Business Arrangement

Life is a series of dogs. My parent’s dogs, the dogs of my childhood, that were always just there and some that one day were just gone. I hadn’t picked them but we were together just the same. Then Dogs of my own. My cost, my concern, my responsibility. More dogs than girlfriends.

At best, our lives have between 6 – 10 dogs, from birth to bury. Companions, confidants, carpool dummies and our connection to a pure love. Dogs do something to us all. They are calming reassuring force that only leads us to feeling good about things that we could otherwise not explain our not made to comprehend. But it is difficult to be too maudlin for too long around a dog asleep in the room, like Chopin and brandy, they just make things better.

Some are made to guard or attack, others trained to lead the blind or the broken, to sniff bombs, drugs or even cancer. I have mine to prove to myself I can care for something other than myself. Then I could take something else in consideration when deciding my day.

7 years ago, I just gotten out of rehab (does it matter?) and was in need of a friend who wouldn’t encourage my bad habits, I also needed to be responsible for something else, I was always better doing for others than myself. My mother suggested a dog, which was much better than a baby, I thought, ‘well, you can’t really screw up a dog.’

So it was decided. We went to a local pound in a nice middle-class neighborhood, just to browse and see if I could find a connection. I walked up and down the caged aisles, exposing every type of mut with every designed mutation, every age in every shape with every temperament. It was an odd experience. A death row for dogs, so to speak. Maybe a few reprieves, but mostly just a needle waiting for them. Evolution has deemed this the order of the day.

After a few minutes of attempting to make eye contact with each locked up animal and shedding a silent tear for the fate that awaited almost everyone one of the poor souls, I came upon a small tank of a dog, alone, against the fence for support set a pure bread pug, all muscle and attitude. As the workers at the shelter escorted other dogs much larger than him past his cage, he turned into a Pitbull guarding his/a junkyard. he followed them from first sight till they turned the corner and out of his view, the other dogs never noticing such a small beast with a trebled bark screaming at them. As the others disappeared, he’d turn back around, sit against the fence, and continue breathing, mouth open to free the tongue. I stood there for a few minutes watching him, he never once looked up at me or showed he noticed my presence at all.

When I went inside to the office to inquire about what it would take for me to get to know him a bit and maybe take him home, the lady behind the counter told me how lucky I was, that dogs like that never make it to the pound and if they do are picked up by the worried owners almost immediately. ‘bogart’ (the name they gave him) was a rare find and it didn’t happen often to find a young male pug built to breed finding his way to the cages. He had just become available this morning after days of them trying to contact his previous home. He had a chip in his ear but when they scanned it, the chip came up that showed he was an 8-year papillon, not a 5-year-old pug, or so the record said. They spent the last 6 days calling the number given to the ID, leaving messages but they received no call back. I was the first person to get a look at him since he’s been paroled. I felt a special opportunity present itself. So I got him.

When the volunteer appeared with him on the leash so I could take him for a walk outside to get familiar with him he stood as tall and proud as a small dog could and walked like he was being lead around for all the judges to see as if he were comfortable in competition. This dog had a history, whomever owned him had invested a lot of energy and time in building this champion. I didn’t see a lot of love or affection in his face. He seemed to reel a bit when a hand neared his head to offer a pet. His dew claws had been removed, which I learned is for breeding purposes as to not hurt the bitch when they mated. He had other idiosyncrasies that let me to think he was kept more for profit than as a pet. He became more affectionate but not much more comfortable. Not everything can be completely cured with love, but we still try.

He had yet to be neutered, which, unfortunately is the policy of the shelter, no matter how pure and valuable a dog is they won’t release them without the procedure. Damn bob barker, I thought. This was a perfect creature that I’m sure spent years past being put out to stud. He was a handsome, strong creature, even with all his manufactured defects he had purpose.

Si I choose him. I paid the fees and left him to be altered in my absence. He would not be the same dog after today, half a man, so to speak, but I thought of the alternative and decided some sort of life is better than not one at all (not sure how I would choose if it was for me).

According to my mother, who loves dogs so much it informs her political positions, most people decide which candidate they support by their views on abortion, or immigration but my mother throws her 2 cents and check book behind whomever loves animal the most. the easiest way for a Politician to lose my mother’s support is to shoot down or revoke a bill that’s meant to save animals. Animal testing, endangered hunting, or even a general disregard for anything lower on the chain than us needed to be respected and looked out for.

The next day we drove back to the pound to pick him. They brought him out and he seemed no different, which seemed impossible. We thanked them and loaded him up in the car. He rode in the back seat with me for trip, and I can honestly say it was the loudest car ride id ever been on. He wailed the whole ride like a man who crawled thru the desert for a week and had just come upon water. Like a thirsty alien desperate for air conditioning, he sat there still, not impressed with anything that was happening around him. A true nihilist

Now into my life came, Clyde shot jeff. A round fat pug that wouldn’t look out of place following a bloated heard of hippos across the Serengeti in search of a pool of water. Once Small and spry, He has gotten old, as everything does, but it seems to be happening a bit quicker than normal deterioration of living things, or so I think. No longer hopping on the couch, eye bulging out begging for table scraps, or the energy to hump stuffed toys for 5 seconds at a time. His time is ending soon.

My mother tells me that a ‘Clyde shot’ is what you would call a young woman flashing you in the 1970’s, she had given you a Clyde shot. Now, I never have been able to confirm or call her a liar, but it sounds cool, so I went with it. And jeff just seem to sound right when said out loud. We only ever called him Clyde. ‘Better then bogart’ I said out loud to my mother while discussing a proper nomenclature. Names ae important. They/the name will be said to a dog more times than any other word you’ll say out loud for the next ten years. I needed to like it.

He is the perfect dog for me. He could care less for constant attention or a continuous belly rub. In fact, if I pet him too much or bother him with too much attention he just gets up and walks a few feet away and lays back down, right back to whatever universe he was floating in before I disturbed him. If he needed something, he would let it be known, but he did what he wanted and so did I. we would meet in the middle if we needed the other to accommodate a request. For years, like prison, we became routine.

The older he got the less amenable to request he got. To deaf to hear, yelling his name 100 times did no good, to blind to see he needed his food placed tight in front of his face. He couldn’t be bothered by the other dogs in the family, only to show his displeasure when they bothered him. His mouth smiled like a drunk clown; tongue rolled out to his chin like a red carpet. We both float on a raft in the middle of the ocean, together.

Well, he served me well. I’ve walked next to the wagon a few times but never had both feet off. We did well for each other. No relapses that kept long enough to leave him alone. I never regretted claiming him, and I hope he had a content 2nd act, I did my best, as best as knew how and will think fondly of him when I stare at the urn I have for him. But he lays on the floor, struggling to breath or even get up now and all I can do is drug him comfortable. But soon by friend will be gone, and I think, thanks, but Thank god it wasn’t a kid.