Labradoris

I decided to ask Cosette into bed with me this evening.  It's a special privilege when I Iet her:  when the sheets are about to be laundered, when I'm sick, or just in need of a little more canine companionship than sitting beside the bed.  She's not allowed on furniture otherwise unless invited, so when she's invited up, she treats it like a glorious chocolate-covered fudge sundae; in other words, she laps the attention up and flops around luxuriously like a queen. 

Tonight I was feeling a little down from a work situation - nothing big, just tiring - and decided to read a veterinarian non-fiction book while Joel was prepping his lecture.  I scooted over and patted the bed, inviting Cosette up.  She looked at me suspiciously, then elegantly jumped up, turned around, and sank down beside me, curling up against my body.  I gently stroked her fur, continuing to read my book.  I ended the chapter, unfortunately one that talked about the decisions vets make to euthanize an animal (by the way - did you know that euthanize means "good death"?).  I set the book down on my bedside table and gazed down at Cosette and thought of how many memories we have together.

I remember seeing her when she was three weeks old, meeting her for the first time.  Even in her large whelping box, she managed to crawl over and find me  several times during my first visit.  I was still wanting a chocolate Lab at that point, so I just politely pet her and studied her brothers and sisters. 

Two weeks passed, and when I returned the puppies were spending a few hours each day outside in the spring weather.  When I walked to the yard where the breeder had them, all the puppies stayed asleep under the table, and one tiny black female came up beside me and sat down at my feet.  I looked up at the breeder and she said, "That's that black female that you were petting last time.  She likes you!"  I hadn't even realized that it was the same puppy, but she must have realized it was me.  At least that's the story I tell myself.

Then on the drive home, I couldn't get this black puppy out of my head.  I kept thinking about how she deliberately came up to me and plopped right down beside me.  I came back the next day to make a final decision.  This time, the puppies were scattered in the yard, and the breeder did a funny little yelp to them, saying, "Here pup pups!" in a high-pitched tone.  They all kept on playing, except for the little black female.  She came straight over to me and I swept her up in my arms and held her to my chest.  She was five weeks old, and she was mine, I was sure of it. 

I was house-sitting for a dean that year, and when I say house-sitting I mean I was living in the house and had no other residence, so I decided to keep the little black female at the breeder's until she was 10 weeks old until I had just a few weeks left in the dean's house.  During those next five weeks, I picked up a tiny red collar and leash, a crate, soft chew toys, water and food bowls, and picked out a name:  Cosette.  I fell in love with her more strongly even when I wasn't around her.  I kept her collar and leash in my car, and while I drove around town, I'd absentmindedly finger the collar in the passenger seat, imagining the dog who would soon be wearing it.  I imagined her sitting beside me, taking rides with me, hiking, playing. 

We've done all that and so much more.

When I did pick her up from the breeder, she was a beautiful 10-week old puppy, and I was a stressed-out graduate student preparing to move to a different state for a doctoral program, defend my thesis, and say goodbye to my close graduate school friends, all within the confines of a month. 

Cosette was a very good puppy, with the occasional accidents and a few nights crying alone in her crate.  A few sleepless nights for me, a thesis due in several weeks, and the stress of having a new puppy were almost a little much sometimes.  I wanted so much to play with her and revel in her puppiness, but I simply didn't have the time to devote.  I needed to finish my degree requirements.  I balanced as best I could, but sometimes it was hard.  One tear-filled evening after I considered telling the breeder I just couldn't do it and taking her back, I vowed to her to always give her the attention she deserves after I was done with my thesis.  Since that night, I have kept my promise.

We have explored several states, many hiking trails, hiked many non-trails, water retrieved in every nearby lake, taken long car trips, taken short car trips, visited the vet many times to ensure a healthy puppyhood, walked many miles, played games, engaged in hours and hours of retrieval, met all my friends, played with other dogs, been through training, moved with me, welcomed a wonderful man into my life, welcomed a five-year-old child into my life, stayed in hotels, camped outside, slept in her bed, slept in my bed, picked up her poop, cleaned up her pee, wiped up her vomit, groomed her, and loved her for two solid years.

