Dog Medicine (12 page)

M
ID-
J
ULY
1996

Bunker had a lot to learn. He was mellow for a puppy, but he tugged on the leash, chewed everything in sight, and didn't exactly come when called.

The dog-training book said that dogs who know they're not in charge are relaxed and happy. Their work is only to follow and obey. A dog that is led to believe he's the alpha dog will act out and can become anxious and even aggressive because he is under the illusion that taking care of the pack is his responsibility. I wanted Bunker to know that I was the boss. I would teach him and keep him safe. So I took him outside for some training that would help him see me as his pack leader.

Out in the yard, with a fifteen-foot leash, I followed the book's instructions to walk quietly in a square as big as the yard would allow. I was to hold the leash with two hands at my chest, pay no attention to Bunker, stop at the corners, and just walk in one big, cornered loop. I would use no voice commands and never yank on the leash, just keep walking. If he fell, I would slow down so he could right himself, but otherwise, I was to just walk. The idea was that he would learn, slowly, to stay by my side. I was the alpha. I felt enormously capable of being in charge and taking care of this precious dog.

When I began walking, Bunker was like a housefly on the end of a fishing line, darting in every direction. Instructions for the lesson included avoiding eye contact, but watching peripherally. He spotted a squirrel and raced into the woods after it, then hit
the end of the leash, his back feet flipping under his soft puppy body. A bird hopped through beds of leaves at the edge of the woods and Bunker lunged toward it, tripped, and got dragged a few feet. I slowed to let him catch up but didn't acknowledge him. I paused, could feel that he'd righted himself and had begun to walk again, so I sped up. Sometimes he disappeared from my line of sight completely and I had to trust that he was walking and okay, until I felt a pull on the leash.

My mom thought the sight of me dragging my puppy around the yard was funny, so she grabbed the video camera and hid behind a bush, laughing and filming. Bunker caught her scent, and he pulled toward her as I walked in the opposite direction. This resulted in another wipeout and a three-foot dragging through the grass. If my mom thought I'd finally, truly lost my mind, she knew not to say so. She just laughed as I walked, stopped, turned, walked, stopped, turned, and this poor little puppy tried to keep up. I laughed too, at first. But after several rotations, the slow walk became like a meditation. With each turn, I began to realize that Bunker and I were becoming a pack of two. He was learning to trust and follow me, and I was learning that I could lead confidently. When I felt him dragging at the end of the lead, I was terrified I might hurt him, but I began to understand the lesson we were learning: if we were attentive to each other, we would both be okay.

Within about ten minutes, Bunker understood. He trotted at my side, looking up at me to see which way my eyes were turned. He'd figured out that I looked in the direction I was going to go next. His puppy paws lumbered to keep up with me, but he stayed by my side. He wasn't tugging at all now, not getting distracted. I could feel that he was happy to follow me, relieved even. His tail twirled straight up and he walked as if he were proud of himself. When we were done, I stopped, took off the leash, and praised him with a little dancing party in the grass. He ran in circles, barking as I twirled.

When we came inside, he collapsed on the floor with fatigue. I carried him to my room and put him in his crate. I lay on the bed next to him and felt myself drifting off as well. As he fell asleep, he opened his eyes at the slightest noise to make sure I was still close by. “Don't worry, buddy,” I said. “I'm right here. I'll always be right here.” At that, we both fell into a deep sleep.

Those were such important days. The first few weeks with Bunker set the foundation for our life together. The two of us were braiding our energies. We were tying all of our untied strings together. We lay with each other on warm summer afternoons, slumbering side by side, slowly building a promise to travel this life together. I had no reservations about committing to this dog, because his loyalty, I knew, would never waver. His love for me would not wane. He would remind me, with wagging optimism, of his unbridled love for life, how to be in the present moment and let my troubled thoughts melt away. My only job was to protect and care for him, and I felt confident, despite my shaky mental state, that I could keep him safe, healthy, and loved.

