The Worst Decision, Continued
The Worst Decision, Continued
Or, My Dog Is COVID
When I ended my last post, I explained how my love for animals eventually superseded my concern for my own health: adopting a new cat despite discovering I had a cat allergy.
However, I can’t say I regret adopting Reina. She’s been, especially when compared to Max, a picture of health for the last twelve years. She’s also, quite frankly, a bit of a bitch, but she’s hardy AF, and has handled multiple moves over the years without much fuss: from New York to Pittsburgh, a summer in Austin and then back again, and then to Seattle, and most recently to Japan. She’s relatively low maintenance and has been my steady companion, particularly during the years I lived alone during grad school.
Reina sleeps in our bed day and night, and will solicit affection when we are in a supine position. (Try to pet her while standing and you will get swatted.) She’s on the hefty side and gets antsy for mealtimes—which I guess makes sense, since there’s not much else going on in her life.
Her greatest regret is not murdering Desmond when she had the size advantage.
Currently, she has an excellent view of the backyard, as our bedroom has a window that spans the length of one wall. If she’s not sleeping and Desmond is out in the yard, she will launch herself at the glass, meowring and spitting. I know I’m doing too much anthropomorphizing, but you can practically hear her hiss: You’re lucky this barrier is here, you bastard!
Reina, contemplating Desmond’s demise while lying in front of “her” window
First-World Problems Dog
So now we have arrived at Desmond, an animal whose adoption I—once again!—could not wait to complete. N— and I got married in the summer of 2012, then lived apart for about six months while I finished up grad school in Pittsburgh, and he began working in Seattle. We said that when we reunited, we’d do two things: watch Breaking Bad together, and adopt a dog. The former was a great show, and worth the wait. The latter decision we have come to regret in some shape or form every day since.
I feel guilty typing that, but Desmond can neither read nor process that complex of emotion, so I’m going to be honest—and reassure you all the while that Desmond has had the absolute best care his entire life—which is part of the regret.
Desmond entered this world fearful and full of shit—literally. He had giardiasis as a puppy, thanks to the damp, parasitic conditions of a Seattle January, which is when we brought him home.
My all-time favorite photo of Des as a puppy
His fearfulness is one-half of the reason I call Desmond our “first-world problems” dog: in addition to having severe anxiety, he also has terrible allergies. I am aware that the concept of a dog having either of these conditions didn’t exist a few short years ago--and still doesn’t in many parts of the world. (The same can be said of humans, too. It’s the fault of the environment we’ve created, etc.)
Desmond’s modern maladies have cost us thousands of dollars over the years in the form of medication, special foods, training, and miscellaneous. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that the money we could have saved would have been enough for the down payment on a small boat or modest vacation home.
But the costs aren’t the biggest problem. It’s how he behaves--the way his anxiety manifests itself—that’s the problem. His asshole behaviors have forced us to alter our lives in countless ways. We pretty much 1) can’t take him anywhere, and 2) can’t have anyone in our home. Desmond was COVID years before COVID existed.
Can’t Stop Won’t Stop
Desmond loves being outside; it’s one of a few “normal dog” traits he possesses. Some of our happiest memories with Des involve hiking on deserted trails, where he could be off leash, running back and forth and sniffing anything in his path. (One upside to his anxiety: he always keeps us within sight.) Yet those wonderful memories are always paired with terrible ones because Desmond is an absolute maniac in the car. He can’t sit still, which has led to him bashing his chin on the dashboard multiple times at stoplights. And he barks. Non. Stop. (Incessant barking is his #1 asshole behavior.)
It is one of the most maddening, stressful experiences to be in the car with him for any length of time, let alone the hour or two it takes to reach a trailhead. If you have ever been in the car with a wailing child (and I have): take that irritation and multiply it times five. Seriously. Sitting in a car with Desmond should be a test for aspiring Zen Buddhist monks.
Desmond once jumped out of a moving vehicle, which is another story for another time.
