Cherished (20 page)

Before long, Icy was gone, too. No one wanted to adopt her.

“My brother saw Dr. Whitehead,” Suz said to me over the phone one day. “She told him she planned to put Icy down.”

My heart skipped. “Planned to?”

“This was a while ago,” Suz said.

At hearing the news, I wilted.

Sleeping in fits that night, I woke up with a dull ache. I felt burdened with too much loss in my life: my uprooting from California, the miscarriage three years ago, and, mixed in, the loss of what I never had: Sheetal and now Icy.

Suz emailed first thing the next morning. Icy was alive! I felt a surge inside compelling me to scoop the cat up and fold her into my arms. Dr. Whitehead had kept Icy the whole time, but Icy didn't like other cats, and Dr. Whitehead had several. Also, Dr. Whitehead was relocating to North Carolina, and when it was time for her to move, that's when Icy would be euthanized.

Unless.

That night in bed, I slid next to Ron and propped my head up on one elbow, resting my other arm on his chest. I gave one last plea for Icy. He still didn't want an old, sick cat that peed too much. I edged away and leaned back on my own pillow.

After a few moments, he held my hand. “When our lives are more suited for multiple pets, we can consider a cat,” he said.

I didn't want any old cat. I wanted Icy, the
old
cat.

But why? Since the day I saw her picture, I presumed I wanted to save a cat destined to be put down. Yet it didn't make sense. Thinking over other areas of my life, I noticed I tended to shy away from commitment. I had refused to give my heart to Washington, D.C., even though we had moved from California four years earlier. I had stopped filling out the adoption paperwork halfway through the process, even though it would have put us on the path to uniting with a healthy child. I had no interest whatsoever in bringing home a young, spry kitten with an entire lifetime ahead of her. Yet I wanted Icy? And Sheetal? Why? Because they were unwanted? In desperate need of a loving home that I could unselfishly provide? I wished I were so altruistic.

But in my imagination, I
was
that person. In cyberspace, I had a big, benevolent heart. Not only could I dedicate my time and energy to mothering a cat (or a kid), I could go the distance and mother animals and children with extra needs. I could give everything I had and then some. My fantasies never included scrubbing yellow stains off the rug or sitting in a doctor's office holding the hand of a sick little girl.

Did some part of me know that neither Sheetal nor Icy would come live with us? By chasing them around — in a virtual world — was I able to hide behind their photos and avoid dealing with truth? That night, it dawned on me: Ron was the one willing to make long-term commitments. He was ready to take on the responsibilities of life's major decisions. Meanwhile, I hesitated, unsure, unstable. Always teetering on one leg, I never took a real step in any direction. And it made me wonder about all I was missing, and all I had lost.

At that moment, I made a decision. I would commit to letting go of Internet fantasies and explore why I was avoiding reality. Perhaps it was a small step, but it was an important one. Rolling closer to Ron, I tangled my arms and legs into his and rested my head on his shoulder, flesh against flesh.

I
remember precisely the moment that our courtship changed from casual to committed. Lloyd and I were sitting on a blanket in Golden Gate Park one pleasant afternoon watching a young couple playing with their toddler and their dog, an Airedale.

I posed an important question. “Do you like dogs?”

“I love dogs,” Lloyd said.

“Maybe someday,” I said ingenuously, “we'll have a dog of our own.”

I was eighteen, Lloyd was twenty. He obviously interpreted this as a proposal. A year later we were married, still in school, flat broke, and full of dreams. Someday we'd have a house, children, and of course a dog.

Fast-forward ten years or so. Our daughter, Shari, was three, our son, Daniel, seven. A friend informed us of a litter of German shepherds about to be born to a family living in the hills above Moraga, California, in a rustic house with quite a menagerie — some chickens, ducks, goats, and dogs. The children and I drove up to the mountain home, introduced ourselves to the family, and put in our bid for one of the puppies. We counted the days to his birth, to his weaning, to the day we would go pick him up. He was large and black and beautiful. We named him Baron.

Does memory serve me correctly? Is it true that it took only three days to housebreak Baron? Once he stole a piece of pound cake off the counter. I yelled at him, “No! Bad dog!” From then on, he understood that kitchen counters were off-limits, and that personal property must be respected. I don't recall that Baron ever stole anything else — except a volleyball that he first punctured and then refused to relinquish. At that time, he was staying with his birth family for a few days. To be fair, I must also relate that his instinct for herding caused him to mount their goat while trying to push it into a small pen, thus inflicting a wound that necessitated a visit from the vet. The entire escapade, including replacing the volleyball, set us back about eighty-four dollars. Boarding Baron would have cost a mere thirty dollars. Ever resourceful, we decided to call it a vacation, a camp/old-home-week experience for our dog, and consider it worth the cost.

Baron guarded the children. Once when the kids had disobeyed me, I stood them up against the wall in the kitchen and proceeded to deliver a stern lecture. “I'm the mother here! You do what I tell you, or else …”

Baron, about three months old, positioned himself between me and the children, confronting me with a bark and a growl.

“And that goes for you, too!” I snapped.

He meekly retreated to their side of the line, acknowledging my authority.

Baron liked to stretch out in the front hallway, guarding the door. Friends and family could enter with impunity, along with the laundry man, who arrived every Thursday morning to pick up and deliver. I left the laundry sack by the unlocked door. Baron watched the procedure, the hand coming in to pick up the sack and to deposit the package of fresh linen. “Hello there, Baron!” was the extent of conversation between them. Baron never moved, never uttered a sound. It was a marvelous example of mutual trust, with limits, of course.

