My Life as a Series of Dogs
The ones who raised me, stayed with me, and waited for me
Princess
What do I do? I bark. I’m a Shetland sheepdog. It’s my job.
That and to look gorgeous, of course.
They got me for the Kid. She wanted a “miniature collie.” I’m doing my best to forgive her for the disparaging term. Because listen, I’m not a miniature anything, OK? I’m a full-grown me, and I am exactly the size I’m supposed to be.
My Kid is something like five or six, so I’m regularly forced to forgive her indiscretions. The worst of her violations occurred after I peed on the carpet and she took Mom’s advice to “rub my nose in it” a little too literally. She scrubbed the damn floor with me!
I’m still salty, but I suppose if anyone’s to blame, it’s Mom. What was rubbing my sensitive and perfect little nose in pee supposed to accomplish?
You don’t call a dog a Princess and then rub her nose in urine, is all I’m saying.
I’m a little sad things didn’t work out because the kid clearly loved me. But the adults did not appreciate the artistry behind my barking. And then I “ran away,” which was also somehow problematic. After I returned from my one-month-long odyssey, they sent me to live with a lady who lived on a small farm with lots of animals for me to herd around while barking gleefully.
Seriously, I went to a farm. That’s not even a euphemism for … well, you know.
Mortimer & Smokey
We were always meant to be temporary.
They fostered us. Probably because they were poor and couldn’t afford to keep two gigantic harlequin Great Danes.
Girl and the littlest one, Boy, loved us, though. Boy even sat on us sometimes because we were pony-sized. (Word of advice: Don’t do that. We are not, in fact, ponies.)
Girl seemed wistful and lonely. We think it’s because Mom and Dad were so young they didn’t actually know how to raise pups.
Once, Boy almost drowned in the lake, and Girl was the only one around to fetch help. Also, one day Girl wiped out on her bike and was unconscious for a few minutes. Mom and Dad were nowhere to be found! Someone always had to fetch them in a panic so they’d rescue their pups from danger.
We don’t believe human pups are supposed to be feral. We are civilized Danes and we disavow such treatment of younglings.
Lady
Karen is my human.
It was the Parents who adopted me from the humane society. They had me in the back of Mom’s Chevy Vega when they picked Karen up from school. The minute that 10-year-old girl climbed into the backseat of the car with me I knew without a doubt I was keeping her.
Karen is a good human. She may not be fully mature yet, but she’s remarkably advanced for a puppy, or whatever human younglings are called. She is quiet and calm. She spends a great deal of time scribbling stories into a notebook while I lounge in the sun spot at the end of our bed. She has a music machine, and I like to listen to the sounds that come out when she places one of those flat black disks on top of the machine, sets the little arm down on the disk, and starts it spinning.
We are best friends, my girl and me.
It isn’t that she’s not sometimes annoying, of course. She is young. For example, there was that time she tried to teach me to hurdle by making me endlessly jump over a fallen tree. That was exhausting! And there was that time she tied me into a laundry basket and kept pushing me down the hill beside our house so I could experience something called “sledding.”
Dogs do not sled. Although some of us pull them. But that’s not me. I am an elegant, svelte, athletic mongrel who can run 35 miles per hour beside a truck across an open farm field.
My girl has taken the best care of me. I greet her whenever she comes home by leaping and nipping at her chin to show her that she is mine and I am hers.
And I would protect her with my life.
There were wild dogs living in the fields across from our house. One day, they ventured too close. Although Karen was at school, the Parents were outside. It was my duty to fight those wild dogs and keep them away from my people.
I didn’t think. Canines do not stop to calculate risk when they move to protect the humans they love and guard. I dashed across the highway.
I didn’t see the car.
When my girl came home from school, she wandered the yard calling for me, wondering where I’d gone. Dad finally summoned the courage to approach her and drape his arm around her shoulder. His face was wet when he told her the car had taken my life.
He called me brave. For I was.
My girl will never forget me. She was 18 when I made my way to what humans call the Rainbow Bridge. I watched her mourn for many months.
I will be waiting for her when she comes to the Bridge.
