The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) (12 page)

I opened the refrigerator door and stared in.

I’d been on the plant-based diet—or, as Chris called it, a “member of the cult of kale”—for nearly a year at that point. And although Chris had not joined me, he too was certainly eating better. He even started to enjoy my creative blends of kale, celery, green apple, lemon juice, apple cider vinegar, coconut water, and chia seed smoothies. Okay, maybe “enjoy” is too strong of a word. Let’s go with “drink.” He began to drink my kale smoothies. After three months of having kale smoothies for breakfast with me, Chris had lost fifteen pounds. The result was that there wasn’t a lot in the refrigerator for a suddenly lapsed vegan to chow down on.

There was celery, apples, almond butter, pita bread, and hummus. I had kale chips and flaxseed “tortilla” chips in the cupboard for a favorite crunchy snack. But bacon?
Not
there
. A roast beef sandwich?
No
deli
meat
at
all
. An omelet? Always good with wine.
No
eggs. Fine. A grilled cheese sandwich it is
. The one thing Chris continued to buy regularly was cheese. I reached for the cheese and bread and then the butter. I set them on the kitchen counter and closed the refrigerator door. I was a foster failure and now I’d be a vegan failure too. Failure was my middle name.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I looked down. Daphne was at my feet doing her doodlebutt swing, her tail thumping the counter. She’d followed me to the kitchen on beagle autopilot. She looked up at me, perfectly ready to share, oblivious to my failures.

I exhaled.

While Daphne may have enthusiastically approved of my food choices in that moment, seeing her innocent face and her little cow-markings body stopped me cold. I knew enough, even in my wine-soaked anguish, to know the suffering that went into that cheese and butter. I’d allowed myself to read way too much about it to ever look at cheese the same way. Dairy cows suffer longer and live more miserable lives than even the “meat” cattle. At least the cows raised for their meat have some freedom of movement and semblance of “normal” before they are put out of their misery (by slaughter, to be clear; they’re not getting massages on the range).

The sandwich lost its appeal. I was angry at cancer. Angry at the loss of my companion and cohort in cancer fighting. But eating a product wrought from the suffering of other animals was not going to alleviate my pain, no matter how much television and our culture in general glorified animal products. My pain was mine to bear, and I had no right to inflict it on others.

This was as close as I’d come to giving up my plant-based diet, and it wasn’t hard to figure out my grief was playing a role in that. I looked down at Daphne, still waiting hopefully at my feet. “Doodlebutt, your mom needs a support group for this. You’re going to be my sponsor. Every time I think about straying off this path, I’m just going to look at you.”

She wagged her tail but looked back toward the refrigerator.

“Perhaps I’m choosing an unreliable sponsor.” She was focused only on the hope of a sandwich and not listening to me at all. I laughed. “That’s okay. You’ll do just fine, baby girl. We’re together for a reason.”

I put the cheese, the butter, and the bread away.

I put the wine away too.

Paso Robles was rapidly becoming Chris’s and my favorite town. We’d been going regularly for a few years, enjoying the wide-open spaces, vineyards and orchards, the hot days and cool evenings, the funky and chic restaurants, the art, and of course the wine, which Chris featured prominently both in his store and the online website. We’d taken Seamus last year, so now I was happy we’d be taking our little Doodlebutt too—our version of the family vacation.

We left late on Friday night, after Chris closed up his wine shop. We stopped in Buellton to stay the night at a dog-friendly Motel 6. The room was small, clean, and serviceable, just as we’d expected and all we needed. Since we weren’t sure how Daphne might react in yet another unfamiliar room without a doggie door, we preferred to be prepared. At least with a cheap room, the damage, if any, wouldn’t break the vacation budget.

We needn’t have worried. Just as Daphne easily leapt into the car to leave with us, she hopped up onto the hotel bed, snuggled in between us, and commenced deep, rumbling, contented snoring in three seconds flat. It was as if she was born to be with us: she so easily fit in.

In the morning, I took her outside for a visit to the closest tree, then came back into our room and made her breakfast. I had my coffee in bed while Chris slept a bit longer. Then Daphne jumped back up on the bed and snuggled in next to me. I rubbed her belly with my left hand while holding my coffee cup with the right, slowly waking, equally as content as the dog. Soon, though, the bed was shaking and my left arm felt a piercing grip. Daphne had stood, embraced the entirety of my left arm, and was madly humping away. I had to set my coffee down before it spilled.

“Daphne, no!”

Chris was awake. And laughing. “I guess she’s gotten pretty comfortable.”

“Yeah, we’ve got to get her spayed, stat.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be a problem with male dogs?”

“No one told Daphne.” The dog sat next to me, staring up lovingly.

“She’s got a major girl crush going on.”

“She does. I’m kind of proud of that. Violated, but proud.”