Not so for the milkman, who was known as the local Lothario, operating when husbands had left for work. That man streaked from his truck to our front porch. There he dropped the milk cartons in sheer terror while Baron lunged at the door, barking hysterically. Yes, Baron was a good judge of character. Except for once, when, during an evening poker game between Lloyd and his friends, “Ted” got up to fix himself a drink and found himself pinned to the wall. Baron had his paws on Ted's shoulders and was barking ferociously into Ted's face.

It happened so fast that nobody could figure out what Ted
had done to provoke Baron's reaction. The incident reinforced my conviction that animals, even near-perfect animals, can be unpredictable. On another occasion Baron did snap at our friend Mary Beth. It was July Fourth; firecrackers were bursting in neighboring yards, and Mary Beth leaned over Baron, trying to console him. He obviously held her responsible for the blasts and, while he didn't break the skin, did give her a nip on the nose. At that moment it didn't seem tactful to explain to my friend that leaning over a dog is not a good idea, especially when that dog is already tense. Even with our own beloved pets, we pause after announcing our attention, to see whether the dog is ready for love.

Looking back, I realize that each of us thought of Baron as his or her personal pet. For Lloyd and me, Baron was the perfect hiking companion. He loved wandering in the hills near our house and trekking through old western towns on Sunday outings. He was always the first one in the car, after dutifully emptying his bladder before every trip. I had taught him to respond to the command “bathroom,” a device that has benefited all of my family's people-dog relationships ever since.

Baron wasn't a particularly sociable animal. He had few friends among the neighborhood dogs. Once the children gave him a doggie birthday party with a hamburger cake. It was touch and go. The animals just wanted to eat and leave. Forget party games. What Baron loved were balls, any type, anywhere. He ferreted them out of the thorniest thickets, grabbed them rolling along the gutter, snapped them up in midair. Once, at the Historical Society picnic, he caught a fly ball sailing toward first base. We thought it was great, but he was not invited to the next ball game.

What Baron liked best was a good one-on-one relationship, as when Dan whispered secrets into his ear or Shari read him a poem she had just written.

Baron had only two canine friends ever. The first was Squaw, a black Lab who lived in the cul-de-sac behind ours. When Squaw was in heat, Baron decided to claim the prerogative of a long-standing friendship, and he eagerly mounted her. She rebuffed him with a snap and a growl. Baron's pride prevented him from ever attempting another mating.

New neighbors moved in next door with a very small dachshund named Floyd. Her owners only laughed when we pointed out the incongruity of the name for a dog that came into heat so often we were convinced it was part rabbit. Baron would sit at the window wailing, howling, and moaning. He was obviously in love with Floyd and frustrated. We attempted all sorts of remedies, from barricades to medications. At last we reached into our pockets and paid to have the dachshund spayed.

Years passed. We moved to Southern California. Our new home had an atrium bounded by a fancy iron gate. We didn't need a doorbell, as this immediately became Baron's domain. Barks, echoes, and shouts announced every arrival and made us unpopular with the neighbors. I rationalized that it was better to discourage drop-in visitors, salespeople, and
deliveries so that I could focus on my writing. With Baron at the gate, our home was something of a fortress — not serene, but certainly secure.

As Baron began to age, we decided to get a puppy. How could we endure the inevitable loss of our friend but by dividing our attention and eventually coming to love another dog? We decided that Baron should become a father, and we searched for a likely match. It had to be a German shepherd, of course, good tempered, smart, and beautiful. Alas, when I apprised the vet of our plan, he informed me that ten-year-old dogs are usually infertile or impotent. We kept this shocking news from Baron and proceeded to look around for a perfect puppy. We looked for a puppy exactly like Baron. But dogs, like people, are individuals. Each has a unique personality and set of desires and faults.

Having heard of a fine kennel in a town some sixty miles away, we took off one day to investigate and returned home with a long-haired German shepherd pup that on the way home we named Barney.

That first afternoon Barney began eating the sofa in my study. He urinated on Lloyd's new loafers. (I tried to assure Lloyd that this was just a sign of submission, proclaiming Lloyd as the alpha male. He wasn't impressed.) That first day, Barney took a flying leap right through the open slats in our staircase and fell down an entire flight, landing in a heap on the bottom. Later we thought maybe he'd become befuddled from the fall, because he proved to be the most exasperating, difficult, untrainable dog we ever had.

Barney had a fetish for rocks and fossilized bones, which he dug up from the yard and dumped onto the deck, making a terrible racket. He attacked the garden hoses, tried to swim in his water dish, and dug out the roses. He leapt onto my head and clung there while I was driving. Barney never guarded anything. He was terrified of intruders, trees, other dogs, and squirrels. I took him to puppy class. The teacher said he was “an introvert” who refused to join the circle and heel. He caused me much embarrassment, escaping from the class with me racing after him. The teacher used him as an example of a “thoroughly undersocialized animal.” He was the only one who did not graduate. It was a humbling experience.

As for Barney's relationship with Baron, it was always somewhat dicey. Baron remained the king, top dog, and protector. That first night when we took them for a walk together, some noise sent Barney into a panic. Without missing a beat, Barney planted himself directly underneath Baron, and both continued to race along the street like some new eight-legged creature.

Baron ignored Barney's attempts to cuddle and converse; he merely tolerated the puppy. As a result, I revised my thinking for future reference: after this I would always have two dogs fairly close in age, so that they could be real playmates and enjoy their golden years together.

Barney never really outgrew his aggravating habits. However, he did vindicate himself by rescuing two kittens on the very day of their birth. Apparently some stray dropped them in our yard. Barney (maybe thinking they were fossilized bones) brought them carefully up onto our deck. I thought they were dead rats until investigation and a plaintive “meow” proved they were kittens needing a home, around-the-clock feeding, and tender care. For a mom with a nearly empty nest,
it was no contest. We ended up being the parents of Jinxie and Jessie, along with Barney and Baron.