My Best Friends Have Hairy Legs (5 page)

This trip, however, didn’t go as smoothly. When we returned after three nights away, we could hear Shotzy barking like crazy from inside the house as we unlocked the front door. Expecting the worst—broken windows and a burglarized house—Will rushed to get inside.

Shotzy had apparently decided that he needed to be in the house while we were gone this time and managed to squeeze through the tiny cat door in the kitchen. Once inside he realized that he couldn’t get back out so set about to get comfortable. Judging by the mess he left, it appeared he had been in the house for at least two nights. He had eaten all of the cat food, drank both toilets dry, and dragged the trash can into the living room where he scattered everything in his search for more food. Fortunately, he restricted his bathroom breaks to the breakfast nook where the floor was easier cleaned and sanitized than if he had used the living room carpet. The sofa was covered with his fur, so we assumed he had slept there, enjoying the TV when it came on periodically. While we were fishing in the mountains, he was kicking back at home, living the good life.

A year later we got our first pug from friends of ours. Chynna was black, with a little white star on her chest, and when she lay back on my legs during the drive home after we picked her up, she looked like a little fruit bat with her ears out flat. I remember thinking, “Oh my gosh, what an ugly little dog. What were we thinking?” That thought was short lived though, and before she was ten weeks old she had won my heart. She was tiny enough to wear a little pink Cabbage Patch doll sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, and when she slept (the only time she was still for any length of time) I would paint her little black toenails a hot pink. When she woke she was a non-stop blur of motion with flashes of pink as she ran around, getting into everyone’s business and letting Shotzy know that she ruled the house. She would grab onto his tail with her mouth and he would stand up and walk away, her front paws off the ground, dancing on her toes trying to make him stop and lay down again. She would growl and bark at him, grabbing his lower lip or neck in her “attacks” and he would just stand there and tolerate it, sometimes “face-fighting” with her. With his mouth open he would make noise and act as if he was going to bite her, but never once actually biting her. We would often find them sleeping together, Shotzy stretched out on his side with Chynna stretched out on top of him as if he were a big soft pillow.

When she was a year and a half old we bred Chynna, wanting her to have one litter before we had her spayed. We were hoping for a fawn female to keep. The pregnancy went well, and the puppies were born on July 5, a Sunday that year. It was the only Sunday Will had ever worked, both before and after that day—which considering his aversion to the sight of blood, was probably a good thing. I’d never been pregnant or even had a dog or cat that had been so was naïve about what would happen—or what could go wrong.

Chynna had been reluctant to get off the water bed that morning, and needing to wash the sheets I picked her up and put her on the floor. As I walked down the hall in front of her, my arms loaded with the sheets, I was talking to her about how much I would have liked to have slept late as well, but there was just too much to do before Will got home from work. As I turned to see if she was following me, I saw her starting to squat in the hall as if to go to the bathroom and knew instantly that she was in labor. I dropped the sheets and hurried to pick her up and carried her to the box we had prepared in the enclosed patio. As soon as I set her down, she delivered her first puppy, and then ran panicked to hide in the bottom of the cat condo. Fortunately, the puppy broke free from the placental sac when it was born. I grabbed the portable phone and called the emergency vet in a panic. Chynna didn’t want anything to do with the puppy, and I didn’t know what to do. As they walked me through tying off the umbilical cord with a piece of dental floss and cutting it with scissors sterilized with rubbing alcohol, Chynna continued to hide. I know she was worried about what she probably thought was a very painful bathroom accident in the house. I gently rubbed the puppy dry with a clean towel and set it on a heating pad, covered with another towel and set to low. It was a little girl, black in color just like Chynna. I then cleaned up the dirty towels and finally coaxed Chynna out of the condo. We didn’t know how many puppies she was pregnant with, and since it had been almost an hour since the birth, I didn’t think she had any more. I gave her lots of praise and hugs while I introduced her to the puppy. Then she started squatting again and tried to deliver another puppy, but this time, the puppy appeared to be stuck. I could see the chubby little face, but it wasn’t going anywhere. Gently I pushed Chynna’s skin back from his cheeks so I could gently pull on his face and he suddenly popped out. He was much bigger than the first little girl, and also a black one. Chynna again hid in the cat condo while I cleaned the new puppy and cut his cord. Once the new puppy was cleaned and resting with the other, they both started crying and Chynna came over to see them. Her curiosity got the best of her and she began to lick them clean. Over the next four hours she delivered four more puppies, almost one an hour. The third puppy was a fawn boy, almost as big as the first boy, then a black girl, another smaller black boy, and then finally—our little fawn girl that we named Crystal. When she was born, her sac didn’t break open when she dropped, and as she frantically scratched from inside the sac, I was frantically trying to tear it open. Finally I was able to snip it open and she was safe. After almost six hours Chynna had six puppies in all, three girls, three boys, four blacks and two fawns. All of them were healthy. By the time the last one was born, Chynna was eagerly cleaning and nursing them.

