Hopeless Dog

“Your dog just tried to bite me,” my best friend Lynk said.

She’d popped over for a quick visit and was trying to make her way toward the back bathroom.

“Abby! What are you doing? Abby, stop!” Lynk exclaimed, trying to walk faster than my aging dog.

“Abby!” I yelled, scrambling to shut the front door.

I lunged for her collar and missed. The terrier in Abby could jump surprisingly high for the bow-legged corgi she appeared to be.

Truthfully, I didn’t have any clue what breed she was. I’d rescued her from an animal shelter over 12 years before. Since then I’d often fantasized about her brother, whom I should have adopted instead. Unfortunately, over a decade later I was still training this stubborn mule of a dog to stop biting people. Despite calling her, my 35 lb hairy sausage continued to nip at my friend’s calves.

“Abby, come!” I yelled again.

To my surprise, her ears turned in my direction. She slowed down, but didn’t stop chasing Lynk down the hallway.

Lynk turned around abruptly, shooting Abby a stern look, letting her know she wasn’t afraid of an over-stuffed Pomeranian.

“Abby, come!” I commanded a third time, hoping I sounded assertive.

Abby and Lynk both froze in uncertainty.

“Oh my gosh,” I thought, trying to catch up to them before the next second passed. “Please don’t ruffle her ears!”

Abby had irresistibly cute ears. They were perky, floppy tufts of crimped golden fluff. Her coat was smooth, copper-colored fur, which ended in a curly plume of a tail. Naturally, people were drawn to give her an affectionate scruff, which she hated. Their innocent faux pas often ended in Abby nipping at whatever hand dared greet her with such an undignified gesture.

“Abby! Sit! Stay!” I thundered.

My stubborn little imp turned and looked at me. Her eyes were round, fearful and full of questions. I immediately took the window of opportunity before me.

I softened my brow and said gently, “Come here, Abby. Come see mommy.”

Her golden eyes widened, her pupils becoming large black pools of ink. She looked back, uncertain. Lynk smiled and put her hand down for Abby to smell.

Finally, my crazy, stubborn dog sat down, looking back at me with shame in her eyes. The whole debacle had occurred in less than 5 seconds, but it felt as if it had been an eternity. When I reached them, I looped my finger under Abby’s collar just before she tried to follow Lynk into the bathroom. She pinned her ears and looked into my eyes again. This time, she seemed sheepish that she’d forgotten the rules of “sit” and “stay”.

I shook my head, “Abby! I have already told you, NO BITING!”

She looked up at me with sad puppy eyes. I felt that she was sorry, but I also felt frustrated.

I kissed her head affectionately, but I was very upset. I took my friend’s safety seriously. Even though Abby wasn’t a big dog, I still couldn’t allow her to bite people. I struggled to understand why she bit people in the first place. Her behavior was hard to predict, and her triggers seemed to be as random as the nipping itself.

I let go of her collar and instructed she follow me to the back door. I’d have to think about this further, but for right now, we needed some space.

Back inside, I found Lynk reclining on my bathroom chaise. My bathroom was one of our favorite places to hang out when she visited. I had every woman’s dream bathroom, with its huge vanity sink, massive walk-in closet and separate toilet room. It was an excellent place to hide away from the world, or in this case, from Abby.

“Hey girl,” I said apologetically. “I’m sorry about Abby’s behavior. Are you hurt at all?”

“No way!” She said enthusiastically. “She just got the back of my leg a little.”

I sighed, not feeling comforted. I was tired of this stubborn dog. I’d thought we’d worked through her spontaneous aggression.

I wondered if I was simply an irresponsible dog owner. The dog owner that everyone at the animal hospital wagged their finger about. The ignorant one who never took their dog to behavior school.

I’d worked in vet clinics for over six years. I knew the drill. I felt like Abby would never make it past behavior testing. It terrified me that she might be recommended for euthanasia.

I believed in Abby. I felt that I saw intelligence and love in her eyes. I preferred to think of myself as a loving and intuitive person who knew my dog could do better, but perhaps I was just a selfish jerk who couldn’t face the facts.

For over a decade, Abby had been teaching me how to love a “hopeless” dog. I’d kept her through my divorce, through every trial and success of my life. My son, now 14, couldn’t remember a time without Abby in our lives.

I’d made a commitment to her the day I’d adopted her from the animal shelter. At the time, she hadn’t been much more than a ball of timid red fluff in my arms. My promise to care for her had lasted. She was in all respects, my family.

If I hadn’t left her with my ex maybe she wouldn’t be this way? Maybe she wouldn’t have so many triggers? I felt the strings of my heart tear at the memory. I remembered how she’d clung to my legs, hugging me as tight as an animal without thumbs can squeeze.

A few years back my ex had agreed to watch her for a couple weeks while I moved into my new apartment. It had been fumigated and wasn’t safe for Abby to move in yet. It wasn’t long before his call came.