We can’t take him to the store and leave him outside while we run an errand. He would break the leash and charge barking into the store. (Once, my friend tried to hold his leash while I went into a gelato shop, and he ended up inside, behind the counter, before I tackled him to the ground.) I can’t take him to a public park and sit on a bench or a picnic blanket with him. Even at the ripe old age of eight, he does not understand the concept of “hanging out,” and will nervously circle us if we try to sit, and—of course—bark at us. You. Must. Keep. It. Moving.
I Am the Problem
So walks must at least be pleasant with Des, right? He does fine with N— most days, and with his dog walker every time—but with me? He barks incessantly at me as soon as he sees me preparing for a walk. He somehow knows the difference between me preparing to leave the house alone, versus me getting ready to take him out, even before I grab his leash or poo bags. He’s not dumb, which is actually part of the problem.
The barking will continue as we leave, until he settles into some sort of rhythm, but even then I can’t relax, because things like waiting for a stoplight or a sudden breeze can send him into a new barking frenzy. He’ll sometimes grab the leash in his mouth, and has on more than one occasion—including once at Seattle’s Green Lake, and once in the middle of a busy Tokyo street—chewed through the leash entirely, leaving me holding a gnawed-off rope and him completely untethered. He has never once tried to bolt, but just looks at me with his dopey, crazed face as if to say: Now what was I barking about again?
I understand that a well-trained dog would not chew on a leash; therefore, I am the problem here, not Desmond. But if you have any suggestions about training techniques, please take them and fuck all the way off. Sincerely.
Only 25% Asshole
I say that with conviction because I have devoted years of my life and many, many dollars to Desmond’s training. As a puppy, he was fearful of everything, including other dogs, so we took him to puppy class as well as supplemental socialization hours. Puppy playtime was overseen by an incredibly tall, gangly man with a handlebar mustache and a name befitting a cartoon character. I won’t divulge his identity, but suffice it to say it was something like “Captain Buck.” Captain Buck came to our home for some private one-on-one training, and I worked with Desmond all through puppyhood using his techniques.
As Des grew into an adult dog and his anxiety fully revealed itself, I drove across Lake Washington (Bark! Bark! Bark!) to a veterinarian who specialized in behavioral issues. She gave me a thick folder of information, which I still have, and began Des on a regimen of medication and more training, adjusting dosages as we went. When we finally ended our visits with the specialist, she declared Des to be 75% better, and I agreed. We could take him outside of the home, on walks and to dog parks, without fear of him lashing out at dogs or people. We got him to the point where, if a stranger didn’t approach us directly, he would pay them no heed.
The last, unsolved frontier was our home. It was incredibly difficult to have people over; eventually only family and closest friends with abundant patience would be invited. More than a few times we had to send Des to boarding. It felt intimidating to be around him, because he would follow any newcomer and bark at them—very loudly. He would essentially be saying: “I’m scared! I’m scared! What are you doing? Where are you going? I can’t let you do that. I’m scared!”
Those brave, or foolhardy, enough to visit would be walked through the process of how to act around Des: 1) Stay seated when possible, 2) Announce your movements before you make them...and so on. After a period, he would mostly get used to their presence and gingerly welcome them into the pack.
To wit, my dad and grandfather once visited together. After the initial barking, Des grew to accept and even welcome their presence. On their last day, the three of us took Des for a walk to the dog park. When my grandfather stopped to use the restroom, Desmond refused to go on ahead to the park without him. Once you have entered his circle of trust, Des is loyal to a fault.
Cry, Cry Again
I revisited Desmond’s education with a new trainer once I found out I was pregnant. The trainer had a long waiting list and also used massage therapy in her practice. I thought the emotional and the physical might connect in Des’s case, and wouldn’t it be great to learn some new calming techniques? Much like a normal dog, he loves to be petted, so perhaps, I reasoned, there would be a way to release extra endorphins and calm him using massage. But we never got that far.
Like many people encountering Des for the first time, the trainer was shocked and appalled by his behavior, recommended a ridiculously expensive treat dispenser we might buy, never touched him let alone massaged him, and pretty much told me he would eat our baby. I left her place in tears and never followed up, nor did I buy the $400 treat dispenser. (Though I did buy an expensive double-lead leash that helped curb some bad walking behaviors—until he chewed through it.)
