Your Dog

I’m sorry, did you think this was my dog, simply because I take pictures of him looking adorable and post them on Facebook? Or because I drive two thousand miles on vacation so I can take him with me, rather than board him in a cold, metal cage where he’ll be deprived of love and kindness for hours at a stretch? Or because I call his little stump of a tail “the nubbin of love”?

Well, you’re wrong. He’s not my dog; he’s a foster dog! I—out of the goodness of my heart—took this poor mutt home from a shelter, where he’d been languishing for 24 hours, fully intending to place him in a loving home one day. And that day is today, and you could be the lucky owner! 

After two years of painstaking research, I’ve determined that you are the future owner of this dog, formerly known as T.J., now known as Toby. But you can call him whatever you want, because he’s yours! You can call him Lampshade, for all I care, as long as you take him, his leash, his other leash, his five to seven stuffed toys, his various water bowls, his upstairs bed, his downstairs bed, his epilepsy medicine, his antidepressant, his Benadryl for car trips, his rain coat, his winter coat, and … most important of all, his black-light urine detector.

That’s right, folks, this dog pees a lot. If you’ve ever owned a spaniel, or a spaniel mix, or a dog that was next to a spaniel at the shelter, then you know what I’m talking about. Spaniels speak with their bladders. They pee when they’re scared, excited, lonely, anxious, in new situations, when it’s too wet or cold to go out, when they’re unsure of who to vote for, or what to wear, when they’re bored, or when they’ve been separated from you for so long that they can’t stand to be separated for even the additional length of time it takes to pee outside, properly, like a normal dog would.

The only time spaniels don’t pee is when you take them to the vet to determine if they have a bladder infection or maybe prostate trouble, so that the vet has to take them “in back” and catheterize them, thereby making you pay to have your dog pee, which is the precise behavior you’re asking your vet to help curb in the first place.  

Here are some recent items my dog—now your dog—has peed on: a backpack, a beanbag chair, the oven, the microwave cart, a basket of kitchen utensils, shoes, a lunchbox, Grandma’s couch, Grandma’s chair, Grandma’s brand-new comforter, a futon, a bag of dog food, a bag of cat food, a plastic container of dog food, the kitchen cabinets, and … you get the picture.

I understand unconditional love. I love this dog even though he bites me (just a little), even though he bites my child (just a teeny bit, and only when he steps on him), even though he bit my husband (once or twice), even though he steals pizza and runs through the house with it until I have to I stand there and watch him eat it on my white bedroom rug because he will bite me (hard) if I try to take it from him. I love him even though he irritates the doggy-heck out of everyone who comes to the door by jumping all over them, especially the mailman, who’s convinced that 17-pound Toby would tear him to shreds if he ever broke free. I love him even though he obsessively licks the furniture and the floor and, if I let him, my hands and feet. I love him even though he eats his poop. (But not immediately after that. I’m not a saint.)

I love him because he loves me. I love him because he cries when we’re reunited after a long time. I love him because he cocks his head so appealingly when I say “walkies,” and then jumps in the air like a circus dog. I love him because he looks at me with such optimism, as if to say, “You’re going to give me that hamburger today, aren’t you?” even though I never do. I love the way he sleeps with his legs splayed, like a dissected frog. I love the way the hair between his ears is mussed, making him look like a newborn baby duck.

But I’ve discovered that there’s a limit to unconditional love. A condition. And that condition is inappropriate elimination. Up till the ten-thousandth pee I had hope. I forgave him, over and over again, through bottle after bottle of enzyme cleaner. But one day, I woke up and said, “No more, dog. I don’t love you. You have peed on my feet for the last time. You’re dead to me.” (Maybe that last line was from a “Sopranos” rerun. I don’t know.)

I’m still nice to him. I experience bursts of love, which last until the next time he pees on, say, the toaster. On our annual pilgrimage to Florida, I secretly hoped that someone would steal him during one of our pit stops, when I hooked him up in the shade with a fresh bowl of water and danced off to the bathroom, imagining myself free of the burden of a dog with separation anxiety.

You see, if I never left the house, and nobody ever came over, Toby would be fine. In fact, after the initial yearly pee at Grandma’s house (new situation), he was fine. My mom (who is very forgiving) kept saying what a good dog he was. That’s because nobody came to the door. He didn’t know the mailman’s schedule. There were no kids playing outside to torment him. For two weeks, we lived in seclusion. And he loved it.

Except when we left. Then, the untrustworthy dog would be banished to the lanai, where he had all of the comforts of home but air conditioning. He had food and water and shade and a comfy spot to lie. He had a pool to gaze in, or even to take a dip in, if he chose (he didn’t). He had screens to keep the mosquitoes at bay and darting lizards to keep his mind occupied. The only thing he didn’t have was me. And he was miserable. He soon figured out that if he was put outside alone, it meant we were leaving. He began to be alert to the putting-on of shoes. He started to fret if I so much as brushed my teeth.

