The Worst Decision I’ve Ever Made
The Worst Decision I’ve Ever Made
And We’re Back!
We recently returned from a vacation, which I (intentionally) did not post about here or on Instagram. I’ll be honest and admit that taking a trip felt like a selfish thing to do, so I didn’t want to show it off publicly. I haven’t enjoyed seeing people’s vacation pictures this past year, and I figure other people would feel the same way about mine. Now that we’ve been home (and healthy) a week after our return, it seems safe to say that it wasn’t the worst decision we ever made, and I will likely share a few memories in the coming weeks.
Waiting Game
If we were still living in the US, where COVID numbers are still high, but so are vaccination rates—I could have (and would have) easily waited a few more months to take a vacation once N— and I were fully vaccinated. But in Japan, getting a vaccine still seems like a far-off dream. In a recent NHK article, it says 3,900 doses of vaccine are being delivered to Tokyo this week. For context: Tokyo is home to 13.49 MILLION people! And those are 3,900 doses delivered to medical centers; they haven’t hit anyone’s bloodstream yet. Meanwhile, the US just vaccinated 4 million people in one day. From the perspective of a US citizen in Tokyo (not a public health expert, nor a scholar of Japan), it feels very frustrating. But, I know there are myriad reasons for this discrepancy which I am either not aware of or do not understand—so I can’t say much else, other than sharing how it feels as an average person living through this pandemic.
Vaccination Vacation
The US government has no plans to vaccinate US citizens abroad, instead telling us to follow the vaccine protocols of our countries of residence. I suppose if I were a truly unselfish, rule-abiding person I would sit tight and wait until—Fall? 2022?—a vaccine was available to me here, and not travel or take any risks until that time. But S— hasn’t seen her grandparents in a year-and-a-half (at a time when she’s changing each month) and so we’re gearing up to make another, much bigger trip this summer. Like many other Americans and expats in Japan, we’ll be traveling home to get our vaccines.
This trip to our parents’ homes will be a logistical nightmare, horrendously stressful, and not without risk. So, you’re probably thinking that planning this summer trip is the “worst decision” I refer to in the title. Or, maybe it seems the worst decision was to move to Japan in the first place. But the truth is, I made my poorest decision approximately eight or nine years ago, when we decided to adopt our dog, Desmond.
/ / Record scratch //
I realize I just made an abrupt left-hand turn here, but this is a truth I feel the need to address publicly. I know I am very much going to expose myself to some (much-deserved) ridicule by typing this next sentence, but I have thought it numerous times, and I just need to put it out there: this dog has ruined my life.
Face hidden to protect the innocent. The other two are guilty…of being assholes. Also, you better believe Des + this white rental couch = disgusting.
I know, it seems hyperbolic, but let me explain. Take this summer’s trip as an example. It’s going to be hellacious to plan and execute: in normal times the 13-hour time difference and resulting jet lag would be hard enough, but now add on the burdens of COVID testing, having the appropriate paperwork, masking—and other factors I am likely forgetting.
Given all this hassle, it would be nice to stay in the US for a while and regain equilibrium, visit with people (safely) at our leisure, get both doses of the Pfizer or Moderna shot, and return to Japan once we’d exhausted our welcome.
But the reality is, we have a very needy dog who is extremely particular about who takes care of him, and so we had to book our amazing pet sitter before we could do anything else. Her availability is limited, and it’s not cheap (understandably so) to have amazing care for a very difficult dog, so we have approximately two weeks before we have to return to Japan to care for our loud (he’s a barker), smelly (and a farter) fur child.
Our summer trip home will thus entail seeking out the J&J shot, primarily hanging out in our (vaccinated) families’ yards, then returning to Japan and quarantining for two weeks. (Yes, even if we’re vaccinated. Perhaps this protocol will change by the summer.)
Wait a minute, you say, that does sound terrible, but it’s a COVID problem, not a dog problem. You might be right, but I still think you still need the full picture.
Dogs Rule Everything Around Me
This is, primarily, a blog about place, and what “home” means—and for pretty much my entire life, I have been convinced that a house is not a home unless it has a dog. (You could probably buy this saying emblazoned on a plaque at a craft fair.) I was a dog person. For a while, it was my most defining characteristic, a character flaw even. In third grade, when my teacher asked us to draw our best friends, my best friend drew me, and I drew a dog that I had seen in a pet store window at the mall. I didn’t have a dog because my mother had allergies as well as asthma—so my pining for a dog took on a distinctly emo tone. I could never have what I truly desired because the world was a cruel and unfair place. (In addition to being dog-obsessed, I had a flair for drama. My poor mom.)
We eventually did get a bichon frise that I named Sherman, because I always liked people's names for dogs—probably because I put them at an equal or even higher standing than humans.
Kitty Cuddles and People Struggles
Animal people, and I am one of them, can be compassionate and caring—but that kindness becomes problematic when it doesn’t extend to other humans. I mentioned in a previous post that I volunteered at an animal shelter in Pittsburgh. I worked in the feline annex as a “cat cuddler”: giving the animals attention and time out of their cages, while also refreshing food, water, and litter boxes.
