I Want to Kill the Dog (2 page)

The following is a true story.

I Want to Kill the Dog

F
irst of all, Jasper is not my dog, just the family animal, a mutt, to be precise. Jasper is nothing but trouble. But of course, I am the problem. That is how it works in our house. That crazy animal has turned the place upside down, but I usually take the blame for causing chaos and provoking Jasper’s chronic bad behavior. I am innocent, I swear.

Jasper belongs to my wife and to the ages, though few will believe my story. And a sad story it is. And noisy. Jasper runs around barking like a maniac, as if his tail is caught in an electric socket. This version of man’s best friend is just plain annoying.

It all began the day my wife bought Jasper from a pet store. Who buys animals from pet stores anymore? Poor, sickly, undernourished creatures with smoker’s cough arrive at homes from pet stores, animals that are down and out. Maybe they have TB, worms, or whatever. In Jasper’s case, it surely was distemper, and it proved contagious. Now I have it, too.

The seedy pet emporium sat across the street from my kids’ school, next to Jasper’s, a favorite pizza joint. You can guess the rest. The owner of the pet store told my wife Jasper is an Aussie poo. Never give a sucker an even break.

Genetic tests later indicated that Jasper is a dog of many flavors and what is known as a mutt.

The dog’s only papers covered the kitchen floor where he slept as a puppy. The poodle palace is gone now. Not so the dog. Meredith claims Gabe, our second kid, predicted that Jasper would return joy to the family. Return joy? Where the hell was happiness hiding?

Gabe denies he ever said such a thing. I reached him at college and he seemed to wonder why I was bothering him with this foolish question. I explained that it was his goofy mother who probably made the whole thing up to head off buyer’s remorse. Mine.

Please allow me to present my opening argument in
Richard M. Cohen v. Jasper, the Hideous Shrieking Pig Dog.
This is an open-and-shut case, and I want damages. Jasper’s ear-piercing bark is continual and is disturbing the peace, the animal screaming as if our car is rolling over his private parts, not that they still exist.

Jasper dislikes me as much as I loathe him. The animal bares his teeth and lunges at me whenever I go near my wife. He tries to tear my face off, because the animal is possessive, if not pathological, and believes she is his betrothed. Your Honor, these are only the highlights of my case. Please hear my story.

Scorecard

M
y wife is Meredith Vieira, journalist, television star, and fabulous mom. Jasper is simple enough to believe what he sees on television: Meredith sane and serene and fully in control. The problem begins with the fact that my good wife has her moments when she is none of the above. Ms. M. has a few loose screws when it comes to pets and other living things.

Of course, the public thinks Meredith can do no wrong. But when you walk on water, sooner or later you get wet. Right now no jury in the land would give me a fair shake. If Meredith and I stand on opposite sides of an issue, such as a crime against humanity—that would be Jasper—we all know who is going to prison.

The fact that the woman is a fanatic animal person will be held as inadmissible. Besides, no one will believe that she takes orders from our hairy creatures, except people who know the lady has a big heart that overrules her brain.

Meredith routinely chases insects around the house to capture them in a glass or jar to be released in the great outdoors, where no doubt they will be devoured by birds or frogs, which is precisely why the bugs hide indoors in the first place. Meredith never will step on an ant. Big deal. Neither will I, though I refuse to walk in front of an approaching train to avoid insect carnage.

Our kids just watch in wonder, smiling as they silently roll their eyes. They know their mom pretty well. And they can predict my stunned silence. Their eyes go back and forth between the two of us as they hold their tongues.

I imagine them waving a Swiss flag and declaring their neutrality. Yet it never ceases to amaze the three of them as they witness their mother running around in what should be a Red Cross uniform, jar in hand, yelling to no one in particular, “Open a window. I have to free the poor bug.”

Case in point: About two decades ago, when the kids were young, we had two cats, Spike and Beanbag. Spike had a kidney disease, and we taught Ben, our older son, to give him IV treatments each day. We came home one night to learn that Spike was dying. Ben was maybe halfway through elementary school and needed to be consoled.

What’s a mother to do? Actually, I am not certain Mom was up to the assignment. Meredith walked around the house, crying and holding the dead cat in her arms. When I awoke the next day in an empty bed, I ventured into the library to find Meredith asleep in a chair, still holding a rather stiff cat.

I awakened her and suggested she put the cat in the frigid garage. “It’s cold out there,” she cried. That is the point, dear: the house will smell a little better. These cats were our first animals in the house. I thought my wife would don sackcloth and ashes in mourning.

Meredith hired a band of workers from somewhere in South America to dig a hole in the frozen ground. They dug a grave large enough for an elephant and fled the moment they were done, no doubt believing the resting place was for a person.

Meredith opened the windows and blared out music from
The Lion King
, conducting a funeral exotic enough for Simba to attend. Dr. Dolittle was invited, too. I don’t remember if he made it.