Over the next eight weeks, the puppies grew quickly and homes were found for all of them except of course our little fawn girl, Crystal. She quickly assumed the role of Queen of the House from her mother, and Shotzy again became a surrogate father, play toy, pillow for her. Angel also did her part—one day when the puppies were about seven weeks old I heard them fighting loudly in the back bedroom where their improvised puppy pen had been set up. As I walked back to the room, I could see Angel sitting on the bed watching them with interest. Looking into the pen, I could see all six puppies pulling a tug-of-war on a bird that Angel had brought in for them. Apparently she didn’t think we were feeding them enough!

Chynna and Crystal went everywhere they could with us. Camping and fishing trips every month during the summer. One year we camped at a different site, and after the first hike up the mountain to see the views both dogs developed horrible limps, holding one of their front paws up in the air. I looked at their pads, between their toes, but couldn’t find any reason for the pain. The rest of the trip they were carried as far as a clearing to go to the bathroom and then spent the rest of the trip resting on pillows. Any attempt to make them walk past the clearing would result in a great deal of pain and limping. I decided that as soon as we got home I was going to have to take them to the vet. When we arrived back home I opened the truck door and climbed out, preparing to pick up and carry the pugs to the house. Amazingly, both dogs jumped out of the truck and ran happily to the house, their excitement to be home unable to be contained. The little brats had been faking it all along, just to avoid going back up the hill and enjoying all the extra pampering and spoiling they got as a result!

The following year I lost my job as the California economy took a dive and employers were forced to lay off employees in order to stay alive. After going through our savings trying to keep the house, we lost it to foreclosure and moved into a 5th wheel trailer parked on the property of a friend.

Taking three dogs and a cat was not an option, and so the decision was made to find homes for Shotzy and Angel since the pugs would “fit” easier into the 5th wheel, and with coyotes in the area, Angel would not have been able to be an outside cat. Unknown to me, Will had made the decision before actually discussing it with me and had put an ad in one of the local papers. Within the next week I came home twice to find that one of them had gone. Each time I was very upset that I had not been given the opportunity to meet the new owners or say my good-byes to them.

I can see now how Will’s complete disregard for my feelings for Shotzy and Angel were just another sign of his disregard for my feelings at all. I had lost my independence and my individuality as well. I wasn’t allowed to have an opinion unless it was his opinion. I wasn’t allowed to listen to my choice of music, or watch TV shows I wanted. I couldn’t have friends unless they were his friends. If he had a hobby or interest that he was passionate about, I was expected to be just as passionate about it as he was, and could not have any hobby or interests that did not include him or that he wasn’t equally passionate about. When we voted—always by absentee ballot—our cards were punched together so that our votes were the same, regardless of whether or not I agreed with his choices. Discussing any difference of opinion on politics, religion, or any other issue was always a good way to start a fight where no matter what the issue was I was always going to be wrong. I simply wasn’t allowed to have any difference of opinion so there was no need to discuss anything. His word was rule, regardless of whether it was based on solid knowledge or a prejudice based on ignorance and insecurity.

