The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) (22 page)

“Right. This is not your tribe.”

“My tribe. I like that.” I thought about the expression for a moment—a group who lived like I lived. Who could guide me. Help me grow.
That
was
a
tribe, right?
“Yes, I need to find my tribe.”

The trouble was I had no idea what my tribe would look like. And as my trip to India had glaringly reminded me, I was terrible in a group.

(Much later I saw a video of this same group in a “home advocacy” protest outside a UCLA vivisector’s home. They were peaceful, quiet, and respectful, holding candles and signs and remaining silent, careful not to step on private property. They were also being verbally attacked, insulted, and threatened by the UCLA scientists and their friends, who were behaving abhorrently. The animal advocates remained still and dignified as these “scientists” hurled abuse at them. So I learned I’m not yet worthy of this tribe. I’m not yet brave or strong enough.)

• • •

The tribe I did belong to, and had for over twenty years, was the lawyer tribe. My law office was still what paid our bills (medical and veterinarian mostly) and still where I went Monday through Friday (unless a dog needed me) and sometimes on Saturday. I still needed to pay attention to my business.

I went to a legal seminar, and because California lawyers are required to take a certain number of continuing education courses in ethics (
stop
laughing!
), I went to a course called “When Good People Do Bad Things.” You would think it was a class on marketing your law practice, but it was not. The speaker was a psychologist and a lawyer, and she was discussing how scandals like Enron, WorldCom, and Lehman Brothers happened. Her focus was on how and why so many otherwise good people made such unethical choices. (She was referring to the folks down in the chain of command, not the guys at the top who don’t qualify as “good people” to begin with.) She discussed a concept called “cognitive dissonance.”

I looked up from my notes. I’d heard this term. I’d heard it in
Maximum
Tolerated
Dose
, but I didn’t quite comprehend what it meant. It’s hard to comprehend thoroughly through tears and a blanket held up to my face. But now I could hear. I listened as she described “the presence of incongruent thoughts and actions that frequently result in excessive mental stress and discomfort.”

Mental stress? Discomfort? Yeah. I’m listening.

“So the mind makes adjustments. For example, a successful, otherwise honest person working his way up at a major accounting firm is asked to prepare what he knows are fraudulent financial statements. He holds two thoughts in his head. One, he is a good, ethical accountant. Two, preparing fraudulent financial statements is wrong. The action he is being asked to do is incongruent with his beliefs. This is, obviously, stressful to him. Adding to his stress, it’s his boss making the request and assuring him it’s just this one time. He can either refuse and risk the respect of his boss and quite possibly also risk his job, or he can act to reduce the cognitive dissonance that is causing his stress.”

While she spoke, she was drawing a diagram. She drew one circle and wrote inside it “ethical accountant/high standards.” She drew a second circle and wrote in it “produces false financial statements.” Then she drew two overlapping circles and scribbled harshly, shading in the intersection of the circles. She drew an arrow and wrote “cognitive dissonance.”

“There are three ways the dissonance can be reduced. First, he could change his action—not prepare the fraudulent statements. This takes a tremendous amount of courage. Second, he could change his belief—he is
not
an ethical person. Very difficult to do. Or, third, he can justify his behavior so the belief is no longer in conflict: preparing the statements as he’s being asked will save thousands and thousands of jobs within the company; by preparing the statements he is being a ‘team player’—he’s running with the big dogs while helping the little dogs. This is how business works, he tells himself. He rationalizes. Thus, he reduces the dissonance and justifies his behavior. He is, in his now-settled mind, both an ethical person and one who produced an ‘incorrect’ financial statement—for a ‘good’ reason.”

She drew a third circle and under it wrote “rationalization.” Then she listed the ways our accountant had justified his behavior to settle his own cognitive dissonance—why good people do bad things.

Could people see the lightbulb illuminate above my head?

This was my conflicting Adam and Eve versus evolution beliefs, with the childlike rationalization I’d created. This was also my brain in the last year.

Cognitive dissonance was a
much
better term than restless brain syndrome.

I drew my own three circles. Under one I wrote “I love animals.” Under the second I wrote “I eat animals” and “I buy products tested on animals.” Under the third, the one connecting the first two circles, I wrote, “I need the protein. Meat tastes good. We’re the top of the food chain. If I didn’t eat them the world would be overrun by cows. I only eat ‘humanely raised.’ I only eat free-range. And it’s only a chicken.” Then I crossed out the third circle. I wrote, “I didn’t know any better. But now I do.”

