Second Chance

‘Mom?’ said Matt. I looked at him. ‘The dog?’

‘Uhh, I think I’ll wait,’ I said, as Lainey came thunking down the stairs and into the kitchen. ‘Let her get used to the place a bit first from in there.’ I glanced around for Hairy.

Lainey pulled on her brother’s sleeve, her gym bag in her other hand. ‘Let’s go, Matt. We wasted the whole day getting the stupid dog and now she’s just going to sit in the stupid box.’ They left together, leaving the wooden door open, the storm door closing behind them.

‘Be home for dinner,’ I shouted behind them, closing the door and returning to the kitchen. I squatted in front of the crate. ‘Hello, little girl. Welcome home.’ Inside, Heloise cocked her head. We both were motionless for a minute, the silence washing over us like a tonic. Heloise wasn’t barking or yipping or even whining.

I sat at the desk and looked at her packet of information. Forms for vet visits, and monthly reports, heartworm tablets, and a dozen or more information sheets that I shuffled through without really reading. Finally I found something interesting, Personal Information Sheet for ____. Heloise was handwritten in the blank.

Her parents’ names were Kaylor and Raspberry, also handwritten in blanks. I scanned down the page till I found what I was interested in. Heloise’s birthday was January 19, a little over a month after mine. I looked at the calendar on the wall and counted. She was ten weeks old.

Heloise whimpered. Still seeing nothing of Hairy, I figured he was snoozing in the sun somewhere. Heloise barked. ‘Hush now, girl.’ I squatted in front of the crate again and this time her whole body started wagging. ‘Way-aait. Way-aait.’ As I pinched open the metal grid door, Heloise shot out like a pea from a shooter, straight for me. I realized, too late, that if I’d been kneeling she wouldn’t have knocked me over so easily. I looked like a ready-to-be-roped calf, my legs in the air, Heloise standing on my chest, licking me under the chin. I giggled like a schoolgirl as she covered my face with her sweet puppy breath and wet kisses.

‘Okay, girl, that’s enough,’ I gasped. I remembered Bill mentioning at one of the meetings that these dogs were bred to be very bold and confident and we weren’t supposed to let them jump up on us or be out of control. So much for that one. But she was so cute!

‘C’mon, girl.’ I sat up and lifted her above me, kissing her round belly. I guessed she weighed about the same as two small bags of flour, roughly ten pounds. I set her on the floor and heaved myself onto my feet. This would have been easier twenty years and thirty pounds ago. Heloise abruptly sat and chewed an itch on her haunches. Then she was still, legs splayed in a decidedly unladylike posture. She looked up at me, her liquid-chocolate eyes shouting, ‘That was fun! What’s next?’

‘Here, girl.’ I walked across the kitchen, calling. ‘Here, Heloise! Come!’ She sat for a moment, looking like she was expecting another roll on the floor and would wait, thank you, for that.

‘Here, girl, c’mon!’ I cajoled, slapping my jeans.

She cocked her head briefly, then bounded over to me, her tail a waving flag of anticipation and delight.

‘Good girl!’ I said, patting her side.

‘Hey, girl, look here.’ I showed her the water bowl. I’d set it on a flowered plastic tray to try to contain some of the splatter I knew was inevitable. She lapped some water with gusto, her whole body participating in looping her tongue under the water then flipping it up into her mouth. Finally she stepped back, dripping like a moose, dribbling water in a neat line outside the tray. I grabbed a paper towel and started to wipe it up, but Heloise immediately began biting at the paper. Still squatting, I scooped her up under my arm and wiped the water with the other hand as she squirmed. Suddenly a very bizarre sound filled the kitchen. Heloise and I both froze, my hand still on the paper towel, motionless on the floor. A low, guttural yowl, like a tremulous violin note in a suspense thriller, emanated from behind us. From her trapped position under my arm, Heloise twisted her head around my elbow to look behind us. Still squatting, I turned and looked, too. Hairy stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his excessive fur looking more excessive than ever.

His eyes were locked on the now-writhing yellow mass under my arm. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the hair around the cat’s neck swelled, making him look even more of a puffball than ever. Another low, meowing growl issued from deep within him. I understood him perfectly: What–the–hell–is–that?