For proof that dog = home, look at this image from @rarchitecture_melbourne. They’re selling the dream here, as if that dog’s fur wouldn’t be all over the carpet and cushions, and its claws wouldn’t scratch those hardwood floors. Come on, now.
At the shelter, it was easy to identify with the animals while vilifying the people who placed them there. I didn’t come into contact with abuse cases (which would have been handled by actual employees), but I was familiar with the drop-off process: people bringing their cats in to surrender them, nearly always saying: “I’m moving. I can’t take the cat.” Oh, how the other volunteers and I railed against those people. How heartless! How could they leave a pet behind! And “moving” seemed to be the go-to, possibly real, possibly made-up excuse that no one could ever question, akin to students telling me a grandparent died at the exact time a final paper was due.
It never occurred to me to think about the difficult time or transition a person might be going through that would lead them to abandon a pet. I’m sure there were some that were simply tired of the upkeep, but even then—wasn’t it better that they give the pet a second chance at a shelter, instead of neglecting it—or worse? I remember one woman and her adult daughter paying a visit to the shelter to see the cat she abandoned, and find out if it had found a good home yet. I don’t recall what I felt about this woman at the time, but now I feel nothing but compassion. I hope the cat did find a good home, and that her guilt didn’t linger.
About this same time, a Pittsburgh police dog was killed in the line of duty. He’d been tracking an alleged rapist, who in turn killed (stabbed?) the dog during the pursuit. I remember sharing the story on social media, with a caption along the lines of, “Dogs are great; humans are garbage.” A full funeral procession was planned to honor the K-9.
I cringe at my past reaction today. Now, I know better than to refer to people as “garbage,” because of the dangers inherent in dehumanizing language. Of course I want to see sexual predators and rapists punished (and possibly even bit in the ass by a dog; I’m not gonna lie), but this guy was a suspect. He hadn’t been convicted of anything yet. It was terribly sad that the dog was killed, but it wouldn’t have cared about a parade whether it was alive or dead. And a procession like that slows traffic and wastes resources. There could have been other, less intrusive ways to remember the dog that I’m sure many people cared for very much.
Sherman’s Gotta Pee
Again, it is clear I am the problematic one here, and Desmond still hasn’t had a chance to plead his case. But there is more history to be explored, and I absolutely won’t say something in 200 words when I can say it in 2,000.
Flashback to Sherman, who became part of our home when I was still in elementary school, and lived for 16 long years. He was most certainly not perfect: there were potty accidents and biting incidents, though he mellowed out considerably in his older days. When he was a puppy, we had to monitor his eating and chewing and potty trips, but as he aged he was simply part of the fabric of our daily lives, part of the routine. Every time we were leaving the house (and likely running late), someone would chime in, “Sherman’s gotta pee!” and another five minutes would be added to our departure time.
Me, Sherman, and our red eyes. Editing images is for professionals, which I am not.
To this day, when one of us is puttering around as we try to leave the house, N— or I might declare, “Sherman’s gotta pee!” acknowledging that we’re taking way too long to leave. (N— met Sherman when N— and I started dating, and the dog easily accepted his presence, which was a good sign. Sherm typically was not a fan of men he didn’t know.)
In college I could not have my own pet, so it became one of my top ambitions once I graduated and moved to New York.
It seems so ridiculous now: being 22 in New-York-Freaking-City, and prioritizing getting a cat over being free and having fun. The reality did hit me hard the night prior to adoption day: what would I do with my cat when I traveled? This was a time when funds were extremely low, and friends and resources few. At least I had chosen to adopt a cat instead of a dog: I knew my limitations. Plus, free from my parents’ home and my mother’s allergies, I could actually have a cat for the first time in my life.
Max Tequila’s Shot at Love
Max “Tequila” Cat was, through the hazy veil of time and memory, a really sweet guy. He was a bit older when I adopted him—maybe 6 years old?—and a bit hefty. But almost as soon as I got him, he started throwing up. Not typical hair balls either: actual vomit. The shelter denied that he did this while in their care, and I’m not sure I believe them. I began a long and winding journey to try and fix him, populated by traditional vets, medications, and a special feeder in case the problem was he ate too fast—it wasn’t. I consulted a charlatan of a holistic vet who cost hundreds of dollars I did not have and advised me to administer something called “nux vomica,” which was nothing more than a sugar pill, and which of course did not work.
Max the Cat: RIP
The two or so years we had with him were full of affection, but also a lot of heartache and vet bills. Still, I hadn’t learned my lesson, and adopted Reina shortly after.
About that same time, I learned I had a cat allergy.
When I finally found a quality vet that used both traditional and “natural” therapies (common sense plus some outside-the-box thinking), and we finally got Max’s vomiting under control, his teeth began to rapidly deteriorate, and he went into kidney failure. For weeks, N— and I gave him fluids via an IV bag we hung on our bedroom door, doing our best to keep him alive and comfortable. It was one of the saddest moments in both our lives when we put him down, and had to convey his empty carrier back home.
In looking for old photos, I didn’t remember how much he liked being under blankets
To Be Continued…
I realize this is not a great cliffhanger ending, but this post has gotten way too long. Desmond will get his day in court, I promise. Until then, please enjoy the very first known photo of Desmond, when he was only known as #16 in a litter of 16 puppies:
