dog story

Music: Peter Gabriel: self-titled (1977)

On difficult days like these, I look forward to coming home to my dog. His name is Jesús. When I rescued him from death row, his name was Paco. That name just wasn't right. Jesús suits him much better, and he answers to it.

Jesús is a twelve pound toy Xoloitzcuintli or "Xolo" (pronounced "show-low"), a native breed of Mexico. The breed is dubbed "primitive," which is just dog-world speak for "older than most." Folks here find him unique, however, his breed is not that rare the further south in the Americas you go. (Most sightings of the chupacabra are actually of Xolos.) How I ended up with him, like many strange and novel things in life, orbits a "break-up."

Of course.

Until three years ago, I didn't understand the human-dog bond; I didn't know how it worked. I've grown up with dogs, most of whom bit me (little, yappy dogs); I still have a scar on my face from a Scottish Terrier, and I remember a Doodle bite, and a dashound named Luke getting run-over when I was five (he also bit me). I liked the dogs my folks had when I was a kid, but I was always allergic to them. Whenever I played with the dogs, I was overcome with allergies. This reaction probably stood in the way of the true bond.

But then came Jesús.

I've been doing purebred rescue for Devonshire Rexes and Sphynx cats for almost ten years---the supposedly "hypoallergenic cats." I adopted one of each when I was in graduate school because they didn't set off my allergies and writing a dissertation is lonely business. I eventually got involved with rescue (at the request of a friend/breeder), and so . . . there you are. When I was in a relationship with someone I loved very much, we were having troubles, and I was asked by a rescue agency if I could foster this hairless dog, and I did, and the girlfriend fell in love with the dog, and . . . the story sort of tells itself. (I mean, at least we didn't make a baby, right?) We broke up a few months after I adopted Jesús. Of course we did. And she was really the primary caretaker or at least the main lover of the beast, and now here I was, single with this "teenager" dog whom had been abused and was not housebroken. (To this day, if you take off a belt he cowers and shakes.)

Our first seven months together---the man and the dog---were rough. Jesús had a number issues. He had a back-door accident on the couch, which led to a $400 cushion replacement. He really liked to chew up my night guards (I'm a grinder), and we went through three (also $400 a piece). He barked incessantly. One night when playing on the bed, he literally peed in my face. I bought a $200 package of dog obedience training sessions, so that I could teach him not to jump up on people. After the third session---the one in which the trainers said, "small dogs are harder"---the one in which I came home almost in tears, I gave up on the training (it's my fault---my not having the patience to train and doing things wrong, but all the other dogs were responding to training; I had the punk one.) The point is, having Jesús was becoming something of a full time job, in addition to my own, er, full time job.

A love affair with this dog I did not have. In fact, I started to think about adopting him out to someone with more patience and skill. I spent thousands of dollars repairing what he had destroyed. And he seemed constantly frightened of me.

But as he aged, he mellowed. So did I.

The bond happened on February 14th, 2008. I had a very bad day at the office. My boss had just relayed the news that, for a third year in a row, I was going to be passed over for a promotion for reasons political and not in our control. I was, to say the least, heartbroken and confused and upset. It's one of those days in which you don't remember how you got home---I'm sure I drove, I'm sure I was responsible, I just don’t remember the moments between leaving work and arriving at my house. I'm sure I poured a stiff one when I entered the door, and I don't remember the dog greeting me. My self-pitying was singular in its determination.

I plopped on the couch and just laid myself out. I remember letting out an angry howl, and then starting to cry. Not a Hollywood cry, not some operatic expression of over-the-top grief, just a trickle of natural emotion, all the while recognizing that I needed to do it, that crying was a good thing, that the catharsis was the very thing called for, in that moment. Let it out; recover. Move-on. But let it out I must.

So I'm there on the couch (new cushion and all), my head resting on the arm. Here comes Jesús. He hopped up and walked on me, and I remember for an instant thinking this little guy was the last thing I needed (I'm sure he has a pile of poop in the house waiting for me to pick up). He crawled on my chest; I was on my back. He rested himself on my chest and put his paws around my neck, and just sat there. Staring. He was looking into my eyes, no doubt watery, with his little, black-beady eyes.

He got it. He didn't know what "it" was about, but he felt it. And he was trying to console me in his own doggy way.

This dog, this dog whom I had struggled with for seven months, who had been an expensive force of destruction, was there spread-eagle on my chest, his arms around my neck, and then he laid his little snoot on my chest and sighed, his dark watery eyes mirroring my own, as if to sigh in return.

It was a moment. I will always remember this moment as the one in which I finally understood why people love their dogs.