We spent afternoons lying on my bedroom carpet, his shedding puppy hair entwined with my damaged blonde mess. I touched the wet softness of his nose. He licked my finger, then rolled onto his back. When his eyes drooped, I watched his eyelashes flutter long after they closed. I thought of the suicidal plans that used to linger at the edge of my mind. As if a miracle had come, the endless sorrow lost its power with this dog by my side. Something about him began to close that awful chapter of my life.

The days began to pass by steadily. I would wake in the morning feeling the slightest bit of optimism. On sunny days, Bunker and I would go outside and wander through the woods behind the house, his nose working overtime through piles of decomposing leaves, me just ambling, breathing deeply. The leaves were like little healers—all that photosynthesis sending strength through branches that emerged from the trunks that braved the underground, roots
spreading out so far through the dirt, farther than we could ever imagine.

Once when I sat down at the base of a tree, Bunker watched me, perked his ears at my stopping. When he felt my contentedness, he gave a wag of his puppy tail and went about his business of sniffing, digging his nose deep into the dirt until he found an earthworm. He'd push his cheek into the ground, then his ear, then his neck. Finally he'd flop his whole body down onto the ground, his four legs wiggling wildly skyward, his mouth open and tongue hanging out as he rubbed the slime of that worm onto his skin.

I never understood why Bunker loved worms so much. But, I considered, worms invisibly feed the soil. They're good for gardens and make important nutrients for plants to grow. Bunker was doing this for me. He was feeding me, giving me essential emotional and spiritual nutrients, so I could continue on in my life. I never once stopped Bunker from rolling in earthworms. It gave him such pleasure.

A
UGUST
2, 1996

I kept my bottle of Zoloft next to the bed and took one pill each morning as soon as I woke up. The medication made me terribly sleepy, and I found myself desperately needing a nap each day at about 11 a.m. Mya suggested I begin taking the pill before bed, so I switched to nighttime, staring at those little yellow oblong pills, wondering what they did for me. I devoured research about how repeated traumas in a young person will induce chronic activation of the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) axis—the system that directs how a body responds to stress, the “fight or flight” reaction. Tests done in animals showed that if the HPA axis is activated again and again when the brain is still developing, it will forget how to shut off. So the animal lives in constant hyper-vigilance. Even when there is no threat to it, the animal is on high alert—leaving it unable to attend to itself—depleting its energy, its desire for play, food, sex, and interaction. Some researchers say that once this system is activated in humans, it is forever altered, sometimes setting the stage for depression or anxiety that can stay dormant for years, until it finally reveals itself.

The research helped the pieces fall into place. There were reasons that all of this had happened, and it wasn't just that I was a freak or lacked the basic skills to get along in the world. Uncovering those reasons felt like pulling the veil off of a great and mysterious force.

The fact was, I was recovering. I could feel it. Therapy was slowly helping, the medication seemed to be working, and I had Bunker. I
made a daily practice of noticing my thoughts as I walked my dog. Those two acts helped me notice, feel, then dissolve the depressive, heavy, black thoughts.

Still, ever persistent in the back of my mind was the nagging unknown of what I would do next, where I would go. My dad would always say, “There's no pressure here, but we would just
love
it if you stayed close to home.” The truth was that living in Ohio had always felt wrong, like I didn't belong. I remember driving on the outer-belt that encircles Columbus, looking into other cars and wondering if there was someone out there like me in this town. I'm sure there was, but I hadn't found them.

Despite this, I wanted to at least consider making a life for myself in Ohio. So one afternoon, my mom and I put Bunker in the car and drove to a local dog-friendly apartment complex we'd found in the newspaper. The unit sat in a squat one-story brick apartment building near the Scioto River. We walked into the damp living room with a sour-smelling brown carpet, thin walls, and chipping Formica kitchen counters, and turned right around. We didn't need to say much to each other in the car, other than “Nope. Not going to work.” My fears reared up. Was this what life was like for me now? Moldy, drafty, lonely apartments with paper-thin walls? An office job I would loathe that kept me inside all day pushing papers and tapping on a computer under fluorescent lights? My parents had paid my first month's rent in New York. After that, it was up to me. That year I lived in New York City, I didn't have enough money for a warm coat. It also happened to be during the Northeast's blizzard of 1996, and it wasn't until I broke down crying inside an Eddie Bauer store at Christmas time that my mother gave in and bought me a thick down parka, passing me a handwritten I.O.U. and due date on the back of the receipt. My parents wanted self-sufficiency. I wanted that too, and the thought of it simultaneously enlivened me and made me fear that I would end up in a place far worse than the moldy, drafty apartment by the river.