As soon as the door closed, Toby’s anxiety kicked it. He pawed the glass. He panted, paced and barked. He jumped on the table, to get a better look at us abandoning him. Of course, he peed.

What can you do with a dog like this? We worked one-on-one with a trainer. We took a class, where Toby spent much of the time hiding behind my legs. We tried Prozac and Xanax. Nothing helps. Nothing seems to make a dent in his particular brand of craziness.

So we’re stuck. My husband tolerates him. My son hates him. I am torn between love and hate (in fact, they’re tattooed on my knuckles), but mostly I’m just stuck, wishing that he’d get a tumor in some inoperable place and then feeling awful about it. I’m evil! Who can look at that little face and have a thought like that? I should be the one euthanized.

Yesterday, I watched “The Dog Whisperer.” Cesar, I thought, please save me! Please bring your perfect white choppers to my house and transform my naughty dog into a well-behaved Stepford dog! I thought about putting Toby in an envelope and mailing him to California. With no return address. But I know it’s always the owner who’s at fault in bad-dog situations, blah blah blah.  

It’s always "blame the victim"! Must have been those provocative shoes I was wearing.

A Bad Phone Day

I have Cellular Asperger’s Syndrome. No silly, not Asperger’s at the cellular level, Asperger’s of the cell phone! I hate, hate, hate talking on the phone, so much so that it really causes me problems. For instance, a friend recently recommended me for a small, recurring newsletter job. I was basically “in” without having to do much, other than make a phone call. Three weeks later (or maybe it was six), I had yet to make that call. Then I ran into one of the people involved.

“Still want that job?” she asked, looking mildly perplexed. Did I want the job? Did I not want the job? Why didn’t I call anybody back?

To be fair, something major came up and, for a while, I wasn’t sure I could take the job (because I would be living in the back of my car, and there’s no Internet access there). But once the something major was resolved, The Call became an insurmountable task. The longer I put it off, the worse it became. Some days I would pick up the phone, look at the number, and be unable to force myself to dial. Finally, the editor e-mailed me … and asked me to call him.

Argh! Why can’t the whole world run itself via text and e-mail! It’s so much easier! No awkward pauses, no dry mouth, no sweaty pits. No chance of misspeaking or mumbling or revealing my lisp, which is only charming on a ringleted five-year old girl.

Yesterday, the editor left me a voicemail message, and I swore I would call him back. The next day. Today is the next day. My phone just rang. I did not pick up. It could be him.

My phone problems go way back. When I was a kid—maybe ten or sixteen—my mom started making me schedule my own hair appointments. This was agony. I would beg her to make the call, but to no avail. She was really, really cruel about it! Clearly, this was supposed to help me get over my phobia, but it only made it worse.

Thank god for the Internet! Thank you, Steve Jobs or Al Gore or whoever it was who thinks he invented e-mail, so I could talk to way fewer people than I used to have to. Thank you, Google, for letting me make dinner reservations online and book airline travel, for letting me look up the hours of any business in America, the Netherlands or Spain, and schedule service calls and resolve customer service issues to my (virtual) satisfaction.

Generally, if I’m having a bad phone day, I can make myself dial if I use speakerphone. If I can imagine the other person is far away, not trying to bore into my brain, like an earwig in a science fiction movie. Other times, it helps to talk and focus my eyes far on something far away—out the window and over the hedges into the blameless blue sky. It’s a dissasociative technique familiar to abuse victims worldwide. Just me and the Spanish Inquisition, blocking out the pain.

Recently, I stopped by my dentist’s office to make appointments for my son and me. I stopped by. In person.

“I was just passing by,” I explained, “so I thought I’d stop in.”

Oddly, the receptionist thanked me. Said it was much easier to schedule the multiple appointments I needed in person than over the phone. We looked at the doctor’s schedule together on her monitor, and while I was there, we resolved an insurance issue that had been ongoing. They gave me a sticker and some dental floss before I left.  

It’s not people, you see, but the phone that’s the problem. I can talk to someone face to face. I’m shy, but chatty. I’m an introverted extrovert! I would have done extremely well to have lived in the Victoria Era—minus the corsets, and the inability to vote or wear pants or have an epidural—due to the practice of visiting and leaving one’s calling card. So civilized, wouldn’t you say? Much better than yakking away on a handheld device that’s probably going to give you cancer from radiation. At least I won’t have to talk on the phone when I’m dead. Unless I go to Hell. There, I’ll probably be assigned to the reception desk.

I had my cholesterol checked. In March. Sure would like to know what those results are. Too bad I can’t call!

Or I could, if I focused on the robin in the back yard, perched on the telephone wire, the sweet little robin who’s never had to pick up a phone in her life, but who clutches the wire leading to the phone pole with her unsuspecting yellow feet.

“Just close your eyes,” I would say to her, if she ever needed to make a call. To her husband, for example, to ask if he needed her to pick up some extra earthworms on her way back to the nest. “Close your eyes and think of England.”