I Am Not a Dog Person

“Dolly” (aka “Casey”)

When Sammy was four, she announced she wanted a dog. At the time, my wife and I were fully occupied keeping her and her newborn sister alive, so the idea of adding a pet to the mix was overwhelming. But Sammy was persistent and in a moment of desperation, it was said we would get a dog when she was older.

“How much older?” she asked.

“When you’re ten,” we replied.

We assumed Sammy would have moved on from the whole dog thing by then. She did not, however, and instead, Sammy would tell friends, relatives, and the occasional Amazon delivery person that she was getting a dog when she turned ten. As she approached her tenth birthday in November of 2019, she reminded us of our promise.

That fall was a particularly busy time: we made a pilgrimage to Disney World for Thanksgiving and returned to find ourselves well into the holiday rush. Perhaps the new year would bring a change of pace, we thought. Perhaps we’d be able to spend more time at home as opposed to rushing about. Perhaps then we could get Sammy a pet dog.

To be clear, we were not explicitly wishing for a global pandemic, but for better or worse, COVID eliminated all remaining excuses preventing us from acquiring a dog. And so we donned our masks and made a fateful trip to the Humane Society. 

We came home with Paco.

It was our sincere hope that this chihuahua/rat terrier mix would provide the companionship my kids were craving during those difficult early months of social isolation and remote learning. I had visions of my children playing for hours with Paco in the backyard. They’d go on adventures with their faithful canine companion who would run for help should the occasion arise.

“What’s that, Paco?” I’d ask as he tugged at the leg of my sweatpants. “Sammy’s fallen down a well and needs help? Quick, run get Doc Weaver... I’m about to jump on a Zoom call.” 

As it happened, Paco was not the dog we hoped he would be. For starters, he behaved very much like a cat in that most of his waking hours were dedicated to sleeping. He showed little interest in the balls and sticks our girls entreated him to fetch. On the rare occasion when a stranger came to our door, Paco would look up from the sofa, see the threatening form of a masked figure, and then lay back down to resume his midday slumber. This was in stark contrast to his response whenever I walked into the kitchen. As soon as I opened the refrigerator, Paco would snap into action like a coiled spring. His little claws would scratch across the surface of the hardwood floor as his desire to acquire food overwhelmed his ability to gain traction. 

For the record, I never fed Paco from the fridge. I didn’t want him to learn that “people food” was even a possibility for him. My mistake was assuming Paco had the intellectual capacity to learn. 

As a parent, I tell my children to never describe someone or something as “stupid.” It is insulting at best and ableist at worst. That being said, Paco is a stupid animal. This is not an insult, but an objective fact. All definitions of the word apply; he is slow of mind, he is given to unintelligent decisions or acts, and he is vexatious and exasperating. A case in point: Paco is baffled every time he encounters the doggie door I installed for him. He will stand an inch behind you despite being stepped on whenever he does this. He growls at dogs three times his size. He eats his own poop. He is, in a word, stupid.

There was a time I thought I wasn’t a dog person because I never had a dog as a pet. But now that Paco is in my life, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, not a dog person. I am annoyed every time I open the fridge and see this rodent-like creature looking up at me with quivering, vacuous eyes. I feel contempt whenever this dolt of a dog stands whining in front of his doggie door, unable to comprehend the complex mechanism he used only hours before. I am disgusted when this foul beast sniffs at—and then ravenously consumes—his own excrement.

All I can say is I’m grateful I had kids before I had a dog. My behavior concerning Paco would have indicated to me - or anyone else for that matter - that I had no business taking care of another living thing. I would like to believe I treat my children with both patience and grace, but those are two courtesies I cannot bring myself to extend to Paco.

I’m not proud of any of this. I know I should treat this innocent (but objectively stupid) dog better than I do. In fact, I have a reoccurring dream where I have died and arrive at the Pearly Gates of Heaven. But instead of finding Saint Peter there, I see Paco. He does not look up at me with quivering, vapid eyes, but instead looks down at me with a wry, knowing smile.

“Hello,” he says menacingly. “Remember me?”

* * *

As the Pandemic dragged on and as our parenting standards eroded, my wife and I began taking evening walks together. We would leave one of our mobile phones with the girls in tacit acknowledgment that it would provide significantly more protection in an emergency than Paco (who, as I already mentioned, is both ineffectual and stupid). On these short, twenty-minute walks around the neighborhood, we would vent about the frustrations of that day and make plans for how best to deal with the ones on the horizon. These walks became a lasting artifact of the Pandemic that has stayed with us along with Paco (our startingly stupid canine companion). 