Later that morning we made our way to Paso Robles and stopped at the first winery of our Wine 4 Paws weekend. Wine 4 Paws is an annual fund-raiser for the Woods Humane Society. Many wineries welcome dogs, donate the tasting room fees or a portion of their sales, and host a variety of events for humans and canines alike. I was scheduled to sign books at one of our favorite tasting rooms downtown, Parrish Family Vineyard, but we had time to make a few stops at other wineries first. At the first tasting room, a photographer was present. What better place for our first family portrait than a winery? The photographer had set up a nice little scene using an old vineyard truck in front of a barn. Daphne hopped up into the front seat and posed perfectly. I think she thought the truck was going to drive us all away, and once again she was making sure to come along.

Chris and I both laughed at her enthusiasm. Seamus would have been howling and far too busy stealing the photographer’s lunch, which she’d left on a plate on a low wall to our left, to have ever sat for this. We have several “pet pictures with Santa” where Seamus is howling at Santa, and one particularly memorable one where he is blowing a raspberry at Santa. But Daphne posed like a pro, smiling her doggy smile, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, and looking right at the camera.

“God, I love how easy this dog is,” Chris said.

“I know. Although apparently she thinks I’m the one that’s easy.”

I adored the photo we got. Chris’s hand was even covering the lump on Daphne’s chest that was best left unseen. Chris had amusingly begun to call the lump her “control knob” because she was such a well-behaved dog, but for my part, I just wish I could unsee the actual lump on this sweet dog. I forced the thought out of my head.

We took our photo and the bottle of wine we’d bought and headed to our car. Suddenly, we were brought up short by a thundering, unfamiliar noise.

“
BAAARRROOOOOOOOO!
” Daphne strained against her leash.

“What the heck?” I said.

Chris and I both looked in the direction Daphne pulled. It wasn’t the first time we’d heard her bark, but it was close. She’d barked once or twice when we were out walking her and another dog passed by, but it was more of a yip: maybe a hello, maybe a warning shot. This was an unmistakable howl. Sure enough, another visitor had arrived at the winery, and their large spaniel-type dog had just leapt out of their car. Daphne was howling as if it were her job to evict the trespasser. Her howl was more of a bark than Seamus’s had been, and certainly louder, but it was still the legendary, carrying-across-the-fields, bloodcurdling beagle howl. This was a hunting dog’s howl when they’d spotted their prey.

“I’ve noticed she only howls at dogs bigger than her,” Chris said.

“Really? So maybe it’s a defensive thing? Whatever it is, that’s a loud bark.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely loud.” Chris pulled back on Daphne’s leash. “No.”

Daphne looked up at him, tail wagging.

Oh, good, she listens to us. How novel
, I thought. But then…

“
BAARRRROOOOOO!
”

“Okay, let’s just get her in the car.”

Once in the car, Daphne morphed back into her usual calm, happy-go-lucky-gal persona. I gave her some water, and she lapped it up and then licked my face in her “Thanks, Mom” way.

“Baby dog, let’s not make a habit of that, okay? Other dogs exist. You’ll need to get used to that.”

She moved over and tried to mount my arm again.

“Okay, this has got to stop!” I took her two grabby front paws and moved her off me.

• • •

We parked in front of the Parrish Family Vineyard tasting room. This would be my first signing without Seamus. I’d already given a few talks, which were difficult enough. I’d struggled mightily trying to find a scene from the book I’d be able to read without breaking down, only then to be caught completely off guard when I had to decide, on the spot, whether to use the past or present tense when I spoke of him. But those talks took place in venues where no one expected Seamus to be with me. This time I was at a dog event with dogs abundantly present. I was once again thankful to have Daphne by my side to ease the pain of this transition.

There was a labradoodle in the tasting room. A big goofy labradoodle who danced around and immediately assumed the play position alongside the bar stool and facing Daphne.

Daphne went off again.
BAAARRROOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Only this time, the hackles on her back went up. Chris and I looked wide-eyed at each other and then both immediately yelled, “No!”

Daphne stood her ground, unfazed. I moved between her and the playful labradoodle and said, “No,” once again, more firmly (and less hysterically, since the surprise had now worn off). She seemed to listen but wanted nothing to do with the exuberant pup, so we escorted her back outside.
Sure, me she wants to hump, but the cute labradoodle she ignores.

The Parrish folks had set up a table for me on the front patio, complete with a little bowl of water for Daphne. We set up my books, a sign, and a donation jar for Woods Humane Society and settled in with a glass of their crisp sauvignon blanc, which would definitely also help me through. This was how to do a book signing.

It didn’t take long before Daphne howled again and strained at her leash. We turned in the direction of her howl and saw our friends, Juliana and her husband, who just happened to be named Seamus (and whom we therefore jokingly called “human Seamus”), walking down the street toward us. I met Juliana through the same Beaglefest group that helped me adopt Daphne. Juliana had a beagle named Maizy. On the Beaglefest Facebook page, there were frequent posts by the members about our mischievous beagles and their never-ending antics. When I posted about my comical Seamus, Juliana naturally got a laugh out of it since her husband shared the moniker. I once posted my plans to take my Seamus to Paso Robles (the year previously, for the same event) and asked for dog travel tips from others. Juliana gamely posted that she loves to take her Seamus to Paso Robles as well, and what worked for “human Seamus” (fresh air, great restaurants, friendly winemakers) could surprisingly also be applied to “beagle Seamus.” From there she and I learned we had more than just beagles in common, including a love of travel and wine, particularly those from Paso Robles and California’s central coast. And Juliana and human Seamus were vegetarians.

