Buoy
Confession: I don’t like my dog. I know you may not like me after reading this. I’m not sure if I like myself. This, coming from a self-professed dog lover, who has cared for and loved dogs for most of her life, is an anomaly. Let me take you back. If you haven’t read about Gunther, you should; for in my defense, I was heartbroken when Buoy arrived.
It all began during the week before Gunther’s departure. While my devastated kids and I cried daily, my in-laws informed my husband that they were fostering a wonderful yellow lab puppy. This dog was special, they said. Would we like to meet him?
My husband broached the subject with me. My response? “I don’t want a puppy. I don’t want a yellow dog. I don’t want a dog before Christmas. I need a minute to breathe.”
After the utter failure and emotional wreckage from the pending rehoming of Gunther, plus still mourning the loss of our beloved Gatsby, considering another dog seemed like a betrayal to them both; not to mention, with Christmas two weeks away, I already had a second full-time job on top of my normal workload. It was too much.
Nonetheless, on Tuesday, an eight-month-old yellow lab mix arrived in my yard for a meet and greet. I reluctantly venture outside to meet “Kibby”. He is sweet in spite of the awful name, which sounds like “kibble” to me. Why name a dog after dog food? His thick, fluffy, almost white fur is a nightmare when combined with my nearly all black wardrobe and car interior. He wags and wiggles and pees a little at our greeting. He doesn’t jump, which I approve of, but he does enjoy climbing onto laps if one is available. The best part about him is his stubby, pom-pom tail- a birth defect, the result being that the tail wags up and down rather than side to side. My daughter, home for remote learning, meets him, too, and asks if we can have him. The children so desperately want a dog. I just want some time.
Already I am resentful, being put in the position where my child has met a dog and if we say no, I’ll be the bad guy. I leave my husband visiting in the yard and go back inside to snuggle Gunther, who is with us until Friday. My heart aches, for he is the dog I really want, but his aggression issues make him unsuitable for our home.
After Kibby leaves, my husband checks in with me. I reiterate: I don’t want a puppy. I don’t want the long-term commitment. We just had a dog for more than fifteen years. I want to travel. I want time to write. I don’t want to have to train a dog. Our life will be very busy after the pandemic- full of kid’s activities. It’s too soon. We still have Gunther in the house. It’s unfair to introduce a dog to the kids if we have no intention of getting it. There are so many reasons. Let’s get through Christmas, first. Then we can decide, I say.
On Friday I take Gunther to his new home. I cry all day and all night. I can’t sleep. At dawn I go for a walk and watch the sunrise. At 10:00 Kibby arrives for another visit. He meets my son, who has struggled terribly with Gunther’s rehoming. I am numb with sadness and exhaustion. I feel as though I’ve suffered a trauma. I observe, detached, as the family interacts with him.
My in-laws recommend we take a few moments to discuss whether we want Kibby or not. I am prepared to have a hard conversation with the kids. I reiterate all of the reasons that I do not want this dog. They and my husband hold a vote. They all vote yes. No one asks for my vote. My husband goes outside to tell his parents that we will adopt Kibby. He signs paperwork. They hand him over.
Never, ever, did I anticipate being immediately left with Kibby. I thought we would at least have a week to prepare, perhaps even have time to get out of it; but here we are. We now have a yellow-haired puppy, two weeks before Christmas, fewer than twenty-four hours after I rehomed the dog I really wanted. We have no food, no collar or leash, no bed, nothing. I have not had a moment to even consider what this means. As I am the one who is primarily responsible for all of the living beings in our household, my vote should have counted as five. I feel invisible. Insignificant. Unheard. Unappreciated. Taken advantage of. And I am pissed. Divorce comes to mind.
I am forced into action. The first order of business is to change the stupid name. If I’m going to be saddled with this burden, I refuse to sound ridiculous addressing him. The family settles on Buoy, appropriate due to our nautical location. Then the real work begins. This dog is eight months old and has never lived in a house- meaning he is not house trained. This information had also been lacking. It’s like I got all the shitty parts of having a tiny puppy without the benefit of having a cute tiny puppy. This dog isn’t just not house trained, this dog doesn’t fully eliminate. I can let him out, watch him pee, and then he will come back in the house and pee again moments later. This behavior results in a constant inside/outside routine. Over the coming weeks, I will watch this dog pee in the house no matter how recently he has gone out, how little water he has had, or for how long he stays outside. I’ve never seen anything like it. He awakens at 4 in the morning. He whines. He is afraid of everything. He eats his own poop. He is terrible on a leash. He will not come when called. He has a gross tongue. He gets worms, kennel cough, warts. He has to be trained to eat slowly. He is the highest energy dog I have ever encountered. If allowed, he would drop dead before he stopped chasing tennis balls. I consider this as an option to put me out of my misery. My entire day is consumed with training and caring for this dog. I am resentful. I am angry. I am miserable. I yell at the dog. I yell at the kids. Mostly, I yell at my husband, whom I hold responsible for doing this to me. He is no help. He is working all the time.
Christmas comes and goes. My anxiety is through the roof. I take the dog to the vet for a preliminary check-up. I can’t go in due to the pandemic. I’ve no idea what happens in there, but Buoy returns to the car with a full print-out of strategies for a hyperactive dog. My husband is now starting to comprehend the mistake he has made. He installs an invisible fence. He runs Buoy on weekends. I take Buoy to a trainer. She gently reminds me that while Buoy is now ten months old, he is stunted in his development due to his homelessness as a baby. I need to treat him like a puppy. I can’t expect him to know things. He just needs time and patience. He needs to learn trust.
I don’t want to give him time and patience. I want my life back. I am annoyed by his existence in my space, and I let everyone in the house, including him, know it. Everyone who meets Buoy loves him. I offer him to them. They think I’m kidding. I want nothing to do with him and he wants everything to do with me. Despite the resentment I feel toward the dog (and my husband), I am up at dawn five days a week to run him three miles. I throw the ball for him for an hour in the yard. The kids throw the ball for him for at least another hour. I buy him gourmet food, and toys, and rubber balls so the tennis balls don’t ruin his teeth. I take him to doggy daycare. Eventually, I tell myself to stop acting like a petulant child and accept the situation. It’s not his fault. He has endured enough in his short life. He is here to stay. I let him onto my couch. I stroke his soft fur and he ruins my black pants. I train him to sit and stay and wait. Occasionally, he does. He makes slow progress. He is definitely not the smartest dog. He is scared of the dark. And rustling leaves. And rain. And garbage cans, and parked cars, and those plastic turtle signs telling people to drive slowly. He can clear a four-foot stone wall in a single bound, but he will not jump into my car. He constantly aims to take my legs out from under me while I go down stairs. He barks at everything. He sleeps in strange places. He wakes up at first light and whines until everyone else is up, too. But….
He is gentle with my children. They squeal and laugh as he races around the yard. He pounces on them when they go sledding. They bury their faces in his fur. They are more active because he is here. They light up when they see him after school. When he is finally tired, he snuggles with them, resting his head in one of their laps. He checks on them as they sleep.
We are building our trust after our rocky start. He seeks me out for comfort. He lies behind me while I am cooking. He is well-mannered. Knowing he will be here long after the children are away at college still overwhelms me. He is not the dog I would have chosen for this stage of my life, yet he has chosen me. As I try to write, he is here, his warm body wedged next to mine, his head resting on my chest, impeding my ability to type. His eyes stare lovingly into mine. I stroke his downy fur and speak softly to him, telling him we will play ball soon. His pom-pom tail bobs up and down. Alright, maybe I do like him…just a little.
