“Someway, baby, it’s part of me, apart from me” You’re laying waste to Halloween You fucked it friend, it’s on its head, it struck the street You’re in Milwaukee, off your feet
And at once, I knew I was not magnificent Strayed above the highway aisle Jagged vacance, thick with ice But I could see for miles, miles, miles
3rd and Lake, it burnt away, the hallway Was where we learned to celebrate Automatic bought the years you’d talk for me That night you played me Lip Parade Not the needle, nor the thread, the lost decree Saying nothing, that’s enough for me
And at once, I knew I was not magnificent Hulled far from the highway aisle Jagged vacance, thick with ice But I could see for miles, miles, miles
Christmas night, it clutched the light, the hallow bright Above my brother, I and tangled spines We smoked the screen to make it what it was to be Now to know it in my memory
And at once, I knew I was not magnificent High above the highway aisle Jagged vacance, thick with ice But I could see for miles, miles, miles
That’s what it sounds like when J.D. enters a room.
It doesn’t matter the door: dog door; bedroom door; patio doors.
You see, my dog has ginormous feet.
And one day, those Paul Bunions are going to shatter the patio doors as if they were peanut brittle as she bounds in and out. I know it. Like Godzilla stomping through downtown Toyville.
And, secretly, I’ll be okay with it — assuming she doesn’t decapitate herself on exit/entry.
Because I want her to be a horse dog. Hell, if she gets big enough, I’ll get her a saddle-shaped dog vest (patent pending). And I don’t know how J.D. feels about it, but I love when people comment on her huge honkin’ thumpers.
And everyone comments. If they were breasts, I’d sue. Or become her agent.
Last week, she finished her vaccinations and could visit dog park for the first time.
“I love those feet!” one human said.
“She’s gonna be huge!” said another.
“Good luck with that,” joked a man who said it too knowingly for my taste.
And this weekend, a friend met her for the first time.
“Those are cub feet!” he proclaimed, adding that I “may have gotten the Great Dane” I was once considering.
Indeed. And, one day soon, I hope those cub feet reach my shoulders, because I’m guessing she’s a helluva dancer.
I’ve been around dogs all my life, but something about J.D. feels like my first dog.
Perhaps it’s that I’m retired, and raising a pup feels more like parenting — helicopter parenting — than with previous kids. Perhaps it’s the pandemic, and sequestered life has taken on new meaning. Perhaps it’s J.D. herself; what dog is not a unique blend of energy and stardust?
Regardless, I feel like I’ve come to a new awareness of bringing a youngling into the world. Namely, this realization:
Babies are assholes.
There’s no getting around it. They’re self-centered, awful listeners, and good luck trying to get them to mow the lawn, ‘cuz their rows are crooked as hell. Overall, they’re pretty useless.
And yet, it’s that very uselessness that makes their upbringing such a profound experience. Once, when Esme was a puppy and I was renting a home with a pool, I heard a splash in the backyard. She had fallen in.
I dashed to the backyard, where I found her, paddling at the deep end, unable to get her tiny paws hooked on the ledge. As I scooped to get her, we briefly made eye contact, and I knew: If I don’t get her out, she drowns. We both knew it.
I scooped her, of course, and she immediately tempted fate by returning to water’s edge. But the moment — and her look during it — is cemented in my brain pan.
I think of that moment often with J.D., because she is always seemingly dog paddling. Chewing rocks that are choking hazards. Leaping from heights she has no right scaling. Looking for a flash of daylight to sprint through, over or under my fence and into a threatening world. Her pool remains too deep; it just lacks water.
When I look back on other pooches, I think: You were a terrible parent. For years, I kept my hounds in spacious crates, filled with toys and water and snacks and everything vets and friends recommended. I’d come home from work for lunch, let them out, repeat at dinner.
That’s not parenting.
J.D. has the same amenities in her crate (I could probably rent it out in this housing crunch), but I am hardly the absentee landlord I once was. Now I use the crate sparingly; usually when I need a moment to bathe and not worry that she’s dropping my electric razor into the sink and turning on the hot water, which she did last week.
In a week, she’ll get her final round of immunization shots and she’ll be free to romp at the park. I can’t wait to see how she reacts to other dogs. She hasn’t seen one since she left the litter.
She’s not going to know what to do with all the open air. She has a wonderful backyard, where we spend hours and hours (along with this minute). But she has sprinted to every corner of my postage stamp; it’s time to gallop!
Just don’t run too far, please. I’m not ready to give up the chopper.