Heloise, for her part, was anxious to meet her new playmate. Either she wasn’t naturally aware of what raised hackles meant, or she was too dumb to care, or she was certain her charm and exuberance would win him over. I suspected the latter. How could she know that Hairy was not only unimpressed by charm and exuberance, but that he actually held those qualities in contempt? But Heloise was more than willing to have a go. If I hadn’t dropped the paper towel and grabbed her with both hands, she would have squirmed out and made a dash for Hairy, who had now upped his warning to hissing and his sirenlike intruder alert, usually reserved for moths and crickets in the house.

‘Okay, guys,’ I said, my voice some weird mix of amusement and dread. ‘Hairy, meet Heloise. Heloise, Hairy.’ I got a firm grip on the puppy and put her in Hairy’s direct line of sight, but held her tightly. He hissed again. Heloise squirmed wildly in an effort to get to him. Bill had said to proceed slowly with the introduction and trust my instincts. My instincts made me fear for Heloise’s safety. I didn’t want her to get a claw in the eye, although I had taken Hairy to the groomer for a nail trim just two days earlier in preparation for our new arrival. But I also wanted Hairy to learn where his escape routes and safe hiding places were. And I wanted him to know he might have to run. I didn’t know if he even knew how to run.

I put Heloise back into my one-armed football hold and carried her across the kitchen. Hairy’s fine white fur was now perpendicular to his body, and he arched menacingly. The arching surprised me. I’d thought his stomach too big to lift. But he was actually kind of graceful in this modern dance of warning. Still fully arched, he pivoted slowly in place as we passed into the living room, a radar tracking the enemy. I slowly lowered Heloise toward the wood floor, still clutching her vibrating torso.

‘Get ready, Hairy!’ I called. Hairy had moved to the middle of the kitchen. His hair was beginning to relax and his back was no longer arched. Oh, dear. I could tell from his superior expression that he assumed I had fulfilled my duty and removed the offensive material from his kitchen. Little did he know that offensive material would be residing with us for over a year.

‘Okay, calmly, dear,’ I told Heloise, for all the good that would do as I let her paws touch the floor. My hands still on her sides, her little legs immediately began churning under her. I held tight. Heloise squirmed and flailed, desperate to be released. Hairy’s fur immediately engorged again. He looked like a furry blowfish. I let go of Heloise very slowly. For a few seconds, her slipping paws against the polished wood floor took her nowhere. Hairy watched her, a look of confused amazement on his face as he viewed her spastic ballet. Then he discerned that Heloise was, in fact, making slow but sure progress toward him. As she hit the tile floor of the kitchen, and traction, Hairy flicked his tail, and in three decidedly graceful moves for a fellow of his girth, jumped from floor to chair, chair to desk, desk to counter. Heloise was still a churning ball of slobber, headed in his general direction, so he continued his upward ascent, now in a not so easy jump and clamber, nails clawing on metal, to the top of the refrigerator.

His sides heaving with the exertion, he assumed a vulture pose, staring down at the yipping and leaping Heloise. Because he’s a Persian, and because Persians have no nose to speak of, Hairy always had a sort of angry, disdainful look, but this was indignation of the highest order. As far as I knew, Hairy had never been on top of the refrigerator in his life. He’d never had to be. He ruled the roost just fine from the floor and furniture.

I did feel kind of sorry for him. There didn’t seem to be anything for it but to let them do their thing. But Hairy hadn’t had that much exercise since … well, ever. He was the most sedentary of cats. Jabba the Hutt comes to mind. But my lack of affection for Hairy didn’t rule out a modicum of compassion for the poor, wheezing cat. His life was now unalterably changed. He and Heloise would have to work it out. Or Hairy would be spending the year atop Mt. Kenmore.

I grabbed Heloise, clipped on her leash, and headed for the backyard, leaving Hairy to recover his pulse and dignity. I slipped on the boots that I’d shed in the mudroom, opened the door, and Heloise immediately forgot about Hairy as she pulled me, lurching down our two back steps, into the backyard.

‘Oh, how fabulous!’ she screamed in body language, her ten pounds pulling with the strength of a small tractor. ‘We have a backyard!!’ The sun was now shining and much of the snow was melting. From what remained, I cleared an area with my boot, and, nose to the ground, Heloise spent a minute sniffing the wet grass. Finally she squatted, and, as instructed by the manual, at that very moment I began exuberantly giving the command to eliminate. ‘Do your business! Do your business, Heloise! Do your business! Yay! Good girl!’ As she peed, she stared dubiously over her shoulder at the lady cheering her urinary success. When she finished, I began what Bill said was the most effective training device: praising.

