The accidental dog: life, love, and loss

The story of sweet Denali spans some of the most dynamic years of my life.  Through my early twenties and half of my thirties, an eyebrow piercing, one semi-customized bird tattoo, three apartments, two houses, three or four relationships (depending how you count those), a marriage, and two children, she was there.

I wasn't supposed to even have a dog.  My apartment was strictly "no pets" and I was still a bit of a nomad at that point so I was fine with it.  I never had pets as a kid, and if anything I wanted a cat, not a dog.  Dogs are too much work.  I was checking the adoptable pet listings to find a puppy for my boyfriend's mother's birthday.  I saw her listing and headed down.  I didn't know anything about adopting animals but I knew my boyfriend's mother would give her a phenomenal home.  They had a nice large house, a yard, and a friendly older dog for companionship.  It said that she had lived with dogs, cats, and young children, and was already housebroken which, to me, made her a better gift than a regular puppy which would mean his mother would be up all hours of the night potty-training.

I didn't feel too much guilt as my then-boyfriend's friend posed as our landlord on the telephone, saying dogs were okay.  There was less than a week until her birthday and the dog wasn't actually staying with us past then.  I knew it was the only way to keep the surprise.

I think it took two days for me to fall in love with her.  And one more day to locate a free puppy from an accidental litter, one state over.  The day of the party, we drove up to choose a puppy from that litter for his mother, and I was left with a dog I wasn't even allowed to have.  It made sense to my heart and back then, I always followed my heart.

Fortunately, by the grace of the universe, because I don't know how I'd have made it this far without said grace, the real landlord was forgiving and let her stay.  I now had a dog.  I had a dog I didn't want or plan for, but a dog I loved and sorely needed.

She was half Alaskan Malamute and half Golden Retriever so I changed her name from the feline-sounding Sadie, to Denali.  She loved to run away.  She would make her way to the train tracks and then just keep following them for as long as she could run--which was far.  Eventually I convinced my boyfriend that she wasn't the sort of dog that you could keep off-leash.

Then we broke up.

My next significant other was 90 percent less hippy.  He tolerated Denali but you better believe I heard about how much harder everything was with a dog.  (Thank goodness he didn't want children!)  It was hard to find an apartment--very true.  It was hard to stay out late on Friday and Saturday nights because someone had to head home to the dog.  I was quite willing to always be sober and drive home for her, but it became a constant source of conflict.  He accused me of putting a dog before a person.  Dirty pool.  Instead of leaving, I stayed and sent my beloved Denali to spend the weekend with my mother.  It became a week.  Then two years.  Yes, the same mother that never wanted dogs or cats.  She fell in love with Denali, too.

Denali came back to me when I met my husband.  Oh, how I had missed her!  I found the same dog that would comfort me as I cried tears of anguish or youthful confusion was even more wonderful to have around when times were good.  She gave us all sorts of humorous stories including the time this sneaky pup ate two full batches of double-chocolate cookies.  We tried to induce vomiting with hydrogen peroxide but she seemed completely unaffected by either dose.  She seemed to like it, actually.  One huge emergency vet bill later and she was released as completely fine.  She never tried to steal another cookie, though.

We moved her into our tiny apartment and brought her to the house we bought.  She loved to go hiking.  I still remember having her up to camp one weekend and watching her chase the sparks from the campfire.  She never got tired.

She was there for our first two children.  Our oldest son loved her so much that she was the theme of his first birthday party.  No, really.  Here is the cake my husband made for him:

They were great friends.

Shortly after our second child arrived, it became clear that Denali was failing.  She seemed to be having trouble seeing, she didn't want to do much more than sleep, and she wanted to be left alone most of the time.  She had accidents in the house and her whole personality was shifting.  Endless hours of research brought us to something akin to canine dementia.

Denali's timeline was drawing shorter.  I was going to have to make some heart-wrenching decisions.  The dog I was never supposed to have was going to leave us, leave me, and his time it was forever.

I knew what I was going to have to do, but first, I spoke to friends and family who had been through this sort of thing before.  The only question I still had was: How do you know when it is time?  And it turned out to be the only question no one could answer.  She was still eating and drinking.   I was unsure if she was in pain.  If she was, it wasn't obvious to me.  She had snapped at people.  What if she bit someone?  She didn't seem happy anymore but she was still functioning.  I was so confused.  I couldn't sleep.  I called the veterinarian's office.  I asked them the same question.  They told me, with the gentle certainty of experience: if you are calling us, then you know it is time.

Her last day was filled with soft treats, hamburgers, cheese, basically whatever she wanted.  She was so excited that my heart broke yet again.  It was one of her good days.  The days that make you doubt your decision.  Why hadn't we made all of her days this good?  In retrospect, I'm glad her last day was so good for her, but it didn't make it easy for me.

