by Mandy McKenney, SUNY Cortland
Posted in on Sunday, Nov 25
A month ago, I called the cops. I didn’t know whom else to call. An animal roadside rescue association doesn’t exist in my suburban town. I was driving down Salt Springs Road, which I use so often that I could navigate it from pure memory, when I noticed a flustered Black Labrador sitting in the middle of the road. I stopped and parked haphazardly on the shoulder. Thunder clapped, lightning streaked across the sky and raindrops the sizes of quarters and nickels pelted my car as I approached the panicked animal. People in nearby houses peeked out of their front doors to explain that the owner was at work and that the dog always got frantic when it rained. Regardless of their assurance of the normalcy of the situation, I could not leave this dog unattended, sitting on the double solid yellow line, just below the crest of a hill cars sped down carelessly. Every time I see a lost animal, I wonder who it belongs to. When the policeman arrived, I felt foolish and didn’t want him to chastise me for summoning him to the aid of a dog. Instead, he looked me in the eye, and with the utmost appreciation said that he would have done the same thing and has on many occasions, because his beloved dog was recently struck by a car and killed.
When I was twelve years old, I went to a breeder’s home with my Dad and we examined six precious Boxer puppies. The litter had been born in late March, and the dogs were ready to go home with their new owners in early May. Dad insisted upon not picking the family dog himself, as he had independently bought and raised the dog of my infancy, Dr. J., a hellish animal. Dad was determined that our subsequent dogs would be well-mannered, well-trained, and hand-picked by our entire family. After watching the frolicking puppies, we eventually settled on Mickey. He wasn’t the runt or the dominant dog, but a normal, excited, playful puppy with an easy-going demeanor. His paws were noticeably white, as if he had stepped in fresh paint, and his mask was an assortment of blacks, browns and whites. His chubby chestnut body was velvety soft and the first time we met, I could fit him in the palm of my hand.
Regardless of our best efforts and constant consultation with the dog training manual, as a puppy Mickey developed bad habits, which continued to flourish into adulthood. He was always extremely curious about what lay beyond our tiny and narrowly fenced yard. If the front door was left open for a second too long, he dashed through it, with me on his heels, envisioning the worst case scenarios if I didn’t reach him in time: Dog Harmed in Accident. Dog Lost. Dog Dead. Sometimes my fears were justified, like the time I found him in the company of a nasty male Rottweiler, twice his size, who didn’t hesitate to show his fangs and leave a four-inch gash down Mickey’s stomach. Before Mickey got too far from home, we would have a standoff in the neighbor’s yard. He would be inches from my grasp, crouching low to the ground, and the moment I was about to catch him, he would throw me a lop-sided dog grin and take off running. Sometimes Dad took the car to search for him, to cover more ground, especially if he had been missing for hours. Other times, Dad left on foot, with Mickey’s black fraying leash tucked into his pants pocket. We’ll be home soon.
Mickey’s keen sense of curiosity fueled his hunger for adventure. He was notorious for accompanying Dad to his daily basketball practices at a local high school. Before long, every week contained a “bring your dog and kids to work day.” Dad tied Mickey up in one corner of the gym, but gave his leash enough slack to allow him to go back and forth between the gym and an open door which lead outside. My sister and I sat with Mickey and did our homework on one of the gymnastic mats. After ten minutes of patient boredom waiting for me to finish my work, Mickey eventually enticed me to play with him, his two inch long stubby tail shaking uncontrollably when I finally gave in. Sometimes, he even did a little hop to convey his enthusiasm. After bringing him outside to a field where he could run freely, I played fetch with him, watching him faithfully retrieve a tennis or soccer ball at top speed. Go get it! Good Boy! Who’s a good doggy? Bring it here. Despite the crisp cold air and the fading sun low on the horizon, Mickey was always eager to play more. Sometimes he got so excited after a particularly Herculean effort in distance and retrieval that he jumped on me, his paws resting near my shoulders, and we waltzed for a moment before he ran into the night after his tennis ball, but always returning to me.