“So maybe it’s not just dogs bigger than she is that she howls at,” I said.

“She’s howling at Juliana and Seamus?” Chris said.

“I think she’s howling at Maizy.”

Chris bent down to pet and calm Daphne. “Doodlebutt, no. You can’t howl at other beagles! That’s never going to work out.” Our talking to our dog in full sentences was also unlikely to work out, but we were as undeterred as Daphne.

We could barely say hello to our friends over the bossy howls of our beagle, who seemed to be screaming at Maizy to stay away. Maizy, in true beagle fashion, howled back but clearly only in defense. Human Seamus suggested he and Chris take “the girls” for a walk together so they would get to know (and like) each other. He meant the beagles; Juliana was joining me for a glass of wine, and we already liked each other.

The walk eased some of the anxiety out of Daphne, but at each new winery we went to that afternoon and evening, when we got out of our cars, Daphne started in again at Maizy as though she was seeing her for the first time. “
BAARRRRROOOO!! You’re still here?? These are my people! MY people!
” She was embarrassingly rude. And loud.

Juliana noticed that both of our girls were wearing purple collars and purple leads. I’d given all of my dogs “signature colors” for their wardrobes and even their toys sometimes, and once I realized that Chris had named Daphne after the
Scooby-Doo
character who always wears purple, well, the decision was easy. Daphne’s signature color was purple.

“Maizy’s signature color is purple! Maybe that’s what Daphne is upset about! You know how women can be with their outfits out in public,” Juliana said. And that’s when we noticed she and I were both wearing turquoise.

I laughed. It was gracious of her to laugh off our dog’s antisocial behavior, but I was getting concerned. We were forty-eight hours away from introducing our Beaglerette to the lucky bachelors. Was she going to howl and snarl at them too? Had I adopted yet another dog that wouldn’t tolerate competition from a fellow canine?

We went to a barbecue party at Dubost Winery that evening. To my relief, Maizy and Daphne seemed to have settled their differences—or at least resolved to ignore each other, though poor, sweet Maizy really looked like she just wanted a nice friendly game of chase, if only Daphne would stop with the noise.

Fine, I’d take ignoring the other dog, cute as she was. It was better than the howling. But then I had a new worry.

The Dubosts’ pigtailed, blue-eyed, chubby-cheeked, four-year-old granddaughter took an immediate liking to Daphne and came hurrying to our table. In the split second it took for the little girl to hurl herself at Daphne, I realized I had no idea how Daphne responded to kids. The girl swung her arms around Daphne’s neck and put her face right up against Daphne’s, cheek to cheek. A pair of big, bright blue eyes and a set of caramel-brown eyes stared up at me with matching expressions of love. Daphne didn’t move a bit—except for her tail. Her tail wagged enthusiastically. The little girl petted and hugged and talked to Daphne (mostly professing her love) off and on for the entire evening. None of it was too much for Daphne; she gleefully soaked it all in, and she never howled at Maizy. Well, that night anyway.

Okay, so Daphne wasn’t a perfect dog. She’s maybe not crazy about other dogs, but she certainly loved children. And she was smart enough to hide her one bad habit until we were crazy in love with her. Clever. And after all, that’s one of the traits I’d always loved about beagles—the clever part, not the loud part.

On Monday morning we left Paso Robles for Los Angeles and our Beaglerette’s big day. She’d meet Comet first and then Rizzo. Such a momentous occasion required some special spoiling, so we shared our breakfast with her and stopped at Avila Beach on our way down the coast. For all we knew, this was Daphne’s first time on a beach. Her ears flapped in the wind as she ran, tongue flopping out the side of her mouth, eyes wide in excitement, loving every moment. Since it was Monday morning and still cool out, we had the beach almost entirely to ourselves. There was one other man and his dog, and we were pleased to see that Daphne only barked a couple of times. She was too happy to be bothered by this lone intruder far down the beach. She did not bark at or chase the seagulls either, so I allowed myself to think she’d already become more socialized in our three days away.

I must have taken a thousand photos. It was so beautiful to see this former shelter dog, who so clearly wanted only to be loved, happy, and exuberant in the wind and sun. Everything about Daphne said “joy” on that beach as she ran, played, and constantly looked back at us or ran straight to one or the other of us, licked our faces, and ran to play again (cue the melodramatic “walk on the beach alone contemplating love” scenes from any of the
Bachelorette
shows). We would have stayed all day, especially since the beach is my favorite place too, but there were some handsome bachelors waiting on our girl, and I, for one, couldn’t wait to meet them.