I thought about all of this as I was lying there tonight, stroking her soft black fur, watching her eyelids slowly lower and flutter.  Watching her breath enter and exit her body evenly, without hurt or pain.  I cherish the two-year-old before me, the wonderfully graceful, beautifully elegant, lean and strong body.  I feel the muscular structure underneath her fur, the muscles poised at any given moment to catch just one more tennis ball.  And my throat choked up a little, like it is right now, thinking of the cherished years we have in front of us, my dog and I.  And how I vow even stronger every day to keep my promise to her to always give her the attention and love she deserves.  That's the least I can do for her, because she's given me so much more, more than I've ever asked or demanded.  She has been, and continues to be, a source of comfort, stability, routine, playfulness, but above all, a friend. 

Taken December 2007

Here is a video of our evening backyard playtime.  I don't have the dogs seriously retrieve generally when we are in the backyard, which is why you can see Trooper's lackadaisical attitude towards the toy.  Cosette is serious about it no matter the time of day or type of toy.  I swear I can hear them arguing:
Trooper:  "I got it, I got it hahahha HA HA!"
Cosette:  "Give that back!  Give it here.  Okay, now you are distracted so I will SNEAK IN and GET IT!  Ha!  Here, owner!!"
Trooper:  "Oh, there it goes again.  Yay, I got it. Ha."
Cosette:  "GRR!  Give it back.  She has to throw it again.  GIVE IT BACK!  Don't you understand how this WORKS?"

We all had a really nice day today.  In the morning, we went berry picking, and then came home and cooked a Triple Berry and Peaches Pie (yum!).  We packed a picnic lunch, and went out to one of the local wineries to meet some friends and have some good laughs.  This winery is never busy, and it's a great place to spread out for a picnic and let the dogs play in the pond.  The weather was perfect today - low 70s and a slight breeze with overcast sun.  We then went back home and played 'clean up this messy house', and opted for a low-maintenance call-in-and-pick-up food option.  Since the restaurant delivers the food to the car, I decided to take Cosette with me for the drive.  Weather was beautiful, sun was starting to set, windows down, music loud.  Perfection.  Here's how we spent some of our Sunday evening driving home:

This is probably one of the funniest real-time quotes I have heard in a long time.  I’ve been looking at adding a macro lens to my camera bag (mainly to replace my only lens right now, the kit lens), and after researching which lens for weeks, I found a website that was selling them with a rebate.  The problem was that they were backordered, and I was curious as to how long the backorder would last.
 
I called the helpful 1-800 number, and I was connected shortly with a male service representative.  I started reading the SKU number for him, and he interrupted me halfway through and said, “Okay, so you are after the Canon Macro lens, 100mm?  I don’t have that lens in right now.” 

I patiently said, “Yes, I know.  I just wanted to know how long the wait on your backorder would be.”

 He replied, “Well, you’re buying it at the worst time of the year, really.” 

I kind of scratched my head in thoughtfulness, thinking of car sales and how it’s best to buy the previous year’s version right as the new models are coming out, around August and September (in general; this is not a hard and fast rule).  But, I couldn’t come up with a reason for why lenses would be cheaper or more available at any point in the year. 

Then he helpfully informed me, “Well, the best time of the year to buy is during the fall or winter.  Right now, there’s a bunch of housewives being bored and buying expensive macro lenses to take pictures of their flower gardens in their backyards, so it’s just not really a good time.  In the fall and winter though, everything’s dead, so they give up the photography habit for a while, which makes it a really good time to buy.”

Huh.

Here's Trooper playing in the garden last night.  Such a goofball. 

"I love my dog.  I love all my dogs.  Every dog I ever had, I still love 'em.  And in my life, believe me, I have had me a bunch of goddamn dogs.  Because you keep on gettin' a new one, don't ya?  It's true.  As life goes on, you keep gettin' one new dog after another.  That's the whole secret of life.  Life is a series of dogs."
-George Carlin

From the Butterfly Garden, we ventured to several other places, including the Missouri Botanical Gardens, which was celebrating 150 years.  At the time we arrived, the sun was blazing overhead so the shots I would have loved to get were just a bit too bright with all the light.  But, I made due, and Joel patiently strolled along beside me, waiting until I had my fill of photos.

A few days ago, my father and I were sitting in my living room waiting on my mother to finish a few e-mails in my home office.  Cosette and Trooper were engaging in their usual acrobatic ballet of dog-on-dog play, you know the kind where Trooper levitates and bunny hops and Cosette pulls off ninja-worthy feats.  It is a sight to behold. I don’t know how it happened, but one minute I was watching the two of them play – not aggressively, just rough – and then the next minute there was blood. 

