Stray Dog Life

I was as close to rock bottom as I would ever want to be at 20 years-old; failing out of school, unemployed, nihilistic and plain goddamned nasty to be around. I remember on the night of my birthday having a moment of not-clarity and convincing myself, “let’s fuck shit up even more and bring a wild animal into the picture.” Typical Andrew - if I couldn’t take care of myself, I’ll just take care of something else.

I had about $150 to my name, internet connection, and a long-standing admiration for Rottweilers. I found a listing for a beautiful female dog at a foster farm in Norfolk, Massachusetts so I took the train out from Boston, and walked for what seemed like hours in the 90-degree sun to this gorgeous property filled with emu, goats, horses, cats and dogs.

I set down the walkway to the porch of the house and locked in a cage outside was this loud, burly, chocolate brown pit bull just boiling with temerity. I tried my best to ignore his giant head pressing against the crate to be touched because I can’t wait to meet this Rottie, not to mention all of the other animals out in the massive backyard. I tell myself, don't make eye contact. Ignore that handsome mug. Stop looking at his ridiculous toes patterned like a piano keyboard. Did he just fart? Oh my god, he's smiling.

I finally rang the bell and was quickly led out back to meet Ava the Rottweiler. This dog was sweet, beautiful, impeccably trained by a retired K-9 officer, and the foster owners showed me her German commands and tricks in a pop quiz which she passed with flying colors. Yet the whole damned time I couldn’t hear a word they were saying over the soul-piercingly shrill, annoying-as-hell, constant barks and whines of the pit bull on the front porch.

After the quick meet-and-greet, we're back in the house with the fosters to sign the paperwork and I’m already having buyer’s remorse. I’m about to adopt a mature dog that’s likely smarter than me, damn near show quality in appearance, and with “lots” of other potential owners lined up. I blurted out “WHAT’S UP WITH THE DOG ON THE PORCH,” and got blank stares and the too-familiar pit bull backstory in reply; he was found about a year earlier in a dumpster in New Bedford, had already been through three homes because of his hyper activeness, needed a lot more work, socialization, blah yadda blah. His name was J.J., formerly Lucky, and he didn’t respond to either.

I asked if I could play with him out back while the fosters got the paperwork ready. They said, “You... could play with Ava some more if you want?” Ava looked pretty comfortable sitting with her trainer, who I'm happy to say eventually adopted her as his own.

"I wouldn't mind just throwing the ball with that guy if it’s okay.” I'm lying, and not well. More warnings later - He jumps! He has no social skills! He drools and pees everywhere! - and soon I’m out back in the play yard again and heeerrreee heee comes.

BOOM. This wild motherfucker crashes his wrecking ball skull right into my knees and I’m down in the dirt. I’m on my stomach and this bold, classless, unmannered dog is on my back alternately licking my cheeks and forehead with his cow-sized, sopping wet tongue while trying to pull the gauged earrings off of my lobes. I shove him away, grab a rope, he grabs back, and I’m swinging him around like a fisherman reeling in a goddamned grizzly bear. This dude is all head, neck and jaws, a fuzzy version of the sandworms from 'Dune' with floppy ears. He quickly punctured two tennis balls, terrorized an emu at the other side of the fence, and now he’s pissing way too close to my backpack after running crooked, aimless zoomies around the play yard and I am absolutely, positively, one hundred percent in love with this terrible little shit. Running back to the house, the fosters knew what I was going to say before I said it: I want to take the idiot.

To have a pit bull Boston, Massachusetts circa 2001 was not a walk in the park, so to speak. Breed Specific Legislation was in and out of courts - meaning pit bulls could be banned from and deemed illegal in the city as in Denver and Miami - and before you could even register the dog in the city, a licensed animal control officer had to inspect your house to make sure there were no treadmills, weights, or other materials that would even slightly imply that the dog would be trained to fight. The fosters had an officer on call who worked as a volunteer, and she drove the dog and me from Norfolk to my apartment in Jamaica Plain. We're both in the back seat, and we’re wrestling, slobbering and messing around like a couple of sugar-high kindergartners. She was reading me the riot act about caring for a pit bull, and it was likely the most I had paid attention to anyone speaking in years. All of what she said I took to heart and still practice today, with both animals and humans; hard work, patience, love. We all walked into my apartment, the dog pissed everywhere, we went to inspect the basement, then back to the hallway and the officer said, “He’s all yours. Good luck.” I didn’t even have to pay her the adoption fee. She never asked. I think she knew the dog was finally home. He certainly marked it enough.