Bunker stayed close to me after we returned home. I had already begun to count on him sensing my mood. A stroke down his back brought me a deep breath. Sitting down next to him on the floor leveled my nerves, brought me back to zero, out of the negative thoughts. Watching him race around the room in a wild puppy frenzy negated my worry.

Bunker's presence felt as necessary as oxygen to me, and I began to panic at the thought of working again, leaving him for eight or more hours every day. Then a deep sigh from him would pull a long intake of breath from me, followed by a slow exhale that calmed my jangled nerves. Instead of whirling myself into a fit of anxiety and terror followed by surrender and then depression, I would just stop. Take a deep breath. Slow down. Pet Bunker. Don't think. Just be. It could be okay. Just maybe it would all turn out okay.

That afternoon the phone rang. My mom answered and said, “Sure, she's right here.” I hadn't received a phone call from a friend in months, and couldn't imagine who it was. The only person who had intermittently called me was Will, and those calls were usually after midnight. I pointed, silently, questioning, at my chest.

“Hello?” I said, tentative. Was it my therapist? My old boss? Leah?

“Hey, it's Melissa!” It took me a while to place who Melissa was. I listened and remembered her voice. She was a friend from high school that I'd known since preschool but with whom I wasn't all that close. She'd gone to college in Maine and we'd kept in touch with occasional phone calls and letters, but nothing significant. She was one of those friends who was good at staying connected, though, so I wasn't terribly surprised to hear from her.

“My mom told me you were living in Ohio again,” she said. “How'd
that
happen?” She said this like my landing home was an unfortunate turn of events, and I took it as an insult and wanted
to hang up. Instead, I walked to my bedroom with the cordless phone and said, “Well.” I paused. “I pretty much hated New York.”

“Oh,” she said. “Doesn't everyone? When I was at Bowdoin, everyone got jobs so that they
wouldn't
have to live in New York. Not at this stage in life, anyway.” I sat down feeling immense, toppling relief. Because a depressed person will build up such an invisible wall in preparation for feeling hurt that when someone shows that such a wall isn't necessary, the reprieve from the hard work of self-defense is enormous.

“Yeah,” I said, mumbling. “Guess I didn't get that memo.”

“Well,” she continued, “I somehow ended up way out in Seattle. I did an internship with a clothing company here when I was in college and I'm back out here doing marketing for them. Seattle's a pretty cool town. I like it so far,” she said.

“That's cool,” I said. “My aunt lives there. I love visiting her.” I sat on my bed and fiddled with the lacey edge of my white comforter. This kind of small talk made me antsy. How meaningless it felt compared to all I was going through. Still, I continued. “I was working at a publisher in New York. It was cool, I guess.” I paused. “Well, not really.”

“No, sounds
totally
cool,” she said. “I'm living by myself right now, which is fine, but I'm moving soon.”

“Cool,” I said, flustered because I had nothing else to add.

“Where are you going next?” she asked. “Are you staying in Columbus?” Her tone held a lack of judgment, an open-mindedness.

“I have no idea,” I said, holding my breath, then laughing a little bit too loud. Bunker looked up at me. Calm.

“Seattle's pretty nice,” she said, her voice lilting, like she was offering me a tempting treat.

“Do you have other friends out there?” I asked.

“Yeah, a few. And I have a boyfriend now. But it would be totally awesome to have more friends like you close by.” She was being so
nice
. Had her mother somehow found out that I'd had a
breakdown and told her to call me and check in? Why would she want me to come live in Seattle?

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

“Seriously,” she said. “I'm moving into a house with a friend of mine, this guy named Chris. And I think his friend Greg is going to move in with us too. We're house hunting right now. Then when we find a house, we totally want to get a dog. Seattle is super dog-friendly.”