It’s funny now how his determination to control me, even from the grave, ultimately lead me to my freedom. I was getting my Bachelor’s degree so that I could get work as a teacher, one of the few areas that were in desperate need of people and not laying off like all the other businesses in California. When I started work for a company in a temporary slot that eventually became permanent, my boss—a very wise woman who saw more in me than I saw myself then—encouraged me to pursue my Master’s degree in Business Administration as soon as I graduated with my Bachelor’s. Reluctant to jump from the frying pan into the fire again with school work, I resisted. But when Will thought that by having an MBA I would not “need” to be with another man whenever he died, the decision was made for me. With an MBA I would be able to support myself and live the rest of my life alone, mourning his death and my loss since I obviously would never actually
want
to be with another man again.

Yeah, right. Uh-huh. Sure.

Our marriage wasn’t always bad or abusive; it was really more like a wild roller coaster ride. It was those infrequent good times that kept me from leaving for many years, always hoping that they would become more frequent and last longer. I kept thinking those thoughts that I now know were just a sign of how dysfunctional I really was. “If only I was prettier; smarter; skinnier… he wouldn’t act that way.” “If only I cleaned or cooked better he wouldn’t act that way.” But the truth of it was that even if I had filled his image of the “perfect” woman and wife, he still would have found something wrong with me. That was how he controlled and manipulated me. I was never going to be “good enough” but was always going to be trapped in that vicious circle of trying to be.

When we were at the top of the roller coaster, we would often travel together on fishing trips in the Sierra Nevada Mountains; visiting family in Utah, Oklahoma, Florida, and once to Scotland. He was self-employed so any time I had a business trip somewhere, he was able to go along and we would turn it into a mini-vacation. We had a camper, and later a small boat to take out on the lakes when we camped. We also had a Harley and would go on long road trips with friends.

When things were bad, however, in addition of staying because I was afraid of what he would do to me if I tried to leave, I often stayed because I was worried about how he would treat the dogs or cats when I left. I would plan elaborate escapes that would involve faking a car-jacking on the freeway when I was out with the dogs, leaving a little blood from one of them on the car seat to hopefully keep him from looking too far for us or in the right direction.

Fortunately, I never got that desperate. During the years we were married, while he often threw things at me, yelled at or threatened me, belittled me, isolated and controlled me, there really was just one time when he actually hit me, but once was enough for me to live in fear of it happening again. He had gotten angry with me when I wanted to donate some old work clothes that I no longer wore and would never wear again to charity group. I had taken them out to the front of the house where he was raking leaves so that I could put them in my car. When he asked what I was planning on doing with them, I told him and turned to go back into the house to get more. As soon as I turned my back, he hit me across both legs with the handle of the rake, leaving welts that lasted for days. He offered no explanation or apology, the clothes went back into my closet, and he didn’t really talk to me for weeks after the incident. Silence was his favorite way to “punish” me for anything, whether it was something I had done or not done, said or not said, or completely unrelated to me. Under normal circumstances I might have said his silence was golden, but it was always cold and terrifying. I often never knew what triggered his silence and asking him what was wrong only made it worse and last longer. In anger he would tell me to leave him alone and let him work through it himself. When the next time he stopped talking to me and I gave him his space, he would get angry because I had left him alone. I was damned if I did, and damned if I didn’t.

Once when we were watching the movie “Con Air” he told me to remember a certain scene in the movie where the convicts were discussing how they wound up in prison. In that scene, one of the characters tells how he killed the family of his cheating girlfriend—not the girlfriend, but everyone she cared about. It was that scene Will told me to remember. When I asked if that was a threat, he simply said that I just needed to remember it. Later when we watched “Sleeping with the Enemy” I was so uncomfortable I couldn’t look at him at all during the movie. It was too close to home.