Oh, the blood.  Drips on the carpet, on the coffee table, on the walls, there is a moving dog mass and there is chocolate and black fur and blood and I am moving off the couch, stunned, it’s all in one smooth motion.  The blood seems to be coming from Trooper and I grab his collar and drag him towards the glass storm door.  I let the outside light stream down, trying to ascertain where exactly the bleeding is coming from.  I tell my father to bring me paper towels from the kitchen, and I bring Trooper outside to the front porch.  At first I think it is an eye wound, as there is blood pooling in the corner of his eye, but I wipe it away and it doesn’t return.  I wipe his nose, his back, the blood is all over.  I hold him still, as still as a Lab puppy can hold, and then look at myself.  I’m covered.  My green Capri pants have blood splattered all over them, I have a line of blood on my white shirt, and my arms and legs are smeared in red.  Am I the one who is bleeding?  How did this happen?  I start to feel light-headed, intensified by the sun. 

Then I notice it:  drip, drip, drip on the pavement.  I look back down at Trooper, looking closely for the origin of the drip.  It’s his ear.  Is it torn?  Where is it coming from?  Did he rupture his eardrum?  Why is there so much blood?  I wrap a paper towel around his ear and pull it back to see where the blood collected.  I finally am able to see where the bleeding is coming from – it’s the tip of his ear.  I press the paper towel firmly into his ear, allowing direct pressure to help stop the bleeding.  Once I’ve held the towel tightly for a few minutes, wriggling right along with him, I pull the soaked paper towel back and examine the wound.  It’s so tiny I can’t hardly see it.  It’s a nick.  A flesh wound.  A little scrape.  A tiny itty bitty thing that might make you reflexively pull back in slight pain but a pain that vanishes momentarily.

“This?”  I say to myself.  “This is what caused all the bleeding?”  I examine the blood-soaked bunch of paper towels, frowning at the mess.  My father helps me spray off the front porch and soak Trooper in cleansing water.  With all the little blood vessels in the ears, I guess the bleeding is as severe as a head wound in humans. 

I remember back to a time when I was first babysitting, 11 or 12 maybe.  I was babysitting some kids across the street from my house and the youngest boy was roughhousing with himself, no less.  He somehow contorted his body with enough force and dexterity to whack his head against the corner of the brick fireplace, and blood immediately poured from the wound.  I had enough sense to bring him into the tiled kitchen and off the white carpet – I am my mother’s daughter after all – and bring a towel in one hand and a phone in the other.  I shakily phoned my parents across the street as I sat with this screaming mess of a child, pressing the towel firmly against his head, his older brother looking on.  I don’t really remember much else, except my mother and father coming over and such an overwhelming feeling of relief that responsible adults were there – AND my father was trained in safety and emergency procedures.  

I crave the same feeling of safety and relief as I hold Trooper in my arms, the paper towel still soaking up blood.  I look to my father for advice, but at this point I know what to do.  I just keep holding him still until the bleeding subsides, and then I take him back inside and put him inside his smaller crate so he can remain calm and still.  I proceed to the bathroom, gazing in wonder and slight horror at the sight before me:  my hair askew, blood splattered on my clothes and arms, my feet, legs, my face, all the way up into my hairline.  

I wash up, and I hear Trooper in his crate, slightly whining for attention and settling himself in for boredom.  I can only imagine what he’s trying to say in earnest, “Come back here!  It’s only a flesh wound!”

I peek my head back into the room where Trooper is staying and say, “What are you going to do, bleed on me?”

I think I heard him return, “We’ll call it a draw!”

A few weeks ago we were in Oklahoma for my grandfather’s funeral.  On Sunday evening, we went out to dinner the night before the funeral.  My mom, dad, sister, and Joel were with me.  One of the topics that came up was the hotel we were staying in.  Apparently my mom had stayed there the year before when she was visiting.  She stated how much she liked the hotel, how it was really nice with the business center, their cozy feeling, their nice breakfast; she even commented on how the staff was still the same.  We all piped up and talked about the man that had been working there the last few nights, and my mom nodded and said she remembered him from the previous year.  I think the man stood out to us because he was distinctive in that he was a little pale, brown hair, average height, but was very nervous acting – kind of nervous mannerisms – and didn’t make much eye contact.  I remember thinking to myself that I felt a little sorry for the guy; he seemed like a little bit of a loner.  

That evening, we had all retired to our separate rooms on the second floor.  Joel and I fell asleep in our room, my mom and dad fell asleep in their