Love Is the Best Medicine (5 page)

Sandi’s fiftieth birthday celebration seemed like an obvious opportunity for her wish to be granted. In fact, many readers will be screaming for Sandi to take the reins, to buy a dog herself and be
done with it. Not so fast. Bear in mind the stranglehold of her childhood. The scars may have faded but they remained difficult to conceal, constricting and impeding what you and I might take for granted. Sandi grew up accepting that she never deserved attention. She was much less than special. She had done nothing to deserve reward. Buying a puppy for herself would have been pure indulgence and she would always feel like she had done something wrong, something selfish. But if one were to come to her as a gift … Laying out a minefield of hints and suggestions was the only extravagance she could manage. In the months before her birthday her excitement took hold, with Sonja and Jan conniving through a volley of e-mails and whispered phone calls as the day approached.

On the eve of Sandi’s birthday, Sonja called her mother.

“I’m picking you up first thing in the morning. It’s all arranged.”

“Where are we going?” Sandi’s euphoria did not mix well with the pretense of ignorance.

“Someplace special” was all she got in return, the confidence in her daughter’s tone a billboard that said this gift would be exactly what Sandi wanted.

Pretending to be excited on the way there would not be necessary. But feigning complete surprise when she was asked to close her eyes, open her hands, and receive a squeaky, squirming black and tan ball of love was another matter altogether. Sandi actually found herself practicing in the mirror, fanning away imaginary vapors like a starlet about to make an Oscar acceptance speech.

When she slid into the passenger seat of Sonja’s car, maintaining the facade became insufferable, the agony of the wait dueling with her resolve not to spoil what her daughter had so carefully planned—until they headed toward downtown London, Ontario. This was unexpected. In her mind’s eye Sandi had seen a drive to a country farm and a scrupulous breeder. By the time her daughter pulled over outside a pet store, Sandi was no longer pretending to be surprised. Ever
since the incident with Bruno they had shared a mutual distrust of the source of pet-store dogs. So why change now?

Sandi emerged from the car, hesitated, and then began walking toward the fur and sawdust trapped behind the glass.

“Mom, where are you going?”

From across the street, Sonja waved her mother over. She was standing outside a different type of store altogether.

“Mom, you and I both know I have a hard time expressing myself, but you know I will always love you. I wanted to find a unique way for us to celebrate your big five-oh together and this was what I came up with.”

Sandi hoped the fearful arch in her eyebrows, the incredulity paralyzing her lower jaw might be construed as surprise.

“I want us to get matching tattoos,” said Sonja, putting it out there as a request and a question.

Sandi could have let the disappointment get to her. Instead, in a moment of confusion, with her daughter, her firstborn, searching her face for acceptance, she moved past her own desires and saw the gesture for what it was. For the better part of her life Sandi had been nurtured by the unconditional love of animals. Her daughter was independent, guarded, and emotionally restrained. Declarations of love in any shape or form were rare and Sandi grabbed this one while she could, hugging Sonja tight, their physical bond a chance to recover composure, to accept the loss and appreciate the gain.

“I’m so glad you want to do this with me,” said Sonja, her eyes still probing for signs of unwillingness, offering a way out. “What kind of tattoo do you think we should get?”

Never in her wildest dreams did Sandi imagine she would be answering such a question, and though the obvious suggestion was an inky illustration of her coveted Min Pin puppy, she and Sonja eventually agreed upon tiny, matching yellow roses on the inside of their right ankles, which, to Sandi’s surprise and pleasure, became a cherished expression of their friendship.

F
OR
twelve more months stray pets failed to cross paths with Sandi, and as her fifty-first birthday approached, she allowed herself to dream that this was her year. Once again Sonja and Jan began to scheme online and on the phone, but when the day arrived, instead of a Min Pin puppy her gift was a ceramic pot filled with yellow chrysanthemums. Sandi, the queen of internalization, finally lost it.

“Dear God, Jan, I’m fifty-one years old. I’m not dead. Mums are for grandmothers and unless you and Sonja are keeping something from me, I’m not a grandmother yet.”

In the end it was her son, Jamie, who broke down her reserve, forced a confession, and took it to his father. It was decided: after decades of letting strays find her, Sandi’s family would see to it that she would find a pet of her very own.

Though she did feel a bit like she was interfering with fate, Sandi was determined to do her homework and get it right. She purchased books on how to find the perfect breeder, on selecting the perfect companion. Her lifestyle involved air travel, but luckily, for the most part, her flights were direct and relatively short. According to ASPCA recommendations, having your dog travel under the seat in front of you was the safest way to go. Therefore, based on size restrictions alone, the Min Pin breed remained a strong contender for the perfect canine companion. However, to win the title, he or she would also require a calm demeanor, excellent social skills, and, most important of all, an aversion to excessive barking. Sandi was asking a lot, and she knew it, but after six weeks of extreme surfing and research, she came upon an unpretentious home breeder of miniature pinschers a thousand miles away in Doon, Iowa.

Sandi placed a call, and the phone was picked up by a young, polite child. Here was an opportunity too good to miss, a soft target for a delicate recon mission. The kid was happy to blab and Sandi was pleased to discover that the dogs were an integral part of a big and
boisterous family. Adult conversation came next, a friendly, mutual inquisition. Sandi was encouraged to contact the breeder’s other clients; she even spoke to the breeder’s veterinarian, getting an objective take on the breeding facility, the breeder’s philosophy, and, of critical importance, the parental health records. Every box was checked before succumbing to the laws of physical attraction as digital images of three black-and-rust female puppies flew across cyberspace to meet her.

