Why Do I Get the Crazy Dogs?

I'm starting to think it's me.

Argus was afraid of lightning. Thunder. Fireworks. The vacuum cleaner. All fairly normal for a dog. But he also disliked rain, snow, chirping smoke detectors and the occasional Chihuahua.

Kairos is taking it a leap forward, turning almost overnight into Crazy McTwitchypants. He seems to have hit some weird fear stage--which typically occurs around eight weeks (he's now one year plus)--and the list of things he's afraid of grows almost daily.

First it was men. Not Thomas, but pretty much every other man he came across, even those we had welcomed into our home and introduced to him as friends. Like Scott, for instance. He stayed overnight and every time he managed to leave and return to Kairos' line of sight, he was greeted with renewed barking and growling.

The first time I noticed Kairos being fearful around men was at the dog park. I was sitting at the picnic table when some random guy came up and sat down. Kairos ran over, pressed himself against my leg and started barking. At the time I thought, "Oh! How sweet. He's protecting me." But no. He growls at the man who comes to school to pick up his son. He shies away from men on the street, and those hanging out in their own yards. He doesn't lunge or jump at them; he would just prefer that they take themselves elsewhere.

And then there's the shrub. The same shrub he's seen every day since he was six weeks old. It's in our front yard and he has to pass it every time he goes out to pee, to get Hannah from school, or just to go on a walk. Same shrub, but now he tries to run out into the street to avoid it. I thought, "Well, is it touching him? I wouldn't like branches in my hair, so maybe that's the problem." I trimmed the shrub. No luck. He still doesn't like it.

Kairos also won't go outside by himself. Not even for a romp around the back yard. We put him out; he hops up on a chair and barks at the window until someone opens the door again. And now he won't cross the playroom to get to that back door. He won't even cross the threshold into the playroom.

But hey, I’d rather have him freaking out about the shrubbery and demanding to be carried across the playroom to the back door than have him poop out socks, headbands and other random bits of fabric twice a day.*

Good thing he’s really cute--and sweet. I guess he’s growing on me.

* I’m assuming you’ve already heard enough about that particular quirk!

Moving On

I found Argus' collar this weekend. I was cleaning the plant room and didn't see it right away. I should have because it's red. And yes, it has lots of shiny tags on it. Yes, it jingled when I picked it up. Yes, that sound made me weep.

It seems ridiculous to me that I obviously haven't moved past this. I don't cry about my mother, and haven't since she died. But someone on the outer reaches of our neighborhood has a Great Dane. She was walking him down the street. I was cooking dinner. I heard that bark and my first thought was, "Oh no! I left the dog outside!" In the same moment I realized that it couldn't possibly be Argus, I snapped off the stove, threw down the potholder and dashed out the door.

She must have thought me a little crazy, running barefoot across the street as I did. Trying to hide the tears as I touched my forehead to his; as I dug my hands into his fur--that spot right behind the ear that always worked for Argus, and probably every other dog. She and I talked a bit. The dog was a rescue she'd had for a year. He was taller than Argus and a Blue. Sweet, with the classic Great Dane temperament. His eyes were green, which I wasn't expecting, and from his lines and the way he carried himself, I would guess he was a purebred.

But I found myself, well, finding fault. He wasn't as handsome as Argus. He was too tall. He was too thin. His eyes were too close together.

The truth is, he wasn't Argus.

More than a month passed and there I was. Sitting in a flowered chair surrounded by rescued poinsettias, overgrown aloe, scraggly ivy, the Christmas cactus that always blooms at Easter and Thanksgiving and a few other plants whose names I forget. Staring at the collar in my hand, the doggy smell slightly sour and faded. Turning the tags through my fingers, noticing that we never updated his address from Campbell to Redwood City. Wondering if I’d had his lo-jak deactivated. Wondering why this silly dog can still turn me into a puddle of tears.

We’re going to pick up our new puppy on Saturday, a Golden Doodle. Thomas didn’t think another Great Dane was a good idea since they’re not really what you’d call “portable.” The girls are really excited and have made a Puppy Countdown calendar. Thomas has already re-read all of the puppy books—there’s so much you forget in eight years. Me? I’m still crying over Argus and wondering how in the world I’m ever going to love another dog that much.

I know I will. I’m just not convinced that this is the right time. Which is completely beside the point because 1) I’m outnumbered, and 2) they’re pretty darn cute puppies.

The Homecoming

It's late, though not as late as it seems. We're finally home, the girls are in bed, the bags semi-unpacked, and here I sit, wondering if I am shaking because we've spent a long day in the car and I haven't eaten much since breakfast, or whether it's because my dog is dead and every tuft of hair that blows across the floor reminds me that we're not bringing him home tomorrow.

Hannah was of course terribly upset when we told her (I think one of the harder things Thomas has had to do), but now tells me not to be sad because "we can just get you another dog." She even suggests another Great Dane, the same color, "we'll even call him Argus!" But would just any other Great Dane be able to waggle his eyebrows at you, like Andy Rooney trying to tell a joke that might have been considered off-color 50 years ago? And would that eyebrow trick be as perfectly timed to the wagging of his tail (the dog's, not Andy's)?

I have hundreds of photos of Argus, but not one of them quite captures the expressions that were his alone, from the aforementioned eyebrows, to the guilty look when we caught him eating from the counter, to the apologetic when I pulled out the credit card to pay the vet for stomach pumping or induced vomiting to remove the foil or plastic that had been wrapped around whatever it was that he ate from the counter, or to pay for the multiple casts for his puppy-toes. (He also didn't mind my run-on, uber-tangential sentences, either. That or he never quite mastered the eye-roll.)

Because I still don’t quite believe he’s gone, I don’t know what I’ll miss the most. There was the way he hugged you, tucking your head under his chin and then shaking his head—always so much more gently with the girls. Or the way he used to put his face up to mine until our foreheads touched. Or that he knew that sometimes he could get away with sleeping on the bed when Thomas was traveling. The way he played soccer and Frisbee-block with Charlotte. Or how patient he always was with Hannah, letting her dress him in hats and tutus. That it would never occur to him to eat the chickens wandering around his backyard. Or that, after all this time, he would still bark at Thomas’s car because, no matter what anyone said, Argus was my dog (with the exception of the two months after Hannah was born when he wouldn’t even look at me). Or maybe just the peaceful, comfortable sound of him snoring on his bed in the corner.

And, of course there is also how ridiculously safe I felt with a dog who hated the rain, was terrified of thunderstorms, fireworks, the vacuum cleaner and chirping smoke detectors, and who couldn’t bear to be outside by himself for very long.

We’re home but to an emptier, colder, far less dog-y house. But, as Thomas reminds me, we’ll have at least another year with the dog hair.

So goodbye again, Puppy My Love. Thanks for teaching me how to love a dog and that a dog's love is unconditional. I wish you hadn't had to go. I wish we had been here when you did.

Goodbye, Puppy Love

Argus Kriese 5 July 2000-10 August 2008

Happy Birthday, Argus!

Argus turned eight on July 5. Isn't he handsome?