Kayla
She wasn’t supposed to be mine. Add it to the long list of manipulations I had tolerated in the relationship. I don’t remember exactly how it all transpired, but on a sunny, summer day in my seventeenth year, my boyfriend drove us to a farm that had free puppies. This was one of our good days, when I wasn’t being questioned about whom I’d spoken to, or looked at, or things I’d dreamed about; a day when I’d dressed so as not to draw attention to myself, when I didn’t talk about the possibility of going away to college. She would be ours, he said. She would live at his house, but we would take care of her together. I spent most of my time at his house anyway, isolated from the friends and family who might influence me into believing I could do better, be happier, take back control of my life.
The puppies were in the barn, tousling in the hay, cute, wagging, roly-poly fur balls, full of energy and curiosity. He picked out a plump girl, her soft, brown fur accented with black, alluding to the possibility of a German Shepherd background. He liked that idea- thinking he was getting a tough-guy dog for himself, his inferiority complex ever-present. He named her Kayla because he’d seen a massive Rottweiler named Kayla that he thought was “badass”, like somehow having a badass dog would make him more how he saw himself- which I think was like some meathead character he’d seen in a bad 80s movie. He drove us to the pet store where he bought food, a collar, a leash, and some toys. Then we drove to my house, where we introduced her to my family, who were nothing less than appalled, which raised my defenses, driving a further wedge between my father and me, our relationship already strained by my horrible boyfriend.
I should have known it would never be the way my boyfriend said. I should have said no. I should have clarified that in no way was I allowed to bring a dog home to live at my house without permission from my parents first, but I didn’t. In my desperation to feel loved when I couldn’t love myself, to have my existence validated by having a boyfriend, even one who treated me as terribly as he did, I’d lost my self-esteem, my courage, and my ability to say no, even if it meant being someone I no longer recognized. This dog was yet another attempt by him to form a tie between us that would be more difficult to break, another way to manipulate me to stay in a situation that we both knew I desperately wanted to escape. When we would break up, as we frequently did, he could use the dog as an excuse to see me.
“We got a dog!” I say, forcing a bright smile onto my face.
“It’s not living here,” my father says. My mother is quiet.
“No, but she’ll be here some of the time.”
“Who’s going to pick up the dog poop? I don’t want dog shit all over the lawn.”
“I will,” I say.
“Why would you get a dog? You’re going away to college in a year. What will happen to it then?”
“He’ll keep her.” I indicate the boyfriend. I’m now on edge, knowing that the ever-taboo topic of me going away to college is the last thing I need brought up. There will be boys at college, and according to my boyfriend, I cannot be trusted. He won’t be able to follow me, and control who I see and talk to, or how I dress, or ruin any fun I’m having. My parents want me to go as far away as possible, just to get me away from him. Of course, they were right, but the more they tried to save me the more I dug my heels in. I digress. This is Kayla’s story.
It is probably generous to say she stayed at my boyfriend’s house for a week before he said she needed to start staying at my house, since she’s “our” dog. When I remind him that that wasn’t the arrangement, he says, “I got her for you. She’s your dog,” changing the story to suit him like he always did, testing my loyalty to see if it’s to him or to my parents. He never really wanted a dog. I knew this. She never went to his house again. Sheepishly, I bring her home. My mother will not allow her to stay inside, so I ask my grandfather if she can sleep at his house, which is just across the lawn and attached to our garage. He kindly agrees, being a lover of all animals, and dogs in particular. Kayla quickly wins over him and our ancient hound, Mitzi, who teaches Kayla the ropes of being a farm dog. Contrary to the tough guy appearance my boyfriend was hoping for, Kayla is a lover of all things people and animals. She grows to be a gentle giant who loves rides in the golf cart, potato chips, and most of all, my grandfather. Early on, she learns to stay in the yard after wandering into the road and literally walking into a car, as though greeting a new friend. The car had slowed to a crawl. The door handle clipped her chin. She came home, terrified, and never ventured into the road again.
She visits the horses and donkey. She lies in the yard and the chickens nestle into her, soaking up her warmth, all of them enjoying a nap together in the sun. My grandfather ruins the barn cats by letting them in his house and they become his, and in turn, Kayla’s, too. Kayla lies on the floor and the cats bathe her, lapping her face, cleaning her ears. She rolls over so they can get the other side. She is my grandfather’s constant companion, lying at his feet, getting rounder from her daily allotment of potato chips.
