I Want to Kill the Dog (6 page)

Our dog, I mean Meredith’s dog, can lie peacefully in a comfortable position with a bed of rose petals under his head or in front of a moving dump truck for all I care. That is his choice, and I will defend his right to make it. But I am resigned to a basic reality. Jasper is here to stay.

The dog will continue its annual ritual of scaring cute kids away on Halloween. The dog will keep shrieking at dawn, a special pleasure after a late night. Meredith will keep feeding Jasper leftover steak from the table so he can enrich our lives all over the place overnight. And best of all, Meredith will have to keep asking for Jasper’s permission to kiss me good-night. Unacceptable.

And Jasper will live to bury me.

Dogs are survivors, though according to Thomas Berger’s
Little Big Man,
they were a staple in the diet of Native Americans making their way across the Great Plains. I will not even bring up the common assumptions about Chinese restaurants. And yet dogs have wormed their way into American culture. Of course, the dog is ritualistically celebrated by authors in search of books and movie directors looking for surefire winners at the box office.

Forget the silver screen. It is real life that drives me crazy. It snowed last night. That blanket of white is a seasonal constant and reassures me that all is right in my world. Then I open my newspaper and make a cup of coffee. I read about war and politics, but I jump out of my skin when I learn that Pet Airways is in trouble. Pet Airways? What the heck is that?

Guess. No more cargo holds for Phoebe, one lady’s ten-year-old miniature schnauzer, according to
The New York Times
. Now, get this. Attendants cater to the animals during the flight, and there is a pet lounge “for the emotional goodbye at the airport.” The airline was founded by some California guy. What a surprise. I glance out the window. The snow is gone.

Writer Bruce McCall had it about right. He is sufficiently sick of the animal scene to serve my cup of tea. McCall soothed my spirit in
The New Yorker
with “Pet Books Proliferate,” served with a choice of corn syrup or saccharine. McCall told the tragic tale of “Tess, the Orphan Earthworm.” “Tess was inside the toaster, napping. Chuck decided to make himself a Pop-Tart. . . . A few hours later, still sobbing, I carried the dangling little question mark of charred gristle that had been my Tess out to the back flower bed.”

No sloppy high emotion here. I, for one, could not figure out if this sad story was fiction or a true account of a wonderful worm story. Chuck could not be reached for comment. My comment is that I worry about our culture: that it is in peril and possibly going to the dogs.

Well, I just cannot worship our dog, if you hadn’t guessed.
If dogs guide us on our journeys, if it takes a beast to show me the way along life’s obstacle course, I will end up in the Hudson River. I am a two-time cancer survivor and have battled MS for decades. No dog has eased my pain. I am legally blind and have stepped where I should not have too many times. Wiping off my shoes for the millionth time is not my idea of how I want to live
.

I would like to take our animals and box them or put them in a crate marked “Return to Sender.” My good wife operates under a different, perhaps more honorable value system that is hard to argue against, and so my wishes go unfulfilled.

“You don’t get rid of a member of the family just because they are difficult,” I heard her tell a visitor to our house, “or they don’t quite work out like you want.” Hell. Not just the dogs, but I will be toast if she changes her mind about that.

I have apologized many times in my life. Not this time. For those I have offended, I say, tough nuggies. Jasper gets to sleep indoors and feed his face twice a day. What else do I owe him? I will have no pet pedestal erected on my property. It is only one more place to clean up after Jasper.

Long ago, when my thoughts wandered to the very idea of owning a dog, I visualized a dignified, lumbering animal by my side. A man’s dog, if you will. He would be powerful yet gentle, with a deep bark used sparingly and only when necessary. Above all, the dog would value loyalty and be my friend.

“He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince,” George G. Vest wrote in his book
Eulogy of the Dog,
published in 1870. A dog lived for the master in those days, right up to the end. “There by his graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws and his eyes sad but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true, even unto death.”

Yup. That’s Jasper, a trusted friend and canine companion who will be by my side, even as I go to my grave before he finds his. In floods or fire or famine, my dog will guard my resting place. I know that.

Actually, the beast will relieve himself on my grave, I am pretty certain. His pals Felipe and Sweet Pea will have discovered a new litter box. Eternal humiliation.

I tell myself that life is good and everything works out in the end. Maybe next time, I will have better luck.

Did I say next time?

Acknowledgments

By now it must be evident that Meredith and I find ourselves on different pages in the endless doggie debate. But if this is as bad as it gets in our marriage, screw the dog. Jasper lives, and I will survive the hideous howling until the animal screams his last meaningless mouthful. I mean, how long can the loud loser keep going?

Actually, I do not want to know.

I do want to acknowledge Meredith’s long-standing support for this book, though she knew from the get-go that she would cringe at every harsh judgment I would offer. It must have killed her. Meredith is a real friend, a great journalist, and true professional who appreciates the power of story. She does not seem to care what I say about her, which I find mildly insulting. Very Queen Elizabeth.

Before Meredith read the manuscript, I asked my agent if there was anything she had read that might hurt Meredith’s feelings. “No,” the woman replied thoughtfully. “Meredith comes across as a kind, caring person.” And me? I asked. Linda paused. “You come across as an asshole.” Good, I quickly replied. My work is done.

Linda Loewenthal is not shy about sharing her opinions. I have the scars to prove it. Linda worked me until the manuscript was ready for a publisher. Linda is a great partner. My editor at Penguin, Vanessa Kehren, never stopped laughing as she ran a tight ship, getting the book ready for publication. My thanks also go to David Rosenthal, president of Blue Rider Press, his imprint at Penguin, for instantly seeing this book’s potential. Aileen Boyle, David’s associate publisher, is a publicity and marketing wizard. Only she could sell a book about doing in a dog. Stan Mack’s illustrations bring my story to life. Stan is fun, which made our collaboration even better.

Last, I want to thank Jasper for his never-ending sense of humor. I told the dog about the book, and he went for my throat. As Bugs Bunny once laughed scornfully, “What a maroon.”

About the Author

Richard M. Cohen is the author of two
New York Times
bestsellers: a memoir,
Blindsided: Lifting a Life Above Illness,
detailing his struggles with MS and cancer and his controversial career in the news business,
and
Strong at the Broken Places: Voices of Illness, a Chorus of Hope,
chronicling the lives of five individuals living with serious chronic illnesses. His distinguished career in network news earned him numerous awards, including three Emmys and a Peabody. Cohen lives outside New York City with his wife, Meredith Vieira. They have three grown children.