“Really?” I said, wondering if perhaps this was a practical joke.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Dogs everywhere. And we all totally miss having one.”

“Well, you won't believe this. I just got a puppy,” I said. Bunker was snoozing on my bedroom floor and opened his eyes a sliver when I said his name.

“No way!” she said, laughing in a way that seemed out of proportion to the conversation. Or maybe it wasn't. I couldn't tell anymore. “Then you definitely need to move out here! It'd be a perfect fit!”

“Really?” I said. “That could be an option.”

“Seriously? You'd consider it?” she said.

I assumed she'd gotten in over her head, really didn't mean to ask me to live with her in Seattle. “I don't want to invite myself,” I said.

“What? No! It'd be so amazing if you actually moved out here. I mean, seriously, it would be epic! We would have so much fun.” Clearly she didn't know who I'd become in this last year. I made a mental note to make sure she never talked to my New York friends, who would describe me as anything but fun.

“Okay,” I said. I rubbed my forehead with my palm, squeezed my eyes shut. Exhaustion threatened.

“How about this,” she said. “You take a day or two. Think about it. We haven't started house hunting yet. When we do, we'll either look for a three-or four-bedroom place, depending on what you
decide. Simple as that!” She laughed again. “Man, that would be so awesome!”

I couldn't figure this out. Was she actually lonely and miserable out there in the rain? Did she need someone to come so far west to quell her isolation? We were friends in high school but not great friends. Melissa was much more popular than me; she had another best friend with whom she spent nearly every waking minute. They had the kind of best friendship I'd always envied. Why was she interested in hanging out with me now?

There was an awkward pause before I finally replied, “Let me talk to my parents. See what they think. I guess I have nothing to lose at this point.” The words seemed to come from behind me. I almost turned around to check the flowered wallpaper for someone whispering words into my ear. What was I saying?

I feared that I was failing to match Melissa's enthusiasm (a sentiment I hadn't felt in months), so I rather abruptly ended the phone call. After I hung up, I imagined that Melissa was like a customer at a used-car lot. I was a familiar brand of car, but she had no idea I was such a lemon. The next second, I dismissed the idea of moving entirely.

I went back to the kitchen. My mom stood at the stove. The afternoon light pooled on the kitchen counter, the leaves outside the window glistened. “Who was that?” she asked, dropping white onions into an oiled pan.

“Melissa,” I said. “I wonder how she knew I was home.” My mom shrugged, then asked how Melissa was doing. I considered not telling her that I'd just been invited to move to Seattle. I could just forget about it. Keep it to myself so that I didn't have to make a decision. Bunker trotted into the kitchen. Melissa said Seattle was dog-friendly. I thought of my mom's youngest sister who lived there, my aunt who loved animals the way I did, and the words tumbled out without further consideration. “She invited me to move to Seattle and live with her and two guys.” My
mom froze, then looked up from the vegetables she was chopping. “And they were thinking about getting a dog. So if I come, they won't need to. They'd love Bunker.”

She set her knife down. “Oh, honey, I know they would,” she said. “Wow. Seattle.”

We looked at each other, considering this new direction for my life, a genuine opportunity blossoming from a surprise phone call. “Wow,” she said again. We heard a skittering of claws in the living room and Bunker was chasing Cinder again. Cinder was baring her teeth and Bunk was down on his front haunches, inviting her to play. She barked at him, charged him, and he backed into the cabinet, tail between his legs. Cinder trotted over to the red couch, hopped up, and put her chin between her paws, watching this uninvited puppy warily. Bunker's moment of fear had dissipated by the time I reached for him, picked him up, and held him in my arms. “You gotta learn, buddy,” I said. “She rules the roost. And she doesn't like playing.”

“Cinder's miserable,” my mom said, laughing. “She's saying, ‘Who on earth is that annoying
thing,
and when is he
leaving
?'” When my mom said this, it felt like the first gentle nudge back out of the nest. Bunker and I weren't going to be living here forever. We could leave, and now we even had a place to go.

“Totally,” I responded, taking another look at Cinder still parked on the couch. She was angry, blinking, so unhappy about sharing the attention. “Totally true.”