The Effect of Gamma Rays on a Pandemic Marigold

It was the first winter in my memory with no snow days. School was closed every day because of the pandemic. I did my best to teach kindergarten students who had never seen any classroom, let alone my own. They were a diverse bunch, reflecting the wealthy and the work-weary across our world, as anyone could tell by looking at the vaulted ceilings or the crowded walls within their frames on the computer monitor. From my files and my frustrations, I had gathered that only a few spoke any English at home. I had expected the Spanish and the Hindi, buy how did all these people who spoke Telegu end up in Howard County? All the same, each student in my remote class was taking to American Sign Language like a fish to water. Or should I say, like a puppy to new shoes.

That was the winter Marigold burst into our dreary isolation like a bounding ray of sunshine. She was all legs and ears and those moondog eyes that came out of some comic strip. She was one of thousands of pandemic puppies rescued that year and placed in homes that were experiencing an excess of boredom and shortage of patience, families ready to do something, anything, that did not involve a screen. At first glance, she looked to be a Golden Retriever in the ears, then closer inspection revealed some scent of hound in those eyes and in those legs growing longer every day.

I offered the name Chrysanthemum, from the children’s classic. Our twins wanted to name her after the dog in Coco, but the reference to Dante’s Inferno left me cold.

“How about Marigold,” my husband said, “like the flowers that form the bridge?”

Well, I can’t say it was that easy, settling on a name. We tried out about ten or twelve more names, some shorter and easier like “Susu” which means extreme silence, and clearly did not apply, to meaningful names like the Hebrew for listener, “Simona,” which also turned out not to be accurate. It turned out that our puppy, like several of my students, was completely deaf.

“Why don’t I let my students decide?” I asked. This prompted an entire week of attempts from armchair psychology to assure my children that no, I did not love my students more than them and yes, I did value the thoughts and feelings of my own offspring more than the children assigned to me by the Board of Education.

Elsa? Too Disney! Boomer? Too trendy. Precious? Too Tolkien! Zoomer? Too techno.

With a little less of the joy of discovery in his voice and a little more tone of “can-we-please-just-pick-a-name-already,” Joseph suggested again, “How about Marigold? Like the golden flowers that make the magic bridges in Coco?”

“She does have a golden coat,” Jules said. “And there wouldn’t be any other dogs with that name, right?” asked Journey.

“She would be our one and only Marigold,” I answered. “I’ll get her tags made up as soon as I can get to the pet store. This blasted pandemic is making everything more complicated.”

Marigold chose that precise moment to re-enter the family room, carrying the shredded remains of the last package of toilet paper.

+ + +

I showed her off to my class, showing them the sign for her name, a variation on the sign for flower. I held her up to the camera connected to my laptop, but she was still a squirmer and hard to hold. She darted out of the room before they could get a good look at her, the kids giggling and laughing loudly.

Marigold was a chewer, no doubt about it. Not just the typical puppy chewing, either; even the packaging on the dog toys had a special label for it: “advanced chewer.” Normal puppies chew things like paper boxes, shoe laces and, yes, toilet paper rolls. Marigold had more expensive taste, seeking out jewelry boxes, leather loafers and boots, and entire packages of paper towels. She chewed things that I thought were only the province of rodents and other pests: wainscoting along the entry hall, welcome mats, bags of coffee, even silverware, ceramics and cable lines. She would root through the laundry until she found a bra and parade around the house with it, gnawing through any wiring or clasps to render the poor, underused underwear utterly useless.

Joseph took this all in stride, taking frequent breaks from work meetings with a quick punch of the mute button and a “drop” command, or, failing to conquer the compulsive chewing, simply exchanging some handy human snack for the item in question. He and I grew accustomed to finding items the other had piled above the timber-wolf line of our bedroom/offices: half-chewed slippers, pieces of phone chargers, and spatulas with teeth marks, balanced atop lamp-shades and antique dressers.

Somehow, this all seemed normal in the time of lockdown. It was our own personal reflection of the world’s chaos, but within the safety of home. No death, no “grim milestones,” just daily doses of disarray in close quarters. No one could remember if it was Thursday or Monday, and really what difference did it make?

Then this “normal” broke loose the morning I spotted the half-eaten smoke alarm, right there on the kitchen counter between the Honey-Nut Cheerios and the Instant Oatmeal.

“What is this?” I yelled to no one in particular and everyone at once. Journey and Jules were on their tablets, either working on classwork or lost in the gaming world. Joseph was working hard to concentrate on something on his desktop. I had successfully derailed his train of thought.

“I think the dog chewed up the smoke alarm,” he mumbled.

