A few weeks ago in August, my husband and I moved our youngest daughter and a truck full of too much stuff into a tiny dorm room at a large state university 90 minutes away. It was the culmination of 32 years of uninterrupted child rearing. When we got home that night, we shut the third and last of our children’s bedroom doors and cried. We were officially empty nesters.
The next day, with the dawning of our newfound freedom and all its potentialities, we did what millions of other parents in our situation do … a little happy dance. Of course, out of kindness, none of us let our kids see actually see that dance and that poses a big problem. They start to feel sorry for us in all our loneliness. They picture us rattling around in a big empty house … a house that isn’t actually too big. They begin trying to come up with a solution to our very bad situation … a situation that isn’t actually very bad. They decide to do something about it. They give us a puppy.
Seriously, they gave us a puppy.
Actually, they gave my husband a puppy for his birthday. I had let my wishes to not have another dog be known in the spring shortly after our sweet, but exceedingly hyper yellow Labrador, Sue, succumbed at age 8 to an aggressive cancer. Don’t get me wrong; I love pets, especially dogs. I have raised my share from pups and lived with adult adoptee dogs foisted upon me with all their improper formations and bad habits. I understand the commitment, which is something akin to raising a child, minus the expense for college education … though if you count replacing drywall that was eaten down to bare studs on more than one occasion, you might be getting close in approximation.
The point is, I knew what it would be like, and I was right, but have I mentioned that no one listens to me?
My husband pondered in advance of picking his pup from the litter what name would be most appropriate. He settled on Jack. It was his father’s name. I loved my father-in-law dearly, but he was ornery, to say the least. As I believe names are prophetic, the thought seriously worried me. But the day we brought Jack home, was the 24th anniversary of my father-in-law’s passing. It somehow seemed right.
Jack is the latest in a long line of Labrador Retrievers that have been a part of our family. I learned a long time ago that the first two years of a Labrador’s life are crucial. Those are the two years when you have restrain yourself from sending them to their Maker. Labradors have an oral fixation that will wear out a small fortune in American rawhide, destroy blouses hanging in the laundry room, leave newel posts gnawed nearly in half and, as aforementioned, strip wallboard off the studs with the same fervor as a hoard of hungry beavers. Labs are also unconvinced they are canine. They truly believe they are human and thus entitled and invited to every family outing and privilege. These are the reasons they always end up coming to work with me. (Fortunately, my husband and I are self-employed.) Otherwise, the unforgiving and hurt looks I get after arriving home from a day at the office are too much to bear.
Truth be told, I had suppressed the utter frustration that comes from job-sharing with a puppy. I forgot the incredible inconvenience of loading the car each morning with backpack, lunch cooler, dog bed, crate, training treats, toys … oh, and dog … sometimes a wet and dirty dog because he was busily excavating a mud hole in the backyard just prior to leaving for work. Honestly, I feel like I am going on safari every day. Without my husband doing the early morning duties and taking over at night, I would have moved to my own apartment by now.
Once in the parking lot, I leave the car hatch open for future unloading and give the pup a 15-minute potty opportunity. If that is successful, we walk the 100 yards to the dumpster to make his deposit and back to begin the unloading process, which is at least three trips in and out of the building. God forbid there is rain and an umbrella to open and shut each time.
Words can’t adequately convey what happens the next 45 minutes in my office, though “Tazmanian” and “devilry” come to mind. Jack is not happy that my attentions are not on him. He barks piercingly and repeatedly to remind me he is there. When that fails, he stands in front of me with his paws on my knees imploring me to pleeeeease play with him. [Insert photo.] After that, anything within 6 inches of the edge of my desk gets raked to the floor and ransacked. Finally, he pounces on his squeaky rubber turkey in frenzied play, accompanying the turkey noises with his own yapping, groaning and crying … for that is the effect the turkey noises have on him. I have taken videos to try to convey my unprofessional work situation to my kids. They think it’s very funny.
Video: Office Frenzy
When my baby finally drops off to sleep, I can make phone calls and minor progress. Jack likes to sleep with his chin resting comfortably, comfortably for him, that is, on my feet. This is very confining. Filing and papers I need to distribute in various places around the office go in a pile on the edge of my desk. I swivel my chair gingerly to reach my computer keyboard and try not to roll the wheels on tender, floppy ears. If I am desperate, I move Jack to his bed, but he sleep-crawls, army-style, back to my feet. An hour later, when he is in his deepest, most relaxed phase of sleep, I can at last move him out of the way and he will stay.
I confess, I checked into daycare the other day. Happy Dog Hotel and Spa is right on my way to work. If Jack plays nicely, it will cost me $12 a half-day to let other dogs and handlers wear him out while I work. It wasn’t really in the budget, but I can give up something … maybe my book vice or the extra wine I have been drinking at night. And Jack will forego the special Muttini’s (Kong balls filled with peanut butter), Pet-i-cures and bubble baths. He can take a regular stand-up shower at home, like all his predecessors.
By late afternoon, I get a little giddy. It’s time for Jack’s nap, and time for me to be at home writing. It’s a reward for the craziness of the day and a garrisoning of strength (his and mine) for his dinnertime shenanigans, which involve cats.
I can hear some of you now. “Cats! I thought she was a dog person. Who likes cats?” Mine is a diverse and equal opportunity animal house, though it wasn’t always that way. I used to be solely a dog person, until one cat we acquired from a neighbor’s barn to be a mouser in ours turned out to be deadbeat. At first I thought she was just a princess, unwilling to work for a living, since she refused to leave the house. The only times she’s ever gone out are for vet appointments, but as time has worn on I believe she is somewhat of an agoraphobe. I say that with sympathy as I have dealt with the same fear from time to time. Stella is 13 and lives in my laundry room. Although she is free to roam the house, she does not. She fears the great outdoors, is highly suspicious of humans, has a strange affinity for dogs (she is happy to have Jack as a bunk mate after Sue’s passing) and detests other cats.