In the end, our baby was born and Des did not eat her. Currently, they have the best relationship that can be reasonably expected: she loves him and is annoyed by him almost as much as we are.
An image of Des with pregnant me, and a few of him not eating our baby:
Avoiding a Crash
We got Des to a point to where he was no longer a menace to society, or to himself. For a while I was part of a “Fearful Dogs” group on Facebook, and I recall a woman who had a dog that was similar to Des in both looks and temperament. One day she posted triumphantly about how she was helping her dog with his car anxiety by petting him and offering him treats for his silence, and employing other training techniques all while driving. She was like, “I almost got into an accident—haha!—but he did so well!” She was so proud for doing the right thing by her dog, but in doing so she nearly GOT INTO A CAR ACCIDENT. She could have seriously harmed (or killed!) herself or others. I decided I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, be that woman.
Still, if Desmond had been adopted by this woman or someone like her—someone who dedicated their whole life, rather than a large chunk of it, to his training—perhaps he wouldn’t be the asshole he is today. But more likely he would have been adopted with someone with far fewer resources and patience than N— and me. Most likely he would not be alive right now. A fearful dog can be a danger to others, and that kind of dog can’t and won’t be re-homed. And it’s not just about people, but the animal itself: when a fearful dog can no longer enjoy its life, the right and humane thing to do is put it down. (This was a topic of discussion on the Fearful Dogs group, and at times people did have to euthanize their dogs. They felt awful about it, despite knowing it was the right thing to do. Thankfully, the other members of the group were supportive and did not engage in shaming.)
Desmond still exhibits some terrible behaviors, but he does enjoy life. And let’s not forget that he allowed strangers to transport him around the world without incident, and has since adjusted to his new home and country just fine. Des is like that kid who behaves well in school, but is an absolute terror at home. He might be barking at me on walks—making me look absolutely foolish—BUT he’s not lunging at other dogs or people, like he may have done in the past. He’s made progress, though it often feels it’s been at the expense of my sanity.
The Weight of Responsibility
When traveling and living abroad, it’s best to pack light, and Desmond clearly comes with a lot of baggage. Our current situation is obviously the reason I am viewing his presence in our lives so harshly now. In Seattle, pre-COVID, we had finally settled into a routine with him. He had a second family there: a husband-and-wife team who walked him weekly and took him in whenever we traveled. He had a basement “bachelor pad” where he could go when we had visitors or house cleaners or contractors in the house. In Tokyo, it’s much harder to escape him and his neediness. He’s much larger and louder than the Tokyo dogs in their kawaii ensembles, causing us to stick out in a way that’s generally not positive.
Desmond turns nine this year, and so I know our time with him is limited. Long ago, we had hopes for age mellowing him out, and maybe that will still come to pass, but I doubt it. I imagine him loud and unruly until the end, catching some horrible affliction on the way out—breaking our hearts and stretching our wallets one final time. He’s tested my sanity and the limits of my patience, but I still love him. I know that he loves us, in his canine way. Whatever you believe, whatever science tells us about animal’s emotional capacity, one thing that is certain is that as his humans, we are Desmond’s entire world. He depends on us for absolutely every need, and that’s a heady responsibility.
These past fourteen months have been the heaviest of my lifetime because of the weight of responsibility. Even the simplest choices have the heft of potential consequences. It’s exhausting. We’re all exhausted.
And here’s the thing: I could just turn off my brain, and go out and do pretty much what I want right now. We could have gotten rid of Desmond at any point. But I don’t want to be that person, one who brushes off responsibility, who puts myself and my wants above others’ well-being.
So I take on the responsibility, because I want to, because that’s just who I am. But—clearly—I am going to complain about the weight. In that way, Des and I are both a couple of assholes. This is me, barking into the void.
A nearby Buddhist temple I should probably consider visiting to find some peace. I can read banners at the top with some Google assistance. The left is the date, the middle says oshi ya kasama, which means “graceful,” and the far right banner says “to be born.”
Next time, more Japan, I promise!