I named him Beans, we went for a long walk and our first swim in Jamaica Pond (PSA: don’t get caught swimming there), and for the next 18 years he would be my best friend. My inspiration. My savior.

I cleaned up my act pretty quickly after that night because here was a living, licking, loving reminder that I’m no longer the center of my own fucking universe. Whether it was making sure that he always had a bag of food even if it meant I had to choke down 7-11 hotdogs and taquitos for a few nights, to taking every single responsibility that comes with owning a dog so seriously that I hardly recognized this person being... what was it? Oh, responsible. I loved it. I loved my dog. It was Beans and me, always, everywhere. I loved him so much that I could hardly even stand it.

When Beans was ten years-old I brought a new dog home with me, a runt of a pit bull mix named Frances, and I was honestly very, very reluctant at first. Beans had long been set in his ways and he was showing signs of slowing down, but after hearing Frankie’s own heartbreaking story and seeing her for the first time, getting that same “oh yeah, you’re my dog” feeling again, I rolled the dice. Beans, I’m happy to say, never had a single violent incident with another dog, but a tiny puppy... in the apartment? In total, I was anxious for a grand total of about 2.3 seconds after walking through the doorway.

With big, open paws, Beans welcomed Frankie from the jump and I was proud of him like never before. We all went for a hike, tossed around the bucket of tennis balls at the park, and Beans showed Frankie all of the best butts to sniff in the neighborhood. He mentored her like a big brother - she would even lift a leg to pee at first - and they were “Franks and Beans” from there on out. He had a new energy and lease on life, and a partner in slime who could understand him even better than I could.

Fast forward some years through minor events such as courting and marrying the woman of my dreams, a gratifying new career, plans for children, homeownership, a whole bunch of other grown-up stuff, and Beans now lived in a place of his own with a yard and a tree, a four-legged buddy, and new couches he could flop on and around at will. Beans' smiley face grayed, his pace and energy slowed to a crawl, he grew some funny lumps, and eventually had to be carried up and down stairs, but generally he lived a dog’s life of warmth, comfort and nobility from his spot on the deck steps.

Beans was diagnosed with lymphoma just one month before his big 20th birthday and the writing on the wall was crystal clear. Assured by our vet that a round of medications and steroids would keep him comfortable, we went for it and got a few weeks of "Classic Beans" unexpectedly. He was jumping on and off couches again, eating like a savage, pulling the leash on walks... and then the other shoe fell. At 1:45 p.m. on a sunny February afternoon, surrounded by Franks, my wife and me in his cozy bed, Beans took his last breath and wished us farewell, knowing he was loved even more than he could possibly comprehend.

I’ll miss his awful bark. I’ll miss his rotten smelling kisses. I’ll miss his giant, jagged paws stepping on my bare feet. I’ll miss the bruises his huge head left all over my shins. I’ll miss his whip of a tail. I’ll miss his Dutch ovens and snots sneezed inches away from my face. I’ll miss the way his stupid little eyelashes looked in the sun. I’ll miss his wiggle-butt walk. I’ll miss his velvet ears. I’ll miss his looks of concern, compassion, excitement and adoration. I’ll miss him being little spoon. I’ll miss his brown face and especially his grey ghost face. I’ll miss ridiculously long walks, car rides, and going swimming anywhere from big puddles to blue oceans. I’ll even miss these big wet tears soaking the keyboard, because it’s truly difficult to be so sad when my overwhelming feelings are gratitude and pure joy after the magnificent honor of being with Beans for 18 wonderful years.

A job well done, my goofy, beautiful boy. You’ve earned your rest. 'Til we meet again where there are no vacuum cleaners, no leashes, no fences...