I take her with me everywhere, that summer. She loves riding in the car with her head out the window. She makes friends with all whom she encounters. Finally, I begin my last year of high school while going to college part-time, working a part-time job, playing sports, acting in the play, and continuing my miserable relationship. I love getting home to see Kayla, starting the golf cart, her tearing after me, leaping into the seat, unwilling to miss her favorite ride. Sometimes she jumps off while we’re moving, running into the woods to sniff something then leaping back on when she’s done. She is my refuge from the turmoil of my emotions and my unhappiness, a safe haven from the predicament I find myself in.
I get accepted into a college two hours away. A women’s college. My boyfriend is pissed. He would prefer me not to go to college at all, but begrudgingly accepts it since there won’t be any boys. I tell him he should take Kayla, since she’s supposed to be his. I know he won’t. He doesn’t have the capacity to care for anyone or anything but himself. I’m only saying it to make a point. I would never have allowed him to take her even if he wanted to. I need her. My grandfather needs her. She will take care of him while I’m gone. I ask my grandfather if he’ll help me, if he will take her when I go. He has always known that this will happen. He wouldn’t have it any other way, he says, and I am relieved. As I’m faced with leaving her, I am also faced with the enormity of my arrogance, how I’d flippantly brushed off my parents’ concerns about what would happen to the dog when I went off to college, caught between upsetting them and upsetting my boyfriend, knowing full well that he would never take responsibility for her. What would have happened if my grandfather hadn’t been there?
My parents never particularly warmed to Kayla, but they learned to tolerate her. I can’t say that I blame them. I forced her upon them, and like most teenagers, I was incredibly short-sighted and failed to hold up my end of the bargain. Every few months I would find myself in the yard, cleaning up dog poop after hearing one or the other of them complaining about the shit in the yard. Now, as a parent myself, I think of how I would feel if one of my children came home with a puppy without permission, and I can say with absolute certainty, that I would lose my mind.
I go to college, taking pictures of Kayla with me and hanging them on by dorm room wall. I tell my friends about her. I miss her. I call my grandfather and ask about her. On the occasional weekend that I go home, I can’t wait to see her. Mitzi, riddled with cancer, is put down, so now it’s just the two of them and the cats. My grandfather sometimes takes Kayla to the nursing home where he volunteers while he visits my grandmother, who suffers from dementia. The residents love Kayla, and she is gentle with them. When he has open heart surgery, the dog is so bereft my mother takes her to the rehab facility to see him. Kayla heaves all eighty pounds of herself into the hospital bed with him and refuses to get out.
I finally break free of the terrible boyfriend. I graduate college. I move away. My grandmother passes. I move home. My grandfather sits by the red maple tree we planted with my grandmother’s ashes spread in the soil. He has a box of chips and a beer, and Kayla lies at his feet, ready for her share. They are completely at ease with each other, content in the fresh air and sunlight, commiserating without words. They are two of my best friends.
I move away again. Kayla keeps my grandfather going until he is nearly 85, when acute Leukemia takes hold. He refuses treatment and chooses to pass at home. She is forlorn. My parents offer to keep her. The day of his funeral, she is forgotten outside in the bitter January cold. When we arrive back at the house and see her shivering by the door, I yelp as though stung. I let her in to get warm, cover her with a blanket and watch her gulp water down. I share a look with my husband of barely three months. She is coming home with us, to Maine.
She is stiff with arthritis after the long car ride. We give her a bath, perhaps her first since that first year when she was mine. We trim her nails, massage her stiff joints. Our one-year-old pup breathes new life into her, but she is sad. She is old. I’m sure she misses home, and her farm. We discover she has diabetes. We give her insulin shots. She loses her eyesight. She takes a tumble down the stairs. She develops a form of radar with her ears, and stubbornly trudges around the house, refusing to slow down. We warn her by shouting “bonk!” if she is getting close to bumping into anything. We clap so she can follow us. She demands treats and pats. She barges into bathrooms, opens doors by using her head as a ram. She is safe and warm and loved. I am grateful that I get to have a piece of my grandfather with me for a while longer, and I know it’s exactly what he would have wanted. I am glad that I get to fulfill my responsibility to her, after all. She lives to be fourteen, and I am with her as she takes her last breath, telling her all of the things I want her to say to my grandfather when she sees him again. She was mine for the beginning and the end, but I know for her, the best part was the in-between.