‘Good girl!! What a good girl!! Good girl, Heloise!’ I went on and on as she wagged happily into my arms.

Well! Look at that. She was already on her way to being housebroken. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so hard after all.

EIGHT

It was a short honeymoon. Heloise slept for about an hour, allowing me to make dinner, but then it declined from there. I’d pulled out the old baby gate, so she was confined to the kitchen, but she’d peed on the tile floor not once, not twice, but four times before bedtime. She’d also demonstrated an endless appetite for chewing: fingers, clothing, Lainey’s and my hair, shoelaces, her crate, the desk chair legs, the cat – although he was learning to stay just out of her reach. Neil and the kids had played with Heloise a bit right after dinner, but between my anxiety about how we should play with her, and her propensity to relieve herself at inopportune moments, all three decided she was too much trouble and were downstairs watching TV before her second pee. Finally, at about nine, she collapsed in fatigue, and I’d carried her up to her crate in our bedroom. Then I, too, collapsed into bed.

Now it seemed I’d slept mere moments and she was whining. Again. I hadn’t even gotten back to sleep from the last time she’d woken me. Us. I couldn’t help but wonder if the person who’d made the requirement that the puppies sleep in the bedroom of the raiser was in fact a puppy raiser himself. I fumbled for the small alarm clock by my bed: 1:49. A.M. She hadn’t even made it an hour. She’d woken twice already, once around eleven thirty, and again shortly after one a.m. I’d taken her out to the front lawn, into the cold night, both times. The first time she’d peed; the second she’d just chewed on a stick.

Neil groaned angrily, wrapped the pillow over his head and rolled over. Heloise started barking. I stumbled out of bed, felt my way across our dark bedroom to her crate, making shushing noises. Before I could open the door, Neil sat up in bed. ‘Deena! Shut the damn dog up! I’ve got patients in the morning!’

All I could think was, You sure don’t have patience at night. But I said nothing.

‘Put it in the basement.’

‘I can’t. She’s supposed to be with me.’

‘Then put it in Sam’s room and sleep in there.’

‘Fine,’ I said, kneeling by the crate.

‘Fine,’ he said, then grunted, pulling the covers over his head.

When I opened the door to her crate, Heloise was in my arms in a single leap, all wags and licks, delighted at my touch. But I was aching with fatigue, and her charming ways were losing their appeal as the night wore on.

‘It’s okay, girl,’ I whispered. After my interview, Bill had brought over an extra crate for Heloise to sleep in so I wouldn’t have to carry one up and down my stairs each night and morning. He’d also told me that the puppies could usually make it through the night by the time they were twelve weeks old or so. I had a minimum of two more weeks of this. I wearily rubbed the back of my neck with one hand. But, weary or not, I had to take her out again, just in case. As I rose, Heloise in my arms, my knee banged into the corner of the metal door, slamming it with a clang. Still gripping Heloise in one arm, I grabbed my knee with my other hand, holding my breath in a silent scream of pain, trying to balance on one foot with a puppy in my arms. My balance wasn’t up to the task, and I took several hopping steps, banging my shoulder into the wall. ‘Shit!’ I whispered loudly. Neil groaned again under the covers.

With Heloise chewing on the sleeve of my pajamas, I leaned against the wall till I could breathe. I looked at Neil in our bed, in a cocoon of covers, already using the whole bed, his legs forming a long L across my side. I tucked Heloise back into the crate, closing the door. I quickly lifted it by its carrying handle and walked out of the bedroom.

I paused in the hall at Lainey’s room, her door open to let Hairy come and go. Her old fairy nightlight that she still loved, but hid when she had a friend over, cast just enough glow to see that she was on her side, face resting peacefully on just the lower corner of her pillow. Hairy was contentedly sprawled across the rest of it. I tiptoed on. Matt’s door was shut.

At the end of the hall, I stopped at Sam’s door. I’d kept it pretty much closed since he’d left, entering only to dust and sigh. I held Heloise tight with my arm and turned the knob with my free hand. The door opened with a small creak. The single wedge of light from the hall made the trophies, team pictures, and memorabilia on the shelves look somehow historic.

Heloise started squirming, so I stepped in and set her crate under Sam’s desk, next to the twin bed. Before she could start up again, I grabbed her leash and we headed downstairs, and out into the night. Again.

