Permanent. That’s the word that stands out. Or was it permanently? I don’t know exactly what words preceded it, surrender, give her up to Paws. Then the woman on the phone said something like bring any toys or blankets or anything to make her feel comfortable. I don’t correct the woman on the phone about his gender. I stammer about having a crate, “he’s crate trained,” I say (I’m trying to highlight his selling points), “but I don’t use it. I won’t need a crate anymore.”
I haven’t been able to focus much since the phone call. I’ll drop my dog off this Friday at noon. Permanently.
I consider calling back. There’s been a mistake. I’m gonna keep him. I’ll figure out a way to make it work. I imagine them telling me that he’s not adjusting well, and I take him back. I imagine learning in a few months that he still hasn’t been adopted, and I drive back and take him back. I rescued him once. Maybe I’ll end up doing it again. He’s a good dog.
I’ve felt this way before. This lost sadness.
I try to think about my Thursday night routine of going to a bar with a friend before – this week it’ll be before I have to give him up. I already don’t want to go. I don’t want to be around anyone. I’d like to disappear. I look at his toys, his blanket and bed, the things that make him comfortable. I don’t want to go to work tomorrow. I don’t want to go to work ever again. Not like this. Not feeling this way.
After lunch, I start to make a grocery list. I won’t need dog food. I go through the cabinets trying to think about what staples I need. I start throwing things away. Corn meal that I haven’t used in years. If I have to get rid of the dog because I’m moving, I should get rid of the fucking corn meal too. Why do I have all of this shit in my life? I don’t want to take anything with me. I can’t imagine any of it bringing me comfort.
On twitter, a writer shares, “the loss in any leaving means you loved.” I start to think maybe I need to love fewer things. Why is it so hard for me to walk away? I think it’s his innocence. He doesn’t deserve this.
This might also be about me and the times I didn’t deserve it.
I know there are other ways to look at life. I know I could be grateful for the time we’ve had. “We” could be anyone, everyone – not just the dog.
I stand at the sink and tell myself my story. I’ve had to put two cats down. I held one of my cats as she died from who knows what. I gave up a dog because he wasn’t socialized and is dog selective and I don’t think I can manage him where I’m going. I think about how tight city sidewalks are and how hard he can be to control when he see other dogs.
But what if I could?
I imagine what the drive to Bucks County will be like on Friday – after I drop the dog off. Permanently. Will I listen to sad songs? Cry on and off during the several-hour trip? I’m going to Bucks for a blues show and then to spend a few days at the shore with my brother’s family. This trip is what prompted the decision on the dog. I might as well do it now… I expect to be moving in August. I might as well do it now.
It’s Sunday. I should vacuum but think I should wait until I get back from my mini trip. Wait until the dog is gone. I don’t want to, but my mind pictures coming in the door and not being greeted by the dog. Nearly every day for two and a half years he’s been happy to see me. Permanently.
I’m scattered. I return to the cabinets. I throw away the open bag of trail mix. I throw away the open jar of sunflower seeds.
I try to write my daily fifty-two. I don’t want to draw connections between the gray sky and this… I think I should just write “I got nothing” over and over again. Which isn’t true. I have too much to say and feel and think to observe much of anything. I got sadness and regret. I got lots of things.
I got nothing. He’s a good dog. Permanent.
I look at his jar of treats on the counter. I’m almost mad at the dog. I want to kick him out of the house – set him free, yell at him to go, not see him again. Just as quickly, I think about how much better he is compared to when I got him. I don’t think he’s growled or nipped at me in over a year – maybe two. He seems to trust people much more than he used to. I’m mad at myself for not working with him more. I’m mad at the economy for making housing so unaffordable – housing where I could keep a dog who has some challenges. I’m mad at myself for deciding to move…. For adopting a dog in the first place. Maybe I should have given him up when I realized he’d have challenges. He’s a good dog.
He’s snoring now. I’m trying to be extra nice to him. I picture him in the shelter. I picture his first night there alone – scared and sad. I keep telling myself I probably didn’t have to do this. He’s a good dog. I feel like a bad person.
I try to imagine other possibilities. Maybe he gets adopted and lives his best life. Maybe he has a big yard and plays and runs every day.
When we walk in the rain, which he doesn’t like, I imagine him fending for himself on the streets of Cincinnati which is where they found him – distrustful and thin. I imagine he hates the rain because it reminds him of being abandoned. Let loose. Maybe dropped off miles from home.
He used to cower when I made quick movements. I know he was kicked and beaten. Sometimes, he still ducks when I try to pet his head. I’ve only smacked him once and it was to get him to drop a chicken bone that he picked up on a walk. I can’t imagine anyone abusing him or getting rid of him.
He’s a good dog.
