moment:
The puppies sucking up all the attention, my partner saying, "Ooh! Ooh!
I got you! I got you! Ha!" To live with that feeling forever?well, who
wouldn't?

The answer, of course, is always about what happens next. The puppies
were named "Sugar" and "Sophie." We picked their names out of the air,
while playing with them in the grass. "She is so sweet," I said,
referring to Sugar. Sophie's name was an alliterative response to
"Sugar."

I could go on and on. The puppies grew; we kept them in the downstairs
bathroom, hoping they'd get used to a single spot in which to sleep.
That's what the book told us to do. In time, the book became totally
inadequate. They fought. Sugar seemed intent on killing Sophie -
literally. In fact, Sophie and I have a matching scar. Hers is on the
inside of her ear, whereas mine is on my left hand. At the time, I
thought Sugar would gladly have killed us both. I'd made the mistake of
picking Sophie up while Sugar assaulted her, both of their jaws
snapping in a discordant melody of pure awfulness. I cried as I held
Sophie above my head, her sister leaping wildly with a toothy rhythm
that made me - and I am not kidding - throw Sophie to the side and bite
Sugar on her head.

Now, it sounds like a joke. But at the time, I didn't know what else to
do. Sugar was mad, which made me mad, and Sophie was simply pathetic.
She was thin, and cowered pitifully when someone tried to pet her. My
partner and I decided to give Sugar to friends, anglophiles who
admitted to a love of Beagles. They had a duplex, a yard. We even
bought them a dog door, which my partner installed while I stood crying
in the yard, not quite believing that I was about to do what I was
about to do.

I'm sorry. I know that the poor die from hunger in other nations, and
that the poor die from the cold in my own country. I know that when I
drive up any given street, a man might be standing there with a sign,
asking for help for himself and his children. I do my best in those
situations, even questioning my priorities. I cannot be alone in
this.

Sophie is an affectionate dog, so much so that she will extend a paw to
demand attention. She is so lazy that she doesn't even get out of bed
in the morning until she hears her bowl being filled. By bed, I mean
she sleeps under the covers with us, a stinky sheet-warmer who growls
mildly when disturbed and who can often be found with her head resting
next to ours in the morning. She has several names: Stinker, Puddin',
Pudgepot, Pumpkin, Little Girl.

Sophie is my great hypocrisy, my foil. If my house were on fire, I
would grab her first (assuming my partner already hadn't). I would
leave behind the photo albums, the artwork, the wholly insignificant
belongings we have accrued over the past decade.

Have I, as one friend pointed out, transferred my emotions to a mere
dog? Yes, I have. Fortunately, that doesn't mean my dog hasn't taught
me humanity.

Once, my partner and I were walking Sophie through our neighborhood. A
woman accidentally let her Great Dane out; the beast immediately
attacked Sophie. Terrified, Sophie escaped her collar and ran, with me
following. I spurred her on, imagining her small, battered body if I
didn't, while my partner stayed and fought off the Great Dane. We were
all a team at that moment, a team that would easily transfer its
defense if either one of us were threatened.

Is that so wrong?