front desk, all the women in their Carhartts waved, wished me well. They were distracted. Dogs and cats were coming in, going out, dying and being saved all around them, all day. They were doing the best they could. The dog made it out the door, then began howling and trembling again as soon as his feet touched the grass. I picked him up and carried him to my truck.
During the four-hour drive back home, Dewey regressed into catatonia. In many ways this was preferable. He didn’t raise his head, move a muscle; I didn’t even see him blink. He stared at the glove box, silently. I considered what I’d just done. Not only was I bringing this dog home to live with my children, I was (and perhaps more important) inflicting him on Harry and Fay, the mayor and deputy mayor of Dogland. Harry (my dog) and Fay (my daughter’s) were so perfect, so dear and well-behaved, so trusting of my judgment, I feared they would see Dewey as an astonishing betrayal. I glanced over at him. He didn’t move. To my shock and horror, I realized he looked less like a Chihuahua/Pit mix than a
hyena.
A hyena crossed with a fruit bat. Hyenas are another of God’s little reminders that the world is a horrific place best not considered with too much precision. If anyone reading this is a charter member of the Hyena Lovers Foundation, don’t even bother sending me hate mail. I know the truth about hyenas, which is that they have hinged jaws, they can swallow and breathe at the same time (allowing them to eat on the hoof, as it were); they chomp right through bone and swallow it, and their poop looks like chalk as a result. CHALK-POOPERS. In addition, the females have an enlarged clitoris known as a hemipenis. All of this is nasty and grotesque and nightmare-inducing and not to be borne. And Dewey was one of them, I could clearly see. We drove.
When we got home he continued his nefarious plan of motionlessness. I had about twenty-five minutes before my son and daughter got home from school, and I decided the best way to use the time, and to exploit Dewey’s catatonia, was to give him a bath. I couldn’t do anything about the whites of his eyes, which were still bloody, but I could at least make him a little more presentable before Kat and Obadiah saw him.
I put Harry and Fay outside before I brought Dewey in, so as not to traumatize any of them, then carried Dewey over for his bath. He sat in the sink without any fuss, as would the dead. I was careful of his broken and bruised places, and watched the blood and foulness from his two days at the shelter swirl away down the drain. Then I wrapped him in towels and sat down with him on the couch. He leaned against me, shivering periodically. I thought to myself, I just drove eight hours; I crossed over a mountain range; I stopped at a country store; I met Kinny; and I brought home the Jack Nicholson character from the end of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Postoperative Jack. Here he is on my lap. He is my dog.
Kat pulled in the driveway after picking up Obadiah from kindergarten. Dewey was a fine test of character for them: Obadiah was a kindergartener; Kat was a seventeen-year-old senior in high school. As they walked in the door, I said, “Don’t make any sudden moves; I’ve got this weird crazy dog on my lap.” Kat noticed that his towel configuration resembled Palestine. (The comparison to Yasser Arafat’s headwear was prescient, and I took note of it.) For just a moment, this story is about my dear children, who, even though they’re separated by gender and twelve years, reacted exactly the same way. Neither said, “You brought home THAT?” Nor did they move too quickly or frighten Dewey. Both simply said, “Poor sweet little fella,” and got down on their knees to look at him.
What a different story this would be if he had bitten one of them! Ha! Because I could end the essay right here with “And then I killed Dewey.”
During the four-hour drive back home, Dewey regressed into catatonia. In many ways this was preferable. He didn’t raise his head, move a muscle; I didn’t even see him blink. He stared at the glove box, silently. I considered what I’d just done. Not only was I bringing this dog home to live with my children, I was (and perhaps more important) inflicting him on Harry and Fay, the mayor and deputy mayor of Dogland. Harry (my dog) and Fay (my daughter’s) were so perfect, so dear and well-behaved, so trusting of my judgment, I feared they would see Dewey as an astonishing betrayal. I glanced over at him. He didn’t move. To my shock and horror, I realized he looked less like a Chihuahua/Pit mix than a
hyena.
A hyena crossed with a fruit bat. Hyenas are another of God’s little reminders that the world is a horrific place best not considered with too much precision. If anyone reading this is a charter member of the Hyena Lovers Foundation, don’t even bother sending me hate mail. I know the truth about hyenas, which is that they have hinged jaws, they can swallow and breathe at the same time (allowing them to eat on the hoof, as it were); they chomp right through bone and swallow it, and their poop looks like chalk as a result. CHALK-POOPERS. In addition, the females have an enlarged clitoris known as a hemipenis. All of this is nasty and grotesque and nightmare-inducing and not to be borne. And Dewey was one of them, I could clearly see. We drove.
When we got home he continued his nefarious plan of motionlessness. I had about twenty-five minutes before my son and daughter got home from school, and I decided the best way to use the time, and to exploit Dewey’s catatonia, was to give him a bath. I couldn’t do anything about the whites of his eyes, which were still bloody, but I could at least make him a little more presentable before Kat and Obadiah saw him.
I put Harry and Fay outside before I brought Dewey in, so as not to traumatize any of them, then carried Dewey over for his bath. He sat in the sink without any fuss, as would the dead. I was careful of his broken and bruised places, and watched the blood and foulness from his two days at the shelter swirl away down the drain. Then I wrapped him in towels and sat down with him on the couch. He leaned against me, shivering periodically. I thought to myself, I just drove eight hours; I crossed over a mountain range; I stopped at a country store; I met Kinny; and I brought home the Jack Nicholson character from the end of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Postoperative Jack. Here he is on my lap. He is my dog.
Kat pulled in the driveway after picking up Obadiah from kindergarten. Dewey was a fine test of character for them: Obadiah was a kindergartener; Kat was a seventeen-year-old senior in high school. As they walked in the door, I said, “Don’t make any sudden moves; I’ve got this weird crazy dog on my lap.” Kat noticed that his towel configuration resembled Palestine. (The comparison to Yasser Arafat’s headwear was prescient, and I took note of it.) For just a moment, this story is about my dear children, who, even though they’re separated by gender and twelve years, reacted exactly the same way. Neither said, “You brought home THAT?” Nor did they move too quickly or frighten Dewey. Both simply said, “Poor sweet little fella,” and got down on their knees to look at him.
What a different story this would be if he had bitten one of them! Ha! Because I could end the essay right here with “And then I killed Dewey.”
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