I also now understood why I heard the kinds of responses to my vegan lifestyle that I heard from so many people, even people I knew to be animal lovers. This is why nonvegans need to mock my eating choices so as not to confront their own. This is why people who call themselves animal lovers won’t watch the documentaries about where their food comes from and what happens to the animals. This is why people who buy clothing and toys for their dogs still pay money to be “entertained” by wild animals at zoos, circuses, and marine parks without giving any thought to how their actions contribute to the captivity and abuse of the wild animal. They need to keep their own dissonance at bay. They were protecting themselves. But they were doing so at the expense of the animals.

I was both relieved and horrified to realize this. I understood now what my journey had been about. I had let go of my rationalizations. I had changed my actions and honored my beliefs. And I would continue to do so. But there was still much work to be done, and the efforts needed in the fight for animal rights and respect for all sentient beings seemed so monumental.

Things began to get easier at home. Whether because time is the great healer or because my cognitive dissonance had settled itself, I don’t know. Perhaps it was both. Our decision to leave the dogs to work it out between themselves during part of the day was paying off. They seemed to have settled into not the love connection I had in mind, but more of a big sister/little brother relationship. Percival taunted and teased Daphne, and Daphne in return both bossed around and protected Percival. There were even signs they might one day play together, although it was also obvious that neither one had much experience in that department. Percival would bow down in play position and Daphne would bark at him. He’d grab a toy and shake it, but when Daphne latched on to the same toy, Percival would simply let go and run off to grab another toy rather than playing the tug-of-war game she had in mind. Then Daphne would drop the toy she’d stolen and return to the couch to sleep it off.

Percival was, however, happy to play alone. He tore through the box of dog toys, disemboweling them one by one. Whenever Seamus had torn apart a toy, he removed the squeaker and the game was over—victory for Seamus, of course. Not so for Percival. He’d tear the squeak out and carry it around, launching the horn, the siren, the gurgle, the hoot, or, most annoyingly, the Christmas carols, at random moments. He’d also shred every last bit of stuffing, leaving mounds of white and green fuzz throughout our living room, the stairs, our bedroom, and—his favorite—the formal dining room. Then he’d carry the “skin” of the toy around with him—bits of brightly colored fabric that no longer resembled the moose, duck, beaver, dog, or squirrel it had once been hanging from his jowls. He even carried the pieces of carnage with him outside to do his business, still holding the toy in his mouth.

Daphne didn’t play with toys yet, unless she was taking one away from Percival, which seemed not so much “play” as “showing who’s boss.” Yet she picked out one toy to carry around herself—a red fire hydrant. She held it in her mouth gently, never chewing or tearing it, just occasionally squeezing it enough that the odd noise we guessed was supposed to be a siren was set off. Then she’d simply use the toy as a pillow. Percival eventually settled on a favorite as well: a formerly round lamb (quite originally named “Lambie”) that had been destuffed through the top of her head but otherwise kept enough body parts to still resemble a lamb. This was his favorite toy to carry around, sleep with, and, in a regular offering to express his love, deposit on Chris’s face.

Because while the dogs were no longer trying to kill each other, it now seemed Percival was determined to kill Chris. Death by love and obsessive devotion.

The moment Chris came home each night, Percival raced to him and launched himself upward in a projectile rocket of affection. Chris is over six feet tall. The odds of Percival landing one of his kisses on the intended target of Chris’s face were slim, but this did not deter his zeal. He flung himself at Chris until Chris sat down on the couch and “accepted” the wild passion display that was Percival. If Daphne dared to reach the couch before Percival, we’d experience the one area where Percival was the boss. He’d use his small, wily size to dive between Chris and Daphne and then use his back paws in unison to buck Daphne aside, while his front paws held either side of Chris’s face and he gave Chris a tongue bath as if Chris had used gravy for shaving cream…and then forgot to shave it off. If either Daphne or I tried to interfere or greet Chris ourselves in any way, Percival would again fling all now twenty-three pounds of himself between us and start his gravy-consumption process over, this time with more feeling. If Chris tried to move, Percival swatted him with his paws. Daphne and I contented ourselves with our own cuddles on the couch, so while Percival pawed and licked away, Daphne groaned and tail-thumped in her own contented happiness.

“Oww, Percival!” Chris grabbed Percival’s right paw.

“Tell him ‘no.’ He understands ‘no.’”

