A Dog Will Ruin Your Life But Also Save It
On wanting a dog and endless freedom
I have a dog now. I named him Richard.
Richard is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Weight: 11.6 lbs. Color: Blenheim (that means russet red and creamy white). Age: Nine. Sex: Intact male. Characteristics: friendly, affectionate, adaptable, resilient, sweet, food-motivated, velcro. Extremely velcro.
One Saturday morning, my dad and I went to the Humane Shelter to see about a dog named AJ, who looked like a good fit for my wandering lifestyle. It has been two years since my last dog Gilbert died, and while I have come to enjoy certain freedoms of a dogless life, I also at times feel overwhelmed by the dog-shaped hole in my heart. Having a dog would make things a little harder for me. Harder to get an apartment. Harder to travel. But it could also make things easier. Easier to bear the current horrors, my singlehood, hormonal shifts, and the uncertainty with my Medicaid consulting work. It would be easier to get some air and go for walks.
At five minutes before opening, there was already a line at the door at the Humane Shelter. That’s how hard it is to rescue a dog in Fort Wayne. A couple ahead of me got to see AJ first and adopted him before I got a chance to meet him. The shelter staff determined that the other remaining dogs were either not a good fit for me and my vanlife adventures, or would likely not get along with my father’s small, elderly dog, Louie.
As I exited through the front doors with the sting of tears in my eyes, a tattooed, middle-aged man walked toward me from the parking lot. He appeared out of a blazing ray of sunlight like a messenger angel in Rust Belt costume, holding in his burly arms a ruby and cream bundle of fur. Richard.
I asked if I could say hello. I told him I had been wanting a cavalier. The messenger-angel man said sure, go ahead, and that he had found him wandering around the General Motors plant.
“I was on my way to turn him in,” he said.
“Really?” A wild impulse came over me. “Can I have him?”
“Yeah, sure.” he said. No questions asked as he transferred the warm little animal into my arms. “My wife will be happy that he’s got a home now. Best of luck.”
The hand off of this precious being had been that simple. Uncomplicated and unceremonious. The Stork of General Motors got back into his truck and waved as he drove away. I stood there in shock, marveling over the beauty of Richard and my new motherhood.
Surely this beautiful dog belonged to someone. We stopped at an animal urgent care to check if Richard had a micro-chip. No chip. At home, I scanned the lost pet Facebook groups. Nothing. I reported him as a found dog to Animal Control who put him on a thirty day stray hold. If no one claims him by the end of the thirty days, Richard will become legally mine. We have only five days left now and on April 10, my birthday, Richard will officially be my family.
Who exactly was this regal and inscrutable little street dog? “You’ll never know a street dog’s story,” a friend once told me, “and you have to make peace with that.” Still, I noticed the clues. Richard was housebroken and immediately gravitated toward sleeping in the bed, yet had no reaction to the word “treat” or the rustling of a bag. He played boisterously with other dogs, but was mystified by toys and playing with humans. The few times I tried playing zoomies with him, he flinched and cowered as if he was about to be hit.
I took him to the vet early the next week. Judging by the level of his dental disease, she thought him nine years old. That he was that old and still in tact? Likely a stud who got dumped by a backyard breeder who no longer needed him or could afford the expense.
At home, Richard trails me like a manic courtier. He never rests while I make dinner, skittering back and forth, right at my heels as I pivot from counter to stove. He darts behind me into the bathroom, gives me doe eyes while I’m on the toilet and sleeps on my dirty clothes while I’m in the shower. I haven’t been to yoga or the gym in weeks, and I’ve only managed to slip away twice, leaving him in my dad’s care. Dad said he cried for half the time I was away.
Richard was likely dumped by his previous owner and traumatized, but I was worried that his separation anxiety wouldn’t improve with time. I could barely leave the house. What if that didn’t change?
For the first week that I had Richard, I overheard Dad on the phone telling family, “April’s new puppy is adjusting.” By the second week, it flipped to “April’s adjusting.”
I joined the Cavalier Facebook group and read a post by someone in a similar situation who wanted to know if the constant trailing and “separation anxiety” would ease up in time. Many laughing face emojis on that post. Unanimous agreement in the comments that this was just the nature of a Cav. One woman wrote: “You’re not going to train the velcro out of a Cav. Embrace it and good luck!”
The intensity of Richard’s velcro-ing brought up other worries. Namely, I thought about my stays in multi-million dollar homes around the country watching other people’s beloved dogs and how that life might be over.
