The Dogs Were Rescued (And So Was I) (11 page)

Thank
you, Seamus
.

To no one’s surprise, I threw myself into the rescue of this dog: brushing her, feeding her, giving her the antibiotics and all the supplements I had left over from my attempts to make Seamus immortal. Daphne needed to get well and get that lump removed, and I needed to make that happen.

She improved each day. And she was enjoying the PetStaurant foods we still had left while also losing weight. She (and I) no longer slept on the couch with the humidifier. Instead, she wedged herself between Chris and me on our bed, certain to be leaning up against one of us, usually me. We accommodated her by contorting our bodies in ways known only to dog lovers, though new to us. Seamus never slept on the bed with us. We would have let him, but he had no interest. He’d be on the bed with us when we were reading or watching television, but once we turned the lights off, he’d jump off the bed and retreat to his own monogrammed, cushioned bed with a selection of blankets. On the rare occasion that he stayed on the bed once the lights were out, the moment Chris or I moved he would loudly exhale and
harrumph
off the bed, disappointed in our lack of civility. But Daphne couldn’t be disturbed over the sound of her own snoring. There was no way she was voluntarily leaving our bed.

Chris and I were both happy to have Daphne close by. I thought it was probably a good thing she was so different from Seamus—sleeping on the bed, her silence, the complete adoration of us (Seamus was generally on the receiving end of adoration and preferred it that way), and her looks. Where Seamus was red, mottled, slim, muscular, and mischievous in appearance, Daphne Doodlebutt was sweet, plump, standard tricolored, and with the more traditional square beagle head. There was something about her coloring that made me think of cows. It was not the obvious weight issue. Maybe it was all the white on her, or maybe it was her big, round eyes and long eyelashes. It didn’t matter. She was her own beagle, and she was ours. She was not a replacement for Seamus, and we would not expect her to be like Seamus; that wouldn’t be fair to any of us. We’d help her recover from all she’d been through, and she’d help ease our pain. This was my plan for my new family.

I took Daphne to see Dr. Davis, hoping she was well enough for her spay surgery and determined to get that lump removed. Once we got through that, we could get on to adopting Comet, but not before then. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to adopt another dog when Daphne would be recovering from surgery, but I also didn’t want Daphne to get used to being the only (spoiled) dog and start protecting her turf. This much we had also learned from Seamus. Daphne’s sleeping on the bed was only the beginning, and we knew we’d have to correct that soon too.

Dr. Davis finished his exam. “There’s still a little of the cough left. I’m on vacation next week, but I think we can schedule the surgery for the week after.”

“We’re headed up to Paso Robles for a long weekend. Will she be okay with us and around other dogs?”

“She’s not contagious anymore, and by then this will be gone. As long as she doesn’t come into heat, you’ll be fine. Let’s schedule it for when you get back.”

“Oh god, I hadn’t even thought about her heat. It’s been so long since I’ve had a girl dog. Yeah, let’s hope she doesn’t come into heat.”

“There’s one other thing I’d like to do when she’s under.”

I’m sure my face dropped like a basset hound’s. Dr. Davis was a friend and had been my vet forever, but after all I’d been through with Seamus, “one other thing” scared me. Doctors should be forever banned from beginning news with “and one more thing.”

“When we do the surgery, I’d like to do an X-ray of her torso.”

“Okaaaaaaaaaay. Why?”

“Feel this,” he said, placing his hand on her right side just below the rib cage.

I put my fingers where his had been and felt around. Eventually, I found what he was feeling. “A hard bump? Feels like a BB or something.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. I think she may have been shot.”

Shot?

I was stunned. Though I shouldn’t have been. She’d been found as a stray on the streets of a perilous section of East Los Angeles.
People
get shot there. But Daphne was housebroken and heavyset. She did not look like she’d been a stray on the streets for long. In fact, the only sign that she had not been reasonably well taken care of was that she hadn’t been spayed and her nipples suggested she’d had at least a few litters of puppies. Anne, Janet, and I all assumed she’d been used by a backyard breeder at worst, or maybe just belonged to a family who didn’t know enough to spay their dog. But
shot
?