“No,” Chris said. In response, Percival licked Chris’s face and pawed him with the left paw. Then both paws together, leaving a mark on Chris’s right cheek. “Oww. No, I don’t think he does know ‘no.’”

“Well, we haven’t been using it a lot. But perhaps it’s time. He seems obsessed with you.”

Percival, hearing that I was trying to converse with his beloved, flopped his entire body across Chris’s neck and nibbled on his ear, the better to prevent Chris from hearing anything anyone else had to say.

“You think?” Chris said. And Percival swatted his head.
Me! Pay attention to ME! Only ME!

I laughed. Daphne thumped her tail. “We’ve got Thunder Tail and Power Paws.”

It was Chris’s turn to laugh—through the pain. He repeated the instantaneous nicknames in the voice of a cartoon announcer: “
Thunder
Tail! And Power Paws! Engage superpowers!
”

It worked. Daphne’s tail thumped harder and faster and Percival reared back to attack Chris’s face with both paws as he tried to climb onto Chris’s head—the better to enter his brain, I suppose. Chris grabbed him and lifted him back down to his lap. Percival spun around and leapt from the couch, racing to the dining room. Daphne followed him, bellowing her big sister bark:
Slow
down! Not in the house!

I looked at Chris. He was laughing, and though his cheek had a dark pink scratch, he didn’t seem to mind. “So. Percival,” I said.

“Yes?”

“I think they’re okay. I think he can stay.”

“You’ve always thought he could stay.”

“I have. But now I think you think that. And really, I don’t see how you could say no to him.”

“Dang it.”

“It’s the beagle charm.” I smiled. Chris was nearly as susceptible to beagle charm as I was. It was just the one time he got to play the heavy to my emotional marshmallow approach.

“It is. And yes. He’s staying.”

Percival came tearing back into the room, Daphne in hot pursuit. From five feet away, Percival sprung over me and onto Chris’s lap. Daphne, less agile but twice as strong, leapt onto the couch and slammed in next to me, howling her victory in corralling the kid back to us.

Chris looked Percival directly into those dark, almond eyes—easy to do since the dog had again placed his front power paws on each of Chris’s shoulders. “Okay, you win, Power Paws. You’re family now,” Chris said. Percival licked Chris’s face in his quick little lizard-lick way and wagged his tail. Daphne turned and looked up at me, big caramel eyes ready to work me over for whatever she wanted, but I could swear there was a little
Oh
seriously? I thought you were kidding with this thing
in her look.

• • •

The next morning I awoke and went downstairs for my coffee. Daphne and Percival followed me, Percival racing ahead and Daphne staying right by my side. The peeing in the house had gotten better, but our X DAYS SINCE AN INCIDENT sign was not yet ready to be retired, so I was making an effort to get up early and get them both outside immediately. We had a sneaking suspicion it was no longer Percival who insisted on using the pee pad in the living room. He seemed to be regularly and happily going outside. Daphne, on the other hand…well, our girl had been caught midstream in the living room twice. She was probably trying to set him up.

I made my coffee and the dogs’ breakfast and waited out the five minutes of morning aerobics while they jumped and danced and encouraged me to call “time” and put their hydrated-enough bowls of food down. I left them to their meal and returned upstairs to my office. Soon after, I was joined by Percival, who approached my chair and pawed at my leg.

“Hi, buddy. You want up?” I sometimes picked him up and let him sit in my lap while I wrote. This time, though, he ran out of the room immediately.

Two minutes later he was back and pawing at my leg again. I turned to pick him up, but he dashed out of the room. Then ran back to look at me still in my chair in the office and dashed out again.

I guessed that he wanted me to follow him. Seamus had behaved similarly when he wanted me to follow him (usually to the kitchen), so I did.

Percival led me to the bedroom, where he danced back and forth in front of the upholstered chest at the foot of our bed. He looked from me to the bed and back again, licking his lips with anxiety.

When it became obvious that most of the dogs’ fights occurred on the bed in the middle of the night—not to mention how the two dogs’ presence cut into our human cuddle time—Chris devised a method for keeping them off the bed. We allowed them on the bed when lights were on and we were reading or watching television. But when it was “lights out” time, I would take them downstairs for a snack while Chris propped open the lid to the chest. Although both dogs were surely capable of jumping up onto the bed from the side, neither had done so. They had always used the extra step up by leaping first onto the cushioned chest and then the bed. When the lid was up, they couldn’t, or didn’t, get up onto the bed. Now, though, Percival thought it was time for the lid to come down. He was tired of waiting.