I had been a great petsitter. I understood my clients. Truly empathized with them. I knew how much they loved their babies. How guilty they felt for leaving them. I never judged their bizarre work-arounds to accommodate their dog’s behaviors, which might have struck anyone else as insane. My clients needed me to view and treat their dogs exactly as they did. Of course I was happy to oblige. For I had once been like them, only without the multi-million dollar home.
For my last dog, Gilbert, I scoured the corners of the earth trying to find any morsel that he would eat. Every night I served him in my bed only a little napkin packets of gourmet lamb and chicken from dog food companies out of Portland, Oregon and Vermont. Gilbert would only eat in the bed, never on the floor, and turned his nose up at most of what I served. The vets had no clue. “He’s simply a gourmand,” one told me. But it hadn’t always been that way, and I chalked it up to his age while fearing that he might starve to death or that I’d go broke buying dog food. I had immense grief over the loss of Gilbert, and there had also been relief.
There’s a somatic practice I’ve been working with lately: noticing first what feels good instead of what feels bad. You lean into the good sensation and from that awareness, slowly expand your capacity. A lot felt good about Richard. It was anchoring to have a warm, snoring lump by my feet every night and to wake up to him snuggled into my stomach. Another heartbeat I could depend on. Walking with Richard had more purpose and adventure than walks alone. Together, we met people and other dogs. I enjoyed taking Richard to a small contained forest and letting him off leash. Over the weeks, I enjoyed watching him gain the confidence to explore on his own, and that I could trust he’d soon come racing behind me to catch up.
The suddenness of Richard in my life had sent me into a panicked cycle of thinking. I could forget taking six months to hike the Appalachian Trail. The dreams I had of an open-ended, months-long wander around Ireland? Off the table, at least for now. Was I ready to forgo my life without strings? Where I could book any hotel and hike any trail I wanted, get on a plane and fly anywhere. The life where I could stay out late and not fret over the sweet and lonesome one at home moping in the dark and waiting for me. What was I giving up by having a dog again?
What was I giving up by not having a dog?
Last week I took Richard on a short camping trip to Turkey Run State Park, about three hours west. He was more confident, a little less velcro, but not by much. Velcro, however, turned out to be an excellent trait for a van dog. I was able to set up camp and not worry about him wandering off. When I took Richard for a walk around the campground, we had a long visit with a friendly, full-time van couple with terriers. I might have interacted with them if I was alone, but the connection wouldn’t have been the same. It was the dogs that brought us together. I had forgotten how much a dog improves your approachability and social life.
Gilbert, like Richard, had also come to me in magical fashion, a gift from some mysterious source. He was a gift of responsibility. At the time I was a wildly drunk cocktail waitress in New Orleans during the middle of carnival season. Gilbert, a scraggly shih tzu who appeared outside my door one day, was like a kind yet firm suggestion to settle the fuck down. With Gilbert there came furnishings, hand soap in the bathroom, home cooked meals, much better paying work, and a loving, long-term relationship. I’m not the cocktail waitress I was then, or the drinker, and you could not pay me to engage in carnival celebrations. I’m far more grounded now. Still, I smell a hint of that same settle down suggestion in the arrival of Richard. Perhaps the promise of the gifts that follow, too.
Welcome to the first edition of The Wanderer’s Post-Script.
The Wanderer’s Post-Script is a pay-walled section published at least monthly, and appearing at the end of weekly letters. In any given edition, you might find profiles of interesting folk, old world shoppes, secret camping spots, or unique things that have required my tireless hawk-eye, relentless curiosity, unabashed ingenuity, excellent taste, and in some cases my cosmic cojones, to find. Post-Scripts may also sometimes include more personal sharing related to the free post that I’d like to keep somewhat private, but that may resonate for you.
This week on The Wanderer’s Post-Script, you will:
Meet Constance, an herbalist and truly inspiring wise woman. You will get a peek around her cool witchy herbal laboratory that I found this week through pure luck by rambling around on the backroads deep in the farm country in Indiana.
Receive a recommendation for the best and least expensive beeswax candles I’ve yet found from an honorable place worth supporting.
I’m currently running a Spring sale for my birthday month. Half-off annual subscriptions at $30/year, until April 30. Current monthly subscribers are welcome to switch over to annual for the sale. This is the only sale that I will run this year.
Choose a paid subscription option and come enjoy the photos, stories and tidbits reserved for friends of the inner circle below. Of course, if you’d like to join and can’t swing the subscription fee, just send me a message and I’ll happily comp you a subscription, no questions asked.