“We’d love to bring him down to visit you, but we need him more comfortable with traveling in the car first,” I say, sincerely this time, patting Xylo on the head as I speak. I had to pull him into to range of the laptop’s camera so he could fit in the shot of the video chat.
“Will he lay down?” Asks the couple.
“Oh, no,” I say, “he might miss something if he does that. He paces around back of the car, slobbering on my windows, farting like someone ruptured a septic tank.”
There was no response to that comment.
“It’s, uh, it’s a bad traveling experience. Mostly for us. He just wigs out. But I’m fine with that. I mean, I can’t stop him from doing it, and eventually, when he realizes he’s not getting out and he’s not going to die, he’ll calm either from learning or exhaustion.”
“Oh the poor thing,” they say. “The poor, poor, puppy.” Xylo is not even looking at the camera, he’s just taking up space like he usually does. “Have you thought of getting a new car, with more space in it?”
“Oh, that’s not going to happen,” I say, instantly. This firm and immediate stance on the subject gets a face scrunching, head jerking reaction for them pair like I just said that I’d rather be addicted to crack than feed my child.
This was Xylo’s first encounter with his godparents from across the country. They were hardcore doggers who forsook children for the joy of dog ownership. They had all manner doggie kitch around the house to prove their long time affiliation with the party. They were former boarder collie owners, one of the smartest and most obnoxious breeds on earth. All over their place you’d find boarder collie calendars, figurines, books, stencils, stickers and refrigerator magnets. Even embroidered hand towels.
I use to joke with them that they made the better choice going dog over child, because, if you have a kid and you don’t like it, you’re stuck with it for at least 18 years. Have dog you don’t like, you can just have him put down. Unfortunately, since the dog really was like a child to them, instead of my put the dog down line being funny, they found it rather horrifying.
It was mostly the wife. She was really the head of the dog operation. She stayed home to supply the dog with it’s every wish while hubby went off to work to make the big bucks required to procure doggie delicacies like special dog birthday cakes and ice creams bought at fair trade, organic, local shops that made Whole Foods look like Wendy’s.
The dog died a little while ago, but it lived like a princess until it went to the big, leash-less park in the sky. Towards the end, though, things got really crazy. The mom would buy human meals for the dog, blend them up, mix in organic rice and medication, then lay down next to the food bowl and hand feed the dog in a manner most folks wouldn’t do for nursing home occupants. She’d chant out little sayings, almost like the dog version of, “here comes the num-num train into the tunnel… good girl.” It was both sad and weird.
The dog was in bad shape. Not crap and pee all over itself when you called its name bad, but close. I figured when it got that bad, they would chew it’s food up themselves and regurgitate it into the mouth of dog if they had to, since, whenever the topic of having the dog put to sleep came up, it was like talking about pushing the red button that launched all the nukes.
I can understand how people get attached to an animal, but I think part of owning one is knowing the point at which you have to let go. Whenever I think of this, I remember this man from England who said that they have universal health care over there, but when folks get old and there is not a lot of upside on giving them a major surgery, the older folks accept their fate and don’t fight the inevitable. They die with dignity said the man. I dunno, maybe he was full of shit, but that’s what he said. I figured it was a good way to parent a dog: let them die with dignity.
I always blamed this prolonging of the inevitable on the mother since she was a super activist dog rights warrior. She’d stop her car in the middle of traffic to chase down a stray, even if she got flattened by an 18 wheeler in the process. She’d be out there dodging cars and calling to the dog in all sorts of weird whistles and woofs.
I was surprised to find out it was actually the husband’s decision to prolong to life of their dog. He always seemed like a hard-lining, by the book type that would say a crisp, even handed goodbye while the misses blubberd in the background, pushing snot across her face as she heaved in emotional agony at both the loss and injustice of it all. But no, he had a soft spot for the dog, so months went by during which grown adults laid on kitchen floors hand feeding an elderly pooch.
“Well,” says the wife of the couple, “you could get him a dog car seat harness.” Her eybrows went up as if to convey Eureka! I dismissed the idea as soon as I heard it, but she kept talking anyway, probably because Xylo had given her the dog owner itch once again, rekindling a motherly instinct inside. “We used one to keep our dog Rosie secure when we drove. She didn’t like it at first, but after about 50 or 60 trips in the care she was fine.”
“50 or 60?” I choke.
“Yes, well, you know, it takes some time for them to get used to it.”
“50 or 60! Uh, but, by that time, he’d probably be used to the car without a harness.”
“Maybe. But what if you’re in an accident.”
“How bad of an accident are we talking?”
“Oh, bad.” She says, shaking her head remorsefully.
“If it’s that bad, then I’m more worried about me,” I say.
“You should really belt him in. You have to start thinking about other lives before your own now that you’re a parent,” She says.
Okay,” I say, “It’s a zombie apocalypse scenario.” I bring up this scenario a lot, FYI. “Me, my wife, and the dog are running from a blood thirsty hoard of Zombies. One of us has to be left behind—it’s going to be the dog. Sucks, but that’s how it’s gonna be in this house.” I pat Xylo on the head again and smile at him. “How about you?”
“I’d rather we all die,” says the lady.
“Well, then, on the bright side you’ll all be undead together.” Then I thought of how many people I knew that had dogs seat belted to in their cars. Zero. Well, one counting this pair. “How about I just drive safely and we call it even?”
“Do you think your dog loves you enough to belt you in?” She asks.
I looked at a disconnected, oblivious Xylo. “No,” I say, “No I don’t think he does.”
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