“People disgust me. Yes, go ahead. X-ray her. Let’s find out what it is and if there is anything we need to do.”

That night Chris and I retreated to our hot tub, as we did frequently to discuss our day, our week, or, more and more frequently, our dog. Seamus used to wait for us out on the couch inside the house—the couch with the cashmere throw he preferred. Daphne wanted to be closer to us, so she sat on one of the patio chairs, paws hanging over the edge, head resting on her paws, and those big caramel eyes watching our every move. When we looked at her, her tail thumped. It was hard not to love a dog who so enthusiastically loved you back.

Chris reacted to the news from Daphne’s checkup the same way I did. The same as any caring human being would.

“What the hell?” He looked over at Daphne. “Poor girl.” She thumped her tail.

“I know. It makes me sick. Why are people so cruel to animals?”

“Why are people cruel in general? Wait…forget I said that. Don’t start.”

“Very funny. No lectures. I’m focused on Daphne now.”

Chris turned to look at Daphne. “Thanks, girl!” Then he turned back to me. “Hopefully, if it is a BB or something like that, Dr. Davis can remove it. On the brighter side, it’s okay to take her to Paso Robles with us, right? Because it would be weird to go to Wine 4 Paws without a dog.”

“As long as she doesn’t come into heat, we’re fine on that point.”

“Heat? I hadn’t thought about that.”

“I know. But I think we’ll be fine. Only there was more bad news today.”

Now it was Chris’s turn to have the sad basset hound face. “We can’t go to Paso?”

“No, we can go. But I heard from Shannon today. Comet already got adopted. He’s not available anymore.”

“Oh no. I loved that little guy!”

“I know. I did too. But the good news is there are another six dogs still needing homes. So we have six to choose from. I thought maybe on our way home from Paso we could stop and visit each of them, since they’re all in the L.A. area.”

“Visit six dogs in one day? You’ll want all of them!” Chris was laughing, but I’m sure he was actually worried this would be the case. In all fairness, his concerns were legitimate. Only our homeowner’s association rules would prevent me from adopting all six. Common sense eludes me where beagles are concerned.

“I thought we’d let Daphne decide.”

Chris laughed. Daphne thumped her tail. “So she’s like the Bachelorette choosing her mate? She’s the Beaglerette?”

“Actually, that’s pretty funny. So yes, we’ll play it out like that. The most exciting AAAARRRROOOOOOOSE ceremony ever!”

“She’ll have to figure out who’s in it for the right reasons. Who’s not here to make friends.”

“And some of the dogs are in the same foster home, so some will get group dates and some will get private dates.”

“Will there be a fantasy suite?”

“Probably not until she’s spayed!” We continued with the
Bachelor
parodies far longer than I’m willing to admit.

Later, I emailed Shannon at Beagle Freedom Project, and she too jumped right into our Beaglerette game. She immediately emailed the network of foster families caring for the available dogs.

But a funny thing started to happen. The foster families, faced with the reality that their baby might be going to a new home, suddenly realized they couldn’t part with their new family members. The six available bachelors dropped to five, then four, and then three as their foster families committed to adopting them. I had to laugh. We understood foster failure. We hadn’t been able to part with Daphne. Chris hadn’t even made it forty-eight hours as a foster and he wanted to fail. I only made it as long as I did because I was consumed by my heartache.

Two days later, Shannon came through with more good news. Comet remained available for adoption after all. His pending adoption didn’t work out. She asked if we wanted to meet Comet as well.
Uh, yeah!
I didn’t even ask what hadn’t worked out. I just knew we wanted to see Comet again.

All total, Daphne Doodlebutt would have four beagle bachelors to choose from, and we’d have a busy day driving back from Paso Robles.

I posted a blog about each of our available beagle bachelors.

There was handsome Rizzo, rescued from a lab in the Midwest only a few weeks prior. His rugged, handsome face and white markings complemented our Beaglerette’s looks.

And there was Lenny—rescued from a lab in San Diego, California, full of energy, fond of tug-of-war, and a shameless flirt.

