Skip to main content

My Dog Salvy

 My dog had a challenging summer. He developed a mysterious cough; we thought it was Kennel Cough. In fact, it was not.


It was heartening to learn that we'd steered clear of Kennel Cough--but once the words are in the air, they leave a certain "odor." It's like if you're indicted for murder, and then you're found "not guilty"? You still carry certain words with you, for the rest of your life. "Indicted for murder." (Also, it's like the child on the playground who says, "Don't worry! I don't have pinkeye!" A certain kind of silence fills the space....)

Distressed by the cough, and perhaps coping with early signs of old age, Salvy began to pee in my basement. The basement was there; it was earthy; it had fun new smells, because of a renovation. He couldn't resist.

Additionally, Salvy's best friend, Shep, departed for a year abroad, in Madrid. We haven't found a suitable replacement.

My husband is more astute about Salvy's needs; he arranges for Salvy to have social time at a local hangout, "Preferred Pet Care." I myself have come to loathe PPC, because of the officious young gay man who works at the front desk. If you ask him to schedule a bath for your dog, he just snorts, as if you've requested a rare gemstone, or one of the sculpted heads from Easter Island. "We have quite a few dogs right now," he says, "and I simply can't answer your question. I'll see what I can do." (In the evening, at pickup, Salvy never, never shows evidence of a recent bath.)

Still, Salvy himself is happy at PPC. I know--on some level, I know--that this is what counts.

The basement is slightly cleaner than it was one month ago. The cough--not a cold, not a sign of "tracheal implosion"--was just a response to allergens. It is gone.

Salvy is still looking for a friend; he gets impatient, on his own, in the backyard, and he starts to whine. I'm hopeful that we may hear from Shep in this new year.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more