Two weeks ago today, I adopted a dog. It was an
un-ceremonious, if not highly anticipated event, “I’m going to adopt a dog”
having been a frequent trespasser in my conversations for years. Her name is
Omelette Faye Poodle Guacamole Durwood.
Before we came home from the shelter, we performed in an
Improv show. Omelette played herself, spending equal time in the audience’s lap
and onstage: we thought it too ambitious to try to persuade her to play a
character other than herself. She had only recently been introduced to long
form, after all. She performed swimmingly, and besides needing a bit of a bath
to address the smell of kennel and doritoes that lingered on her coat and ears,
she was an overwhelming success and has gone on to repeat performances, also playing
herself, though now she has added a half dozen or so impressions to her
repetoire, including Mother Theresa as well as a bat.
I harbor a deep rooted fear that I, though cupeth
overflowith with compassion and love, am an unfit parent for a pup. I keep odd
hours, create costumes out of feathers and Christmas lights, and am not known
for my stability or routine. Sometimes I forget national holidays such as
Christmas, or ignore daily pedantics such as eating and sleeping. But one year
ago, a dear friend of mine was required to make an appearance out of town, and
bestowed upon me the honor and responsibility of watching her seventy pound
pitbull, Oskar. Her two-week engagement turned into a five month move across
the country, and though Oskar and I had an outstanding friendship of four
years, this was our first romp as roommates.
It was a blissful but trying engagement, my cabaret schedule
filling our lives with four am walks through the bitter cold in Prospect Park,
he an eight lane highway of energy, me, a weary performance artist frustrated
by the cold and my own lack of snow boots. Still, our relationship convinced me
I was ready. Perhaps not for a dog the size small child who wasn’t allowed to
ride public transportation and ate entire comforters, but certainly for a more
reasonably sized canine companion.
The snow in Prospect Park stays on the ground much longer
than in the streets where salt hastens its departure and robs urban youth of
snow days and snow angels. Oskar and I lived by the lake, and found retreat at
night chasing geese and making footprints in the snow, which, at times,
enveloped our bodies up to the knee, or in Oskars case, the eyeball. We played
fetch with snowballs, he filled with pride at having caught them in his mouth
followed by an immediate sense of wondering where they had gone. I taught him
how to play “pick a hand” and took him to Penny’s Open Mic, where his tail
wagged against the metal theater seats in applause between sets and he was the
choice companion of the lead guitarist in the house band.
Eventually, Oskar moved on, and so did I, to a French
Bulldog/Beagle mix belonging to my new belle. The belle, now my ex, the Freagle
and I were a shortlived but loving family, DadMom, MomMom, and the dog taking
regular trips to the dogpark and to the diner, each of us equally thrilled by
cornbeef hash and dogpark politics.
“I want a dog,” I would mention.
“Scout, you know that just means I’m going to end up with
two dogs. How would you possibly take care of it?” she would mention back.
Once, a bottle of wine into the night, I filled out an
online application for a beagle/chihuaua puppy on Petfinder. That was the
closest to an accidental pregnancy I, as a lesbian, have ever come, and it was
as thrilling, dangerous, and wrong as I ever hoped the experience to be.
Finding myself solo and nay-sayer-free in a new city, “I’m
adopting a dog” came rolling off my tounge with ease. For weeks. Then months.
Travel back and froth from New York, my alma mater and ex-wife, proved a worthy
excuse for waiting for a while, then mounting financial troubles stood between
me and the adoption fees.
“Scouter, do you need money?” my mom asked.
“Mom, I am working hard. There are things in life I want
right now that I cannot even dream of being able to afford, but I have faith,
and if I am truly ever in need of something, I will ask.”
“I love you,” my mom answered.
“I love you, too.” I replied.
Then, I asked for three hundred dollars to adopt a dog. I
let the money sit in my bank account for a couple of weeks, saving me once from
an overdraft fee when the first of the month caught me by surprise, like St.
Patrick’s Day in college: difficult to see it coming, but impossible to avoid
it once it has arrived.
I spent time on Petfinder when I was meant to be creative. I
found dogs I liked, dogs I loved, dogs I could not live without.
One Friday, I asked my friend Faye if she wanted to go for a
hike. Faye has a dog named Scout. We share a mutual friend, and in a city of
strangers where my speed dial list consists of parents and my manager, I clung
to her for social outlet. She said yes, but it rained.
I got in my car and started driving.
I have lists with prices, adoption requirements, names of
animals whose online profiles had peaqued my interest—pages and pages of
detailed information about the process, options, to-do’s, to-don’ts, so heading
towards the Westside Animal Kill Shelter, I wasn’t sure what to expect. It was
all so sudden and so overdue.
No one greeted me at the gate.
“The girls are over here, the boys are over there. Let me
know which one you want.”
The kennel was clean. It was too rainy to take them outside
to play. I held three dogs, two before awkwardly crooning, “you’re the one that
I want!” then having second thoughts on the way to the office, pausing,
briefly, to hold a puppy who had just been spayed and was still wearing his
Elizabethan collar.
“No, let’s stick with Omelette,” I said.
The paperwork took longer than the courtship. Omelette
disappeared into an abyss of kennels and khaki, emerging on a cheap-ish single
thread leash thirty minutes later. I held in my hands a folder containing
copy-sploched top-ten sheets of “things to know about your adopted dog” and a
little blue circle tag with her microship number on it, meant to be worn around
the neck.
“What does she eat?”
“Whatever.”
Our trip to PetCo was awkward, at best. I chose a grain free
diet for her, as I am gluten free. “Do you like this bed?” I asked, before
checking the price tag and opting for something a bit simpler.
It wasn’t until I saw her onstage that I knew she was mine.
The car ride had been awkward. I was worried I had chosen too quickly. What
about that brother and sister combo I had passed up, or that strawberry pit
with such love in her eyes. Maybe I shouldn’t have adopted a five year old.
What if she hates me or I hate her? I talked to her in the car on the way to
improv, trying to be confident and brave. “We’re just going to stop here for a
moment, new friend. To pick up some snacks and other vitals.”
“Can your dog have a treat?” the PetCo employee asked. I had no idea.
“Can your dog have a treat?” the PetCo employee asked. I had no idea.
When she ate an almond off the floor of my car I sent an
emergency text to Scout and Faye asking if it was possible for dogs to have the
peanut allergy.
Omelette was shy for about a day and a half. We continue to
fight about when and where it is appropriate to bark, where cheesestick
wrappers should go and who gets to sleep in the middle of the bed, but things
are going quite well. Oh, yes, I’ve had my doubts. I even got evicted and had
to rush to find paperwork proving that I’m crazy and need the pooch for
emotional support, a trial which is pending, but she licks my ears in the
morning and is nearly half-way towards learning how to shake.
I had always dreamed my dog would be named Poodle Guacamole.
I planned it all out: her song, her voice. I ended up with an Omelette who
received a brilliantly strong middle name. Sometimes one can predict the future
with accuracy and ease. Other times, one must simply head towards a shelter and
hope for the best.