We were on one of these walks when I spotted the form of a large dog in our neighbor’s yard. In the dark, I mistook it for his sometimes aggressive hunting dog, but upon closer inspection, we realized this dog was more skeletal than it was menacing. It appeared injured and it limped toward us as if it had been hit by a car. We let it follow us into our backyard where, in the light of our back porch, its ribs were clearly visible. It seemed unable to sit or lie down. Several mammalian tumors revealed “it” to be a “she.” 

Although she wore an old collar, it had no identifying tags. The collar implied she had once had an owner, but her appearance led us to believe she had been on her own for some time. Given the late hour, we decided the best we could do is provide her with food and water and a safe place to stay overnight. 

Dolly as she first appeared.

That evening we reached out to several people about our best course of action. I emailed the Humane Society and received an automated response saying they had a month-long waiting list. I was warned against turning her over to Animal Control Services because, given her age and condition, it was likely she would be euthanased. 

Of course, my girls wanted to keep this dog that had unexpectedly wandered into our lives. I reminded them that we already had a dog that (while admittedly stupid) they routinely ignored. This logic made no difference to them as they were already emotionally invested. This worried me because I was afraid that this poor dog wouldn't survive the night.

But she did.

In the morning I made several phone calls to area veterinarians and found one with an available appointment. I canceled my afternoon meetings, came home early, lifted the dog's emaciated frame into the backseat of my car, and drove her to the vet.

Sitting alone with this animal made me appreciate how docile she was. She would slowly pace around the exam room and nuzzle my leg whenever she passed by. She gave no protest when the vet took her temperature or administered her rabies shot. Although I was reassured she was in no immediate danger or physical pain, I was also unsure of how to move forward. No microchip was detected, eliminating our last real hope of identifying an owner. 

That evening my kids discussed possible names for the new dog, eventually choosing "Dolly." It appeared I was now living in a two-dog family.

We purchased a bed for Dolly along with food formulated for "mature" canines. We introduced Dolly to Paco who, to his credit, handled the situation well (especially for such a stupid dog). After the requisite sniffing of butts and a half-hearted attempt by Paco to mount the larger, elderly dog, they seemed to accept one another’s presence.

Over the next few days, Dolly's condition noticeably improved. Her frame filled out such that her ribs could no longer be counted. Her hind legs remained weak, but even so, she would still come to me whenever I ventured into the backyard. Whether because of compromised vision or poor coordination, she would greet me by bumping into my leg in a way that was somehow both awkward and gentle.

Following the the advice we had aggregated, we decided to register Dolly with Animal Control Services while volunteering to foster her. One requirement of that process was to upload a photo of Dolly. The only one I had available was the rather pitiful snapshot I had taken at the veterinarian's office the day after we found her (see above). This image was uploaded to the Animal Control Services website, which is where it was seen by Dolly's owners.

They lived just a few streets away. A gate had been unintentionally left open and their beloved thirteen-year-old dog, “Casey,” had wandered out. Not one to leave the protected confines of her owner’s yard, it seems she had become confused and was unable to find her way home. Signs were posted on telephone poles, but as two weeks turned into three, her owners became increasingly worried that their beloved Casey was gone forever. 

I received an email from Animal Control Services informing me that a possible owner of Dolly had come forward. A phone call was made and a reunion was arranged. Our daughter wanted to be there to make sure Dolly's Owners were "good people," and they quickly revealed themselves to be just that. I helped lift Dolly’s now-heavier frame into the back of their pickup truck where she immediately made herself comfortable inside her familiar travel crate. 

Dolly was Casey, and she was home. And just as quickly as she had come into our lives, she was gone.

In the week that followed, the physical artifacts left behind by Dolly faded quickly. The golden hair she shed on our porch blew away. The impressive piles of poop she left in our backyard decomposed or else have been eaten by Paco (the stupid dog still in our possession). The girls miss Dolly, of course, but in the rush of youth, their minds have been redirected to track meets and softball practices. Years from now their memory may blur to little more than a fleeting impression of the kind and gentle dog that once stumbled into our lives, but I will always remember Dolly.

* * *

In case you’re wondering, I’m still not a dog person. I still have that same reoccurring dream where I die and Paco looms above me in judgment. He still asks if I remember him, but now, before I can answer, the Pearly Gates behind him swing open. Dolly lumbers through them as small whisks of clouds billow out from under her paws. She awkwardly bumps into Paco, causing him to drop the poop he was intending to snack on later. 

“I’ll vouch for this one,” Dolly says. “He might not be a good dog person, but he’s a person who tried to be good.”