Ricki, also from a Midwest laboratory, was the sweet, shy, and reserved one who loved attention but proceeded cautiously, unlike our Beaglerette, who went full throttle into all life’s adventures (doodlebutt swinging behind her).

And finally, there was Comet—sweet little Comet—rescued in December, lover of all people, dogs, and toys, fond of cuddles but frightened of cars.

As expected (or feared, if you’re Chris), I fell in love with every one of these dogs just from hearing their stories. I was far more enthusiastic than any
Bachelorette
show contestant has ever been. I just hoped our results were better than the show’s.

Arranging the dates so Daphne could fall in love too proved more difficult. And she was uninterested in my many attempts to read the stories to her, let alone my attempts to have her view the photos on the website. We scheduled a date with Comet’s foster mom, who invited us to stop by her workplace where he joined her most days. Befitting a
Bachelorette
star, Daphne’s date hung out at a Mercedes-Benz dealership. Next we made a date with Rizzo—an “at home,” meet-the-parents kind of date. Daphne liked the idea of meeting a family man. Er, well, I hoped she liked it. I sure did.

Ricki and Lenny, though, seemed to be playing hard to get. Just about when I was ready to give up, an email arrived from their foster parents—they’d decided Ricki and Lenny were family. The boys had found a loving home and were staying put.

Foster failure was now an epidemic. Our Beagle Bachelorette game had just begun and already we were down to the final two. We’d be at the final
AAAARRROOOOOSE
ceremony in no time. But, as Chris was quick to point out, the decision and our drive home both now appeared much easier.

Maybe.

• • •

Two nights before we left for Paso Robles, I was home alone with Daphne, a book, and a bottle of wine. Seamus had been gone nearly three weeks. I’d kept myself preoccupied as much as possible. But now it was quiet, and I was alone with Daphne. She was ours, and though her surgery was pending, she was indeed low maintenance. There was nothing to keep me out of my own head.

I settled into the couch with Daphne by my side. After the first glass of wine, I was hungry, and I helped myself to a kale and broccoli coleslaw I’d made earlier. It was delicious and filling.

I sat back down on the couch with my second glass of wine, but instead of reading, I turned on the television. This, like that second glass of wine, was a mistake. Every commercial seemed to feature a burger, steaks, or barbecued animal of one kind or another. I guzzled my wine. This was never going to change. This world was entrenched in dominating and using animals. I now saw a dead cow and not the juicy, mouthwatering burger the advertisers thought they were showing me. But it was like seeing an illusion—I was the only one who saw the cow (“I see dead animals”).

When a commercial came on that showed a dairy cow following a little girl (along with the human mother) to her first day of school, crying and upset to say good-bye, I wanted to throw my wine at the television. What about the cow’s own baby? The one torn from her at birth? Were we not supposed to think of that separation? No, we weren’t. And was I the only one who saw the absurdity of that school-age child drinking the milk of the cow mother when we’d all gasp in shock if she was drinking her
own
mother’s milk? It was just so ludicrous. My life would be easier if I just went back to that naive bubble, unseeing and uncaring but still able to think of myself as an animal lover.

After finishing the second glass of wine, though, I started to see what everyone else saw—I saw the thick juicy burger, covered in creamy, delicious (if unnaturally orange) cheese, grilled onions, and Thousand Island dressing dripping from the sides.
Dang
it! It looks good! Tasty even
. My kale-slaw was paling by comparison. I poured a third glass of logic-loosener and dived headfirst into my Pinot pity party. I was naive. Stupid. Ridiculous.
As
though
broccoli
could
fight
off
cancer. Kale was what, better than chemo?
Soon, I was telling myself, berating myself, that none of it mattered.
The
animals
suffer
and
no
one
cares. The dog died, and so will I! None of it matters. Nothing I do matters!
I rose from the couch and headed to the kitchen with a suddenly ravenous hunger.
I
may
as
well
have
a
burger. And throw on some cheese. Slather on the mayo! Maybe add a fried egg! What difference does it make? There’s nothing I can do about any of it! I will eat away the pain! Because it all looks delicious!
(The burger…not the pain.)