“Are you awake yet?”

“I am,” Chris said.

“Are you ready for the Power Paws massage? Because he’s dying to get up there.”

Chris sat up, covered himself with blankets, and put both hands up in front of his face, like a catcher behind home base. “Okay. Lower the drawbridge.”

I barely had the lid down before Percival bounced onto it and sprung onto the bed. In two bounces he was on Chris like he’d just been rescued from a deserted island and Chris was the clean water supply. And he licked him like that was the case as well.

“This is a
mffphffff
mmmmhhhfffpppphhhh
,” Chris said.

“Not sure I know what you’re saying. There seems to be a beagle glued to your mouth.”

He moved Percival to the side, turned him on his back, and rubbed his belly. “This is a fine way to wake up.”

“Sorry. He desperately needed to be with you. He came in to get me to lower the drawbridge twice.”

“Well, what Percival wants…”

“Exactly.”

I had to admit, I was a little jealous. Chris had frequently commented that Daphne—the world’s easiest dog with her calm sweetness and love of cuddles—had, against odds and certainly against type, seemed to prefer me, the less calm and sweet human in the house. And no matter what Chris did, or how many times he pointed out to her that he was the one who first wanted to adopt her, Daphne was a mama’s girl. She loved Chris and certainly cuddled with him too, but her preference was obvious. It was not, however, as obvious as Percival’s preference. In a mere matter of months, I had gone from the one fighting to keep him and loving him unconditionally to a mere means to an end. And that end was Chris. Chris was the beginning and end of Percival’s world. He worshipped him, plain and simple.

When I got out of the shower, I heard Chris singing to Percival and I laughed. Percival had his first theme song.

Seamus had many nicknames and theme songs.

And Daphne had early on picked up an appropriate, classic theme song sung to
New
York, New York
, which was simply:

Doo-Doo-Doodlebutt,

Doo-Doo-Doodlebutt,

Start spreading the news…

This beagle’s in town…

Mostly we just petted her cute face while singing “Doo-Doo-Doodlebutt, Doo-Doo-Doodlebutt” and she would reward us with thumps from Thunder Tail. Eventually her looks of love were rewarded with a second theme song, this one sung to the tune of the
Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang
song:

Oh. You. Pretty, pretty Daphne,

Pretty, pretty Daphne,

We love you.

But now Chris had Percival on his back, squeezed between Chris’s knees, while he was singing, to the tune of
La
Cucaracha
:

Percival Taco!

Percival Taco!

Silly beagle in the bed!

Percival seemed to enjoy it and was gleefully submitting.

“That fits. A dog with this much exuberance needs a quick and bizarre theme song,” I said.

“He does.” Chris grabbed two of the Power Paws and began a little air dance with them. “Percival Taco! Percival Taco! Crazy, weird, my little dog!”

Yeah. Percival was staying. We all had our idiosyncrasies—dogs and humans alike—but we seemed to be meshing them just fine. We seemed to be completing our family.

It would be really nice if we also found out I wasn’t dying.

• • •

My headaches, restless brain, and insomnia had stopped, but my brain MRI was scheduled. Even the insurance company thought I needed peace of mind. I considered canceling. I’d been taking the magnesium, vitamins B and D, and even the ginseng, gingko biloba, and valerian extracts my dad had sent. I’d also given myself a break from the intense reading I’d been doing, since I now felt I’d resolved my cognitive dissonance. And the dogs were getting along. So maybe it had been stress all along. Maybe I was fine. Who needed to drive all the way into Los Angeles for an expensive test when a few bottles of supplements and two cute dogs could do the trick?

Apparently I did.

The other fallout to having mindlessly posted on Facebook that I was being referred for a brain MRI was that my friends and family, and even some strangers, couldn’t forget that I’d been
referred
for
a
brain
MRI
. Seemed everyone took this rather seriously and kept waiting to hear results.

The last time I spent a half hour or so holding still in an MRI tube was the day after I’d been diagnosed with cancer. I’d entertained myself that time by planning out the blog that Chris had suggested and figuring out how to explain to my friends and family that I’d been told two weeks earlier that I had a breast lump that was “highly suspicious of malignancy” (that much I had not put on Facebook). This time, I was determined not to think about the very things that had driven me to brain spasms…or, er…cognitive dissonance. That is, it wouldn’t do to think about the cruel treatment of animals that had become the norm in our society and that I had unwittingly contributed to. That would make me cry, and it’s hard to hold one’s head (let alone brain) still when crying.