She rode all the way to the vet on my lap.  The biggest dogs always think they can fit in the smallest places.  I was pretty sure she knew.  We said goodbye, my husband, my mother, and I.  It was peaceful for her and she had almost all of her favorite people with her.  We stroked her fur and told her what a good girl she was, how she was the best dog in the whole world.  She really was.

My oldest son asked for her for weeks.  Nothing I could do would prevent the tears that would immediately well up in my eyes and nothing I said made any sense to him.  She simply disappeared from his life.

Time has softened the sting of it.  We have three children now and our oldest doesn't ask about her anymore.  We keep her old collar on top of the fridge.  Sometimes I pick it up and turn it over and over in my hands.  When I think of her now it is with fondness and seldom tears.  But I'll be forever grateful for my accidental dog.

True love is head lice, and other realizations

I spent last night on the couch, waking every forty minutes or so to again try not to scratch my head and neck.  You're just imagining it, I would tell myself.  Then I would flip over, readjust my pillow and blanket, pretend I wasn't too cold to sleep, and try not to think about the possibility that right then, dozens of head lice were feeding and breeding on my defenseless scalp.

I'd been itchy for a week or so.  I noticed it most during shifts at work when I was running around a lot busy and a little sweaty.  Well, it is hard work.  Must be some major winter dryness, I remember thinking.  Once, I checked my six-year-old's head to see if *I* might have lice.  Nah, he was clean so I was, too.  Everyone knows that if your household gets hit by lice, it was brought home by the kid who is in school.  

Yesterday morning I woke without an alarm clock for the first time in forever.  I was supposed to be relaxing, and I had big plans to paint and meditate and read and NAP, but I couldn't shake a horrible feeling that something bad was going to happen.  I was filled with dread.  I told my lapsed-Catholic Irish-Italian husband about my premonition which only stirred up his superstitious side.  I considered telling him he couldn't take the kids with him to visit family but the worry began to wane, and off they all went. 

After they left, I decided to take a shower.  I shampooed my (presumably winter-dry) hair and then looked down.  What is that?!!  I washed it again.  Two, three...is that a fourth?  I squinted at the dark spots on my hands.  I turned off the shower and dried my hands.  I pulled up the internet and did a search: "Bugs in hair not lice?" It brought me pictures of head lice.  No matter how I worded my desperate pleas of denial, the universe sighed, heavily, and fed me the truth in photo form.  

[expletive deleted]  Dude, you have head lice.

Dude.

My husband and kids were off visiting his family and this was supposed to be a relaxing morning to myself before work which rapidly deteriorated into mild queasiness, a mental tally of all the laundry we would need to wash, and a warning call to my MIL when I couldn't get ahold of the spouse, who was still on a long bike ride.  I followed him on Garmin LiveTrack and cursed him when he didn't stop to call me back.

I called out of work and rushed to the drug store.  When the cashier asked how I was, I told her I'd been better.  Then she looked down at my items--two generic lice solution kits and a fancy package of combs and magnifying glass with a light.  Truthfully, I had no idea what I needed, I just felt better buying something.  She nodded in commiseration.  "I've been there," she said, "I had little kids, too."

To that point, I assumed the whole family was likewise infested and that we were going to have a battle when they returned.  Fortunately, I was wrong.  Everyone had a good wash with the kit to be safe, but it appeared that in my home I was Patient Zero, which makes sense because I've always been lucky.

I tossed and turned all night on the couch, then decided I must have those super lice I've heard about.  Working in a medical facility, you better believe anything you catch there is going to be hardy.  Pure luck.

Embarrassed (but not too embarrassed to admit it now), I had my husband call urgent care and ask if it was possible for me to be seen--or, better, just to have pity and write me a prescription for the demons on my scalp.  Yeah, I went in.

They assigned me the coolest nurse with the most beautiful, long and free-flowing gray hair.  This seemed like a mistake.  It would take hours to comb out all of her hair with that little plastic lice comb.  And these were lice on steroids!  Undeterred, she assured me that 1. she had previously been deloused on an international medical aid trip to Africa and 2. I wouldn't have to shave my head.

I returned home with my prescriptions (one was a mercy filling of an anti-itch med that also helps you sleep), a little bit of hope, and a note for missing work which always makes me feel like a little kid.

After showering with the new stuff, I sat on the edge of the tub while my husband spend the next hour trying to snip out anything even faintly resembling an egg.  I felt great love for him as he meticulously searched my entire head.  I reminded him that he was only supposed to sip the single strand of hair that had the egg on it.  "Hmm...oops," he muttered to himself.  I sat, helplessly, as he cut thick sections out of my hair.  I said nothing as he repeated this ruthless but well-intentioned butchering side-to-side and front-to-back and then around again for good measure.  I'm still not sure what it looks like, because I thanked him, with genuine gratitude, and then headed downstairs without looking in the mirror.

I might just skip the mirror for a while.