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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.
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