Mickey’s desire for adventure didn’t affect how remarkably gentle he was. When Dad brought home enough homeless animals to start a zoo in our small house, he was incredibly paternal towards them. Our stray kitten, Tiger, was skittish and hid for hours in the decaying ceiling rafters, but when Mickey slept, she would emerge from hiding, curl up next to him and lick his face. When Rocky, our gold and turquoise Macaw parrot, chased Mickey around the backyard nipping at his heels, or when he drank from his water bowl or ate his dog food, Mickey wasn’t threatened. He welcomed the intimacy. Occasionally, they even shared barbequed dog bones. When Rocky got overzealous and took the treat for himself, Mickey watched him with his big almond eyes and passively stood down, without putting up a fight. He was more rough with the ancient television, which rested on the living room floor, a relic from Dad’s childhood, than he was with the other pets or people. When he heard an unfamiliar sound pulsating from the speakers, he comically scratched at it with his paw and cocked his head sideways, growling low as if to ward off sitcom predators.
Mickey is the dog of my youth. He was there from the end of my childhood, when I was too young to understand the necessity of housebreaking a pet. He was there for my entire adolescent years, waiting in the back of our old silver Camry, with his sticky cold nose pressed tight against the glass, as my dad picked me up on the night I had my first kiss. He was there at the beginning of my adulthood, and along with the rest of my family, he mourned my absence when they dropped me off at college.
When I was 18, and my step-mom came home with my newborn sister, Mickey’s enthusiasm was immediate. He anxiously sniffed her and licked whatever miniscule limb protruded from her ducky patterned blanket. Upon her arrival into our home, he gave up both of his previous nighttime posts, either sleeping horizontally across my parents’ bed, forcing them to curl into fetal positions in order to fit on the queen mattress, or sleeping vertically in my bed, laying between my boyfriend and me, a barrier to our young love. When Madison came home, he slept on the floor in her room, right in front of the crib, on a ratty pink rug. Where’s the dog? He’s in the baby’s room.
The night that Mickey disappeared, my step-mom and I were running late for a winter league women’s basketball game. If our team won, we would secure a spot in the play-offs. I realized that Mickey had gotten out. Still, at the last moment, after minutes of hesitation, I jumped in the car and went to my game, confident that my dad would locate the dog without my help. I had a nagging feeling in my gut though, brought on by the fact that a mere year before, we had moved into a new house. Mickey was still unfamiliar with his surroundings. To the west, were cruel city streets and to the east, a four lane highway roaring with traffic.
Two hours later, we returned from the gym, sweaty and tired, but the defeat of the game quickly evaporated from my mind when I realized that Mickey was still missing. Dad hadn’t found him after three hours of futile searching.
In recent months, attention to Mickey had seriously decreased. It was hard to appreciate our pet, when we were marveling at a brand new life. I wondered if he slipped out of the garage, because he just wanted some fresh air, or if he was running away from us for replacing him. I replayed the useless scoldings I had directed at him in the past months. Go on, you’re blocking the T.V. Go on, you’re hogging the bed. Go on, I want to see the baby. Bad Boy. I felt nauseated and a lump appeared in my throat, but I had to admit that I would punish him when he came home that night. My relief at recovering him would be mingled with rage, and I would spank him hard on the butt for torturing me for three long hours. Oh, Mr. you really did it this time, I would tell him, shaking my head, even though I knew that he never meant to scare me.
Mickey was hit by an S.U.V. on a side street less than a mile from my house. The driver put his broken body into her car and took him to the emergency vet office. I always wonder what her car smelled like after that. When I walked into the tiny clinic I saw him on a steel surgical table, unmoving, bloated and bloody and dead. The finality of his death struck me when he did not jump up off the table and greet me, and I wept. The doctors said there was nothing they could do because the internal damage was immensely severe. If it’s any consolation, I think he tried to fight. They probably tell that to everyone.
Two weeks later, we celebrated a quiet Christmas acknowledging Mickey’s absence but remembering him through his ashes, which sat on our fireplace mantle. His death certificate is in my old wooden desk at home on top of my most important papers: bank statements, college transcripts, diploma. I have a new boxer now, but I don’t love him as much.
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