“There’s something wrong with this dog,” my ex’s voice echoed in my memory. “She’s too stupid to get out of the rain and go into the doghouse.”

I reminded him that she’d never been in a doghouse, and asked if he’d checked inside for snakes or rats.

“No,” he replied. “One of my friends went out there and stuck his boot in her face and she attacked it. My roommate is worried about her grandkids. Abby’s gotta go.”

“What?! Why was someone putting their foot in her face?! No wonder she attacked it!” I snorted in disbelief.

After we hung up, I got in my Jeep and headed straight to his house. When I arrived it was just past dark, and drizzling rain. My ex and I stood in his screened-in porch, talking for a moment.

“How long has she been tied up outside?” I asked.

“My roommate doesn’t like dogs in the house,” he shrugged, spitting his dip on the concrete.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I spat back. “I thought I could trust you to do this for me.”

I glared at him and pushed past his shoulders, heading out to the backyard. Abby stood under a flood light, soaked from the rain, barking in a mindless, persistent plea.

“Abby, it’s mommy!” I called.

She stopped barking and began to pant, leaping in excitement, straining on the rope that tied her to a haphazard doghouse. The moment I was within reaching distance I got the tightest hug I’d ever gotten from a dog. Her small legs wrapped around mine, clinging to me and shaking against my ankles.

A deep wave of guilt and regret washed over me. I should have been able to trust my ex to care for her during my move, but she’d always been my dog and I’d let her down. I felt like a low life, like a failure.

“C’mon Abby, let’s get outta here,” I said, unclipping her from the rope. “I’m never leaving you again,” I promised.

“No wonder she doesn’t trust people,” I thought bitterly.

I’d been a bad dog mom then, and obviously, was a worse one now.

“Again, I’m sorry Lynk,” I sighed. “I don’t know why she nipped at you. She knows you.”

“I’m really not worried about it, hun. Let’s just hang out. She’ll be okay,” Lynk reassured me. “Abby’s just old.”

I sighed, my shoulders slumping.

“Yeah, but isn’t she supposed to get better with age?” I joked.

Lynk playfully smacked my arm.

“You know you love that dog.”

I smiled widely. I did love my dog and part of me respected her. Most dogs simply lived to please their owners. Abby lived to please herself.

She lived to explore the world and to challenge the rules. She resisted being locked in, tied up, leashed, or quiet. For Abby, every fence had another side, every pond had a new taste, and every field was a new horizon. People seemed to be a backdrop she tolerated for the sake of food.

Abby was a dog I worked with, not a dog I owned.

Some days she was my furry footstool, comforting me when I was sick or sad. Other days she’d have me bent over laughing, trying to teach her to catch treats out of the air, which was a trick she never learned. No matter how delicious the treat, she never caught it. One time I even tried throwing an entire hot dog directly at her mouth, only to watch it bounce off her deadpan expression.

Other times she scared me. She’d climb the fence escaping my yard to go adventuring through swamps, or somehow, she’d get her head stuck between her crate bars while I was at work. You name it, Abby tried it.

More than all that, Abby taught me to open up to a greater capacity for love. I learned to listen to her despite the fact that she had no voice, only a pair of bright, curious eyes for me to look into.

I hadn’t known it would be just over a year from my visit with Lynk that I’d be carrying her dirty paw print home with me, sunk into white clay as if it had been pressed upon my heart.

The day I lost Abby was also the day I found her.

Her passing taught me that loving an animal would forever leave an impression on me. I’d made her promises about her death. I never left her side and she got to eat everything she loved and wasn’t supposed to have, including an entire garlic chocolate chicken, bones and all.

She didn’t fully understand her Cushing’s disease, nor that the medicine wasn’t working anymore. She didn’t mind that I had to carry her down the stairs and she loved that I was cooking for her. In fact, she seemed to like that she got away with planting her butt whenever she decided she’d had enough walking.

Abby didn’t mind being sick, but she knew she was dying. We both knew.

On her last day I took her down to the dock she loved. She sat, wind tossing her graying red fur. She looked at everything, pausing on the clouds and looking out over the bay in an intense and thoughtful way.

Until that day I’d never seen her look more than a second or two at a passing boat. She looked at me and I knew she was sad to let go of this place, that it hurt to let go of the life she’d had for 14 years, but I could sense she was ready. Her body was tired. She’d been losing blood for weeks and her kidneys were failing.

After all these years she finally trusted me, and for the very first time, I didn’t doubt that I’d learned to speak dog. I’d learned compassion, loyalty and specifically from Abby, that rules are meant to be challenged.

In return, I believed she’d learned that sometimes following the rules was the wiser choice and that there are humans capable of love.

Finally, the most important lesson that Abby and I learned together, our greatest accomplishment and fondest memory, was to hang on when we should, and to let go when it was time.

“Don’t you worry, sweet girl, you’ll be back again,” I said with a grin, hugging her neck. “Let’s go see Dr. Will, he’s got ice cream for you today.”