The pups were only days old, their eyes still closed, and for most of us, no matter how you spun the pixels, the trio of furry cherubs in the center of each frame would have been cute and adorable, but essentially identical. Yet to Sandi, they could not have been more different. It is hard to imagine love at first sight leaping, or even squirming, from these silent, still images, beamed in from so far away, but Sandi would assert that in this lineup of unusual suspects, she instantly knew exactly where to look.

Weeks passed, the blind fur ball opened her eyes and began to grow, and the breeder’s photographic updates confirmed that Sandi had chosen wisely. There remained, however, the matter of Jan’s only bargaining tool from the original offer of a new puppy. At the time, heady and breathless, Sandi had agreed without hesitation. Now, as the arrival date drew closer, she began to regret her easy capitulation. How could she trust a man obsessed with his Danish heritage to name the new love of her life?

As is so often the case, a search on the Internet only fueled her reservations. The Norse gods appeared to be inept when it came to naming the fairer sex. Freya or Frigga, the best options she could find, still felt far too sturdy for the delicate creature on her screen saver.

“I have two names in mind,” Jan announced one day.

Sandi held her breath and gave him a “let me have them” look.

“Well, I rather like the name Lulu.”

Sandi studied him, stupefied, with a ventriloquist dummy smile. It could have been much worse and maybe she could get used it.

“What do you think?” Jan rushed to the back door, stuck his head out, and shouted, “Lu-lu, Lu-lu,” trying out a different intonation with each cry.

Sandi winced and said, “What else have you got?”

Jan was enjoying himself, hiding his grin, sighing into a shrug as if disappointed to have to use his backup.

“You seem to be besotted by this breed, these Kings of the Toy, so I think your little dog deserves a strong female name, something self-assured, something regal.”

Sandi locked on to the word
regal
, and under her breath she berated herself for failing to explore the daunting prospects from Denmark’s royal family.

“Please Jan, don’t tell me you’re thinking about naming her after a Danish queen?”

Jan shook his head.

“How about Egyptian?” he asked.

And as soon as Sandi had the clue, she knew he had made the right choice.

“Cleopatra. My little girl is Cleo.”

I
T WAS
only when they walked into their kitchen that the practicalities of Helen’s sudden presence in their lives really hit home.

Eileen carried the dog in her arms, uncertain how a disoriented spaniel might respond when a gigantic black Newfoundland head completely filled her visual field. She need not have worried. Didi got up from the kitchen floor, sniffed the air, mulled over the unpleasant fragrance, and loped off to the living room to lie down.

“Perhaps she thinks we brought home a pet skunk,” said Ben, somewhat surprised by the big girl’s indifference.

As if needing to prove a common genetic ancestry with this snooty black monster, the little spaniel began to bark, a mix between a bark and a whine really, like a vocal prod, a low-level persistent nudge.

“You think she’s trying to tell us something?” said Eileen, placing her under the kitchen counter and bunching the plaid travel blanket up around her to form a cozy nest.

“What sort of something?” said Ben. “Get me out of here?”

Eileen knelt down on the floor beside Helen, stroking her head, the cry becoming a little softer, a little less frequent.

“What if she has something contagious?” she asked.

“Contagious?” said Ben, wondering where this logic was when they were back at the parking lot.

“You know, rabies, distemper, the stuff you get a dog vaccinated against. She’s got no collar and therefore no tags. I’d never forgive myself if she’s carrying some sort of disease and by bringing her home I’m going to expose Didi to it.”

Ben thought about this. Eileen raised a good point. In theory he could bank this statement, use it as ammunition at a later time. Then again, he only had to watch how his wife fawned over the tiny tramp who had wheedled her way into their kitchen to know such thoughts were laughable. Something was taking place between Eileen and the dog they had christened Helen. It was obvious, undeniable, a connection that required no explanation or justification. It just was. And for Ben the best part was bearing witness to the fact that that was all it took.

“I don’t think we need to worry,” said Ben. “I mean look at her. Her muzzle has more gray than salt and pepper. She has to have survived at least a decade of exposure to all kinds of disease living her vagabond lifestyle. Her nose may be wet but it’s not snotty. And her eyes are bright and not crusty.” He shook his head. “I seriously doubt she’s an infectious Trojan horse.”

Eileen seemed unconvinced.

“She might not be housebroken?” he said, trying to be more practical than defamatory.

“Oh, I’m not so worried about that,” she said. “I can teach an old dog new tricks.”

But suddenly Eileen stopped running her hand over Helen’s neck and shoulders. Kneeling, moving closer, she parted hair and peered into the mangy coat.

“Yuck,” she said. “I thought I was feeling little skin bumps and warts all over her body.”

Ben dipped down to join her.

“Me too,” he said.

Despite the camouflage of dark fur, the kitchen light picked out an engorged, purple-green appendage attached to the filthy skin. And then there was another, and another. Juicy fat ticks, ripe and bloated with blood, were all over her body. Not that there weren’t warts and bumps as well, it was just that the warts and bumps were all Helen, and not a threat to Didi.