I do have confirmation that Meredith and the kids danced around the giant grave and Ben was lowered in, carrying the cat corpse and notes to the cat’s spirit from the three youngsters. I could not get away from the office that afternoon.

It is fair to say all of us are acutely aware that Meredith is an animal acolyte. She tells the story of growing up close to her grandfather’s farm near Newport, Rhode Island.

Meredith’s grandfather had chickens, a cow and bull, and assorted barnyard animals. And he could not bring himself to slaughter any living thing. By all accounts, he was a very nice man. So he survived by raising and selling strawberries and vegetables.

This gentle farmer also put food on his own table by running a laundry. Feeding animals and feeding animals to people are certainly different ways of looking at farming. Apparently the man loved having animals too much to lose them.

Meredith visited the farm constantly as she grew up. Her family’s cats, Cesar, Cramden, and Norton, plus a few others, all came from her grandpa’s barn. Her love of animals is due in large part to his. So Meredith comes by her love of animals honestly.

That does not mean her animal affection is not carried to extremes. Beasts are elevated to ethereal heights, furry spirits on our tiny suburban farm. Meredith certainly likes Jasper, our scraggly pain in the ass, a lot more than she likes me. Who doesn’t?

Plenty of our friends have no use for the animal. Yet few want to burst Meredith’s bubble. People are tired of the hideous noise, weary of being accosted, teeth flashing, if they are brave enough to kiss Meredith on the cheek when they arrive for a visit. The dog feels a special enmity for guys, which he used to be. That may be because women show patience while their husbands try to kick the wretched animal in the face.

One female friend has the annoying habit of telling me that Jasper is a good boy, even though the dog goes for her ankles whenever she shows up. I have no explanation for this. She is another dog apologist in my life. If I did not like her so much, I would throw her out of the house before dinner. I wish I had a dollar for every person who has whispered, “How can you stand that dog?”

No. I am not envious of my sexy wife’s devotion to Jasper. Nor am I suspicious of it, so don’t even go there. I will not allow you to dismiss my feelings as the product of petulance. I do not want to be a dog. I refuse to eat dry food on the floor, and besides, the meals suck.

Plus, I dislike authority figures. Dogs are supposed to serve people, not vice versa. The relationship is called indentured servitude. Jasper seems to take no offense at the fact that Meredith is a slave owner.

And Meredith routinely dismisses my complaints about Jasper. She has heard them one too many times. “Richard hates dogs,” she will tell anyone with ears.

I have ears myself and do not hate dogs. I grew up with one. He was a Welsh terrier who met his end under a station wagon, traumatizing the entire family. If you are a shrink, don’t even start.

I believe in tolerance for people and pets, a live-and-let-live attitude toward household animals and their wacky owners. The problem is that, in my joint, anything short of unbridled love is up there with war crimes, punishable by . . . you do not want to know.

I like the strong
silent
type. Large, loving beasts are a joy. One deep-throated woof of warning when necessary is enough. Message sent. Our dog is a windup toy, a stuffed animal that runs around in circles, loud and self-absorbed. He has elevated yipping to an art form. Our family has been domesticated and serves him. What is wrong with this picture?

I only want what is best for Jasper. I hope to set him free from bondage and let him run. And run and run. The animal can send us a postcard when he gets to Des Moines and finds a paying job.

Is it such an unreasonable request that the dog learn to behave and stop bothering everyone? Instead, maybe there is an acceptable way to part company with the animal. An annulment will be fine. No alimony is necessary. No obligations. I wish the old boy no harm. I am a gentle soul.

Well, that is not exactly true. In fact, it is a lie.

I want to kill the dog.

To that end, I have given Jasper options. I asked the dog if he would consent to an operation, specifically, open-heart surgery with a butter knife. (You can’t neuter him twice.) It seemed only right to ask for his consent. The dog did not answer. I believe his lawyer counseled him to remain silent.

The animal has pushed me perilously close to the edge. Clearly, I am teetering. I talk to Jasper, out loud and in animated tones. Usually, I insult the dog, saying ugly things about him and his mother in a pleasant enough tone of voice, coaxing him out of the house to put as much distance between us as possible. The door locks. When he peers in through a window, I give him the finger. How sick is that?

I would get some small satisfaction if Jasper could sense my antipathy toward him. Maybe he does get it but says nothing. He generally ignores me when he isn’t attacking me, as if he cannot be bothered. I watch him watch me, disinterested and desperately bored, looking for something, anything, to look at as he rests without a thought in his head. Jasper is exhausted from doing nothing.

I have not been shy about describing various options for doing away with the animal. I cannot elaborate here without having to move to another bedroom. My hands are tied, anyway.

If anything untoward, such as, say, murder, were to visit Jasper’s kingdom, all fingers would point to me. Even if I were walking on the moon or 20,000 leagues under the sea doing important research when it happened, Meredith would immediately have a warrant for my arrest sworn out. And I would go to the chair while echoes of Jasper were heard in the next county.