It was colder than even an hour ago, but this sky seemed to be yielding up a second layer of stars. I snapped on her leash, set her on the lawn, shivering in just my flannel pj’s and Matt’s boots, praying for her to quickly do her business. I’d only read chapter one in the manual, overwhelmed by the many rules, not the least of which was that the puppies were always supposed to be on their leash when eliminating. Heloise looked up at me, wagged her tail, and began sniffing the grass. Good girl. But she soon found a small stick and plopped down with it, the ends protruding from either side of her mouth. It pushed her lips up in the back, giving her a toothy grin. I sighed. She didn’t have to pee. She needed a puppy cigarette break. I was in no mood to enable her habit. I pulled the stick from her mouth and carried her back upstairs. At the top, I started to turn right, to the master bedroom, remembered, turned again, and carried her into Sam’s room. I tucked her into her crate and closed the door. Immediately she began to whine.

‘Shhh, Heloise!’ I whispered. I stuck my finger through the silver squares and she mouthed it. I withdrew. Sitting, she pointed her little snout up toward the ceiling of her crate, barked twice, then twice more.

‘Shh!’ I whispered with more urgency. Heloise stood, wagged her tail and barked again.

‘Mah-amm! Shut the dang dog up!’ Lainey yelled from her bedroom, her voice cracking with sleep and anger. I opened the crate again and took Heloise out, just as the door to Sam’s room opened. I turned, startled. Matt stood in the doorway, wearing only his pajama bottoms, his broadening chest incongruous with the little-boy knuckle rub he was giving his eyes.

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘I don’t know, honey. I guess she misses her mom.’

He nodded sleepily.

‘Everything’s okay, honey. Go back to bed.’ Matt shuffled back into his room. I waited, breathing only when I heard his bed creak.

‘Are you too young to have left your mother?’ I whispered, kissing Heloise’s soft ear. I left her on the floor and moved to Sam’s desk, did a little figuring with a pencil, but couldn’t get the seven-years-to-one ratio to work out in weeks. But it seemed like she was comparable, developmentally, to a human one-year-old, mobile, exploring the world with her mouth.

A one-year-old taken from her mother?

That didn’t seem right! I turned in my chair and reached for her. There was no Heloise. Panicked, I peered under the desk, in her crate, calling her name in an urgent whisper, ‘Heloise! Hell-oh-wheeze!’ I scanned the room and realized Matt had left the door open. The stairs! I stepped into the hall, terrified I’d see her crumpled little body at the bottom. But there she was, safe and sound, not at the bottom, but at the top, just finishing up a nice little pee.

Heloise woke me again at six forty. I’d finally drifted off in Sam’s bed sometime around three, after locating the carpet foam and working on her pee spot. Still, I managed to spring out of bed when she started whining, not wanting her to wake the household again. Holding her in my arms, I stepped around the spot, which I’d marked with three of Sam’s old summer league swimming trophies as stanchions, positioned equidistantly around the circle. The gold figurines, each bent at the waist, hands behind them, looked ready to dive into the pee spot.

Downstairs, I clicked on Heloise’s leash, quickly slipping my feet into Matt’s boots again. We stepped outside. It was no warmer out, despite the rosy eastern horizon. Finally she lowered her haunches, and I sleepily told her to do her business, praising her as she did. When she finished, I lifted her under her front armpits, her little body hanging below so any little drips could air-dry as I carried her into the house.

In the kitchen, I scooped two cups of puppy chow into her stainless steel bowl on the counter, as she manically jumped at my legs and against the cabinets. ‘No, Heloise. Down.’ Damn. Chapter one said not to say ‘No’ or ‘Down.’ Down was solely for lying down. I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to say instead of ‘No,’ and frankly, ‘No!’ pretty much covered my feelings on the matter.

I’d gotten her too soon. I hadn’t studied enough. I was in over my head. There was a puppy meeting that night, but the day stretched out miserably between then and now. Already my body ached with lack of sleep.

I grabbed Heloise under one arm and put her bowl on the floor. She was flailing wildly, so I positioned her about two feet away. ‘Easy now, girl. Wait. Wait.’ I slowly let go and she shot toward her food, her mouth gulping before it even touched the mound of nuggets.

I stepped to the refrigerator, grabbed the egg carton, thinking my family deserved pancakes this morning, given all of Heloise’s noise last night. But by the time I put the eggs on the counter, Heloise had already finished her breakfast. I looked at the microwave clock. Almost seven. I was behind schedule. The kids would be down for their breakfast any minute.

Think and they shall yell. Right at that moment, Lainey hollered from upstairs, ‘Mom! Why are Sam’s swim trophies on— Ewww! Never mind! I think I know. The dog wee-weed here, didn’t she?!’

‘Just step around it, honey,’ I yelled. It was then I heard the preliminary retching. I spun around. Heloise looked like she was studying one particular square of tile intently, her little rib cage squeezing in and out. Then, in one enormous spasm, up came her breakfast, just as Lainey was walking into the kitchen.

‘Oh, God! Oh, how gross! Oh –my–God!’ She pivoted, her pink puffy slippers scuffing back up the stairs, her complaints continuing to drift down. ‘Oh, gag me, why don’t you! First this, then that. Why did we get a stupid—’ Her bedroom door slammed.

I looked down at Heloise again; she was enthusiastically reconsuming her breakfast. I turned away. I figured she couldn’t be too sick if she was so eagerly eating it again, but I thought I might be sick. I stood at the sink, my hands gripping the counter. I looked out the window at the new day starting as I listened to the happy smacks behind me.

I couldn’t face food. I pulled out several boxes of cereal from the pantry and left them on the counter. The kids would have to fend for themselves this morning. I took Heloise upstairs with me.

Neil was in our bathroom, shower on, door closed. I pulled our bedroom door shut and let Heloise roam. I’d put safety plugs in all the empty sockets and otherwise baby-proofed the bedroom, so I knew she was safe. Plus, she’d peed less than twenty minutes ago. I pulled on my jeans and a sweatshirt. I found my sneakers and was sitting on the edge of the bed tying the second one when Neil emerged from the bathroom in his robe, a towel around his neck.

‘Hey. Where’d you sleep?’

I stared at him, then said, ‘I took Heloise into Sam’s room so she wouldn’t bother you all night. Remember?’

He ran the towel over his ear and wet hair. ‘Not really. Where’s the dog now?’ He said ‘the dog’ like the words were large cotton balls rolling out of his mouth. But he was smiling.

I pointed. ‘She’s right there.’ Heloise was emerging from our small walk-in closet where she’d been exploring. She looked up, saw Neil, and I swear to God she smiled as she ran to him, her wagging rump making her course across the bedroom floor zigzag slightly. She jumped at his ankles, begging for his touch.

‘Hello,’ he said, tentatively reaching down to her. She happily wrapped her teeth around his finger in greeting.

‘Ow!’ He jerked his finger back, straightening.

I dashed over and picked her up. ‘Sorry. She must be teething. I’ll take her into the bathroom with me so you can dress.’

Neil glared, massaging his finger.

Safely in the bathroom, I closed the door. I set her on the damp bath rug, which I immediately had to pull from her mouth. I put it in the tub, and she turned her attention to sniffing the floor. I had just started brushing my teeth when Neil yelled.

‘Jesus H. Christ!’

I opened the door, toothbrush still in my mouth, and saw Neil, white-faced in the closet. His right hand gripped the hanger bar. His robe had come undone; his temper was not far behind. His right ankle was propped against his opposite knee in a kind of sideways flamingo pose. A small, smashed brown pile was on the floor under him. The rest was between his toes. A foul odor filled the room.

‘Oh, Neil! I’m so sorry. I took her out just a few minutes ago. She— I—’

‘Could you get me something to wipe this mess on, please?’ he said evenly, his face now filling with color.

‘Oh! Yes! Sorry.’ Careful to keep Heloise confined, I darted back into the bathroom and emerged with a roll of toilet paper. I unwound a wad and began to pull the mess off his foot. He grabbed it from me, doing the job himself. He dropped the tissue onto the pile and hopped, an angry pogo stick, into the bathroom. I followed him, grabbed Heloise, and retreated. The door slammed behind us and I listened as the tub faucets came on.

I looked at the poop and sighed. This was not turning out to be what I had pictured. I was beginning to wonder what I had pictured. Me and puppy rolling around in a flower-filled meadow. Me and puppy out in the world. Me and puppy creating a whole new life for me. Basically, a TV commercial.

It occurred to me, as I stood holding the contented Heloise in my arms, that any commercial that uses an adorable little puppy to sell their product should be required to also show dog poop oozing through the toes of an angry spouse. And if we’re going for truth in advertising, then ads with cute little babies should also show complicated, remote teenagers. Or the empty bed of a son who left for college and has barely been heard from since.