After all, she is mine.
Quin & Ella
Ella here. Quin doesn’t talk much.
They tell me Quin’s name is misspelled on purpose so our names, Quin and Ella, form the word “quinella.” It has something to do with us being retired racing greyhounds.
I’m not sure I get it. I don’t think much.
Quin thinks even less. Mostly, the big galoot mopes like he’s the poster dog for Cymbalta. (Cue the sad clarinet music.)
Karen? She’s Mom. That means she’s the Boss, and the only one I listen to most of the time. I respect her because she protects me from Big Scaries, like thunderstorms and fireworks and sudden loud noises and wind and Peter.
Peter is Dad.
We greyhounds don’t like Peter much. He is loud and angry. Once, he hit Quin. Karen showed great restraint and did not run Peter over with her car when she had the chance.
We think she probably should have. You just can’t train unruly fear biters.
Quin and I went to live out our golden years with other greyhound-loving people because the Family couldn’t afford to keep us after Karen made Peter go away.
We suspect she dropped Peter off at a shelter. We are not sure what became of him, because who would want to adopt an aggressive human?
Toshi
I am a shiba inu. That’s all you need know.
I am an ancient Japanese breed, and I am perfection itself.
Karen got me from a rescue, where I was culled from a puppy mill as “defective.” Let me assure you, there is nothing defective about me. I am the picture of health according to that man in the white coat at the place that smells like medicine. Although that man was responsible for me losing my malehood, I believe he was correct when he dubbed me flawless.
It is established that I run the household. They jump when I say jump.
Except Karen.
As my predecessors the greyhounds have established, Karen is the Mom, which makes her the ultimate Boss. I try to establish my authority by doing things like guarding a tasty morsel, growling and snapping, but Karen is intimidating when she stands up and says “Leave it!” in her growly voice. And so, whatever I am guarding, I leave.
When I was four, Karen’s mom died. I did not know her mom well, because I’m not particularly interested in socializing with humans outside of my circle. But Karen was profoundly affected. Her eyes were often wet and she gave off a scent I recognized as grief. I was sad for my Person. Although I had a bed of my own, I insisted on sleeping with her to protect her from her sadness.
One night, not long after the humans had their mourning ritual, I woke to find Karen sitting up in bed trembling, with wet eyes and a grief-scent so strong I was sure it would consume her. I leaped from my spot at the end of her bed, positioned myself in front of her, and pressed my forehead to hers as she stroked my soft fur.
I stayed until she stopped trembling, her wet eyes leaving damp spots on my coat. It is the least a dog can do for the human they love.
When I was six, I traveled with Karen when she escaped the Bad Place where Peter lived. We ventured together 2,000 miles to a new home, where it always smells like pine trees and rain. I was happy to be her copilot. We were so brave!
Then I became 14. I’m not sure how it happened, but my muzzle turned white. And my brain… it was no longer cooperative. It left me terrified and anxious all the time. I imagined threats that weren’t there, and bit things that weren’t meant for biting. I even bit Karen and drew blood, although I didn’t mean to. Her sudden movement had frightened me.
It’s not an excuse; it’s a reason.
“Dementia,” I heard Mom say to Daughter one day. I didn’t know what that meant, but her voice was distressed. I understood that my life was no longer a happy, carefree one.
Not long after, we were at home and I could tell my Family was upset, although they were certainly trying to act calm for my sake. Then, Daughter said, “Dr. Hailey is here,” and moments later they gave me a remarkable treat — an entire bag of McDonald’s French fries (my favorite!) and a whole hamburger. It was the most exciting thing! I almost forgot to be frightened.
After my feast, I grew incredibly sleepy. Words floated to me through a fog.
Such a good boy. I’ll check him to make sure he’s fully asleep.
The injection will take some time to work … He won’t feel a thing … He knows you’re here and that he’s so loved …
Sliding. I am sliding away into peace. Rest. At last.
Thank you, Doctor Hailey.
Mom. My person, with wet eyes, trembling. Grief smells.
You will be OK, Mom. All will be well.
And when your time comes, I will be waiting to meet you.