Speaking of other cats, we have two of them, Charlie and Izzy, white Himalayan-mix hairballs. They were once my daughter’s cats and now mine since I acquired them while she traveled the world for two years in her job. Charlie, in particular, is the source of all the dinnertime shenanigans. I’m still trying to psych him out. I haven’t yet learned if he is just lonely from a day away from me, drawn by the alluring smells of my cooking, giving into his obsession with water running from the kitchen faucet, nurturing private hopes of befriending Jack or only wants to annoy the you-know-what out of him. For whatever reason, Charlie taunts Jack by his feline presence knowing he is able to leap baby gates and countertops with a single bound and stay just clear of getting killed. The effort of such mad chases throws Charlie into paroxysms. He has exercise-induced asthma, so he’s usually coughing by mid-leap. Yet, he keeps coming back and doing it over and over. Dinner preparation at my house is a rowdy and raucous affair.
Video: Cat Standoff
Desperate for any kind of help for all this rowdiness, we took Jack to an animal blessing ceremony at our local Catholic church on the Feast of St. Francis. We are not Catholic, but dear friends who are let us know about the blessing and thought Jack might benefit. Our college-daughter was home for the weekend, so we loaded ourselves in the car and headed that way. Jack was on his best behavior. It was a cold, windy day and he huddled in my husband’s arms peering curiously and a bit fearfully at all the big dogs and mewing cats in carriers. We sang a few songs accompanied by guitar and a chorus of howls. There was a prayer and then the priest came around with the holy water sprinkling each animal, including a few unseen critters proffered in shoeboxes by small children. When the priest got to Jack, my husband told him he might need the whole bucket.
Jack was very sedate on the drive home. Our daughter was sure of an immediate effect, but in case it didn’t work she assured him, “Now, even if you are naughty, Jack, you will still go to heaven.” It wasn’t exactly a baptism, but I didn’t have the heart to disabuse her of that thought.
The next day, Jack was back to his usual mischief, blessed but backslidden. Like I said, I am not Catholic, but just this morning as I drove to work crying, I called on St. Francis for his wisdom and intercessions. After all, he tamed a marauding wolf. I have also consulted the expertise of some Byzantine Rite monks, voraciously reading their books, How to Be Your Dog’s Best Friend and The Art of Raising a Puppy. These monks of New Skete in upstate New York support themselves breeding and expertly training canines. Their dogs actually sleep in their bedroom area because, according to them, separation for a pack animal is too much isolation. Also, their whole passel of dogs quietly down-stay around the table through their entire dinner hour. These monks are an inspiration … maybe too lofty for me … but an inspiration, nevertheless. By 10:00 at night, Jack is in his crate (thank you, Jesus) until the next morning and his down-stay lasts exactly 7 seconds. I did find out the monks will take your dog for 2.5 weeks for in-residence training and return them to you minus the ankle biting and leash lunging. They also have a retreat facility for anyone who wants to come … say the owner of an ankle biter or leash lunger. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve mentally plotted such a trip for Jack and myself with every ounce of creativity I’ve got. The problem is, I have a job and that little 2.5-week retreat plus private dog tutoring would be very expensive. But I confess a fascination with monastic living and this whole puppy situation has greatly exacerbated it. I feel a need for divine help and a good long rest.
So what does it all mean? I’ve asked myself this question over and over. Should I have put my foot down and insisted on my nest remaining empty? Maybe. I know I’m way too passive, but I tend to get life lessons and spiritual metaphors from strange sources. So I’ll just let it go at that. Maybe all of this is God acting something out for me the way Jesus acted out parables for his disciples. For example, Jack, as in control of my life as he tries to be, is completely dependent on me. He looks to me to provide his food, put out his water, correct him over and over, patiently lead him on 57 trips per day to a grassy area and just as patiently clean up and dispose of his you-know-what so it doesn’t dirty his life or anyone else’s. He reminds me so much of myself. I try just as hard to tell the Father what I want (yap), want (yap), want (yap) right now, but am dependent on him to know what’s best for me. No doubt, I have tested his patience unceasingly and the messes I have made at times are beyond my ability to clean up. But just as I do it for Jack, thankfully God does it for me.
Jack’s birth family was a litter of other animals, but now he has been adopted into mine. He has a whole new culture, manners, ways and habits to learn … sort of like me trying to acclimate to God’s kingdom life. It’s foreign and unfamiliar. Jack is immature and wild, but in time he will be the beloved member of our family I envision. Similarly, God has adopted me and made me his child. I have all the privileges of his family, but I behave otherwise out of habit much of the time. By his grace and loving kindness, I will begin to manifest the image of Jesus, his own Son, in my manners, ways and life. Eventually, I will be in my actions, just as I am in position … a daughter of the Most High.
Beyond my own relationship with Jack, the thing I most want for him is a fellowship that includes others. I envision my home to be a place where dog differences and cat differences and human differences, while recognized and appreciated, are unified into a peaceable kingdom of mutual trust and cooperation. It’s a long process and a lot to hope for, but then I consider what God was up against with me. And yet, in Christ, he has done it. He is doing it. When all seems chaos, I can rest in the fact that he will never stop working his whole blessed business of Communion.
Here’s one last video . . . er, audio of Jack.
Jack Snoring