“I can see that! Was someone going to do something about it?!” my voice was barely hiding my fear and frustration.

“I stopped what I was working on, gave her my bagel and took it away.”

Now Jules and Journey were looking up, suddenly more interested in the domestic storm than their electronics.

“Where is she now? Where are the missing pieces? Those things are full of radiation!”

“Radiation? What are you talking about?” Joseph stopped and turned to me, clearly irritated now. “She was just here! I’m trying to get ready for a meeting. I can’t get the internet connection to work and you’re screaming at me about something the dog ate like this is some kind of shocking development. ”

“I’m grabbing the peroxide and hunting for Marigold while you call poison control.” I began running through the house, Jules and Journey joining in the search.

+ + +

“Let’s get in the car and drive around the neighborhood. The vet said not to be too worried. Most of the modern smoke alarms have all of the radioactive material sealed off to keep this kind of thing from happening.”

“What about your meeting?” I asked, helping the twins into their booster seats and jumping into the passenger side of our musty Corolla. When was the last time we were all in the car together?

“I can’t log on anyway. No internet.” We were in gear now, the muscle memories kicking in from months past when we could all go out to eat.

“Well, then I won’t be able to teach today. My kids will wonder where I am.”

“What about us? We’re your real kids!”

“You know what I mean -- my kinders.” I put my window down, the winter air reminding me I had forgotten coats for all of us. “Marigold?! Marigold?!”

Less than an hour later, we were back home, dejected and dogless, too weary to expend any more energy trying to make sense of the morning. The twins wordlessly peeked under couches and in corners of our homes, last-ditch attempts at searching for our canine sunshine.

Out of my brain-fog emerged the sound of A-Punk by Vampire Weekend, my ring-tone. Joseph handed me my phone, mouthing to me that it was my principal.

“Amanda, hi. I’m sorry, I must have left my phone at home when we ran out for an emergency this morning….No, the kids are okay….Yes, I can come in. Right away. See you soon.”

I grabbed the keys, threw my phone in my purse and grabbed a ball cap and coat from the back of the door. “Definitely a hat day. I have to get to school right away. Can you grab my laptop and charger for me from our room?”

“Here is your laptop and all of the pieces your pandemic puppy produced from your power cord. Try not to wreck the car when you poke your eye out putting your mascara on.”

“You know me too well. I wonder why Amanda was so cryptic on the phone. Good grief! It’s a wonder that dog didn’t electrocute herself, chewing through this cord.”

“I think she was doing her best to take us away from all of these on-line meetings. The perfect cure for the pandemic! I’ll cook some comfort food and work with the twins on some lost dogs posters. Let me know how it goes.”

+ + +

No matter how old you get, being called into the principal’s office never gets any easier. My cap firmly in place and winter coat masking my shapeless morning attire, I tried my best to look professional. My Gerald and Piggie mask was not helping.

Amanda McCormick, the principal of Ellicott Mills Elementary, closed the door behind me. “We have a situation here.”

“I assume this is because I didn’t call out this morning, didn’t show up for class?”

“That was only the beginning, Beth. Parents were not as concerned with your absence as they were about the presence of your puppy.”

“Our puppy? Marigold went missing this morning. That’s why I didn’t show up for class. We’ve just spent the last hour searching all over the neighborhood.”

“Strange. So you weren’t at home? Your puppy has been very busy, apparently, keeping all of your students entertained.”

“What do you mean?" I was beginning to get confused. Had someone seen Marigold? Everyone but me?

“Did you check your classroom?” Amanda asked.

“We looked all over our house, yes, including the room I teach from, er, from whence I teach...” My principal had been an English teacher. So stressful!

“I mean your real classroom. Come with me,” she signalled, smiling.

We made our way through the empty halls, everything strangely silent in the building that would normally be humming with hundreds of students and frantic staff. I could hear barking as we drew closer to the Kindergarten pod. All of the doors were locked; entry required an active ID badge. When Amanda opened the door to my classroom, there was Marigold, chewed up bits of chalk all around her, standing on my desk. Papers were strewn about the room, some wet with puppy puddles, many chewed into tiny white flakes.

“I guess she really wanted to come to school?” I said, grasping for words.

“I think she just wanted to give everyone a snow day. Why don’t you take her home and enjoy the day off with your family. Get some rest.”

Back in the car, Marigold curled up in the seat beside me, and began quietly snoring. My mind went back through the events of the morning. How could she have possibly crossed the distance from our house to school? How would she have gotten into the building, not to mention logging on to the classroom? I thought about calling home -- I needed to tell them she was okay. But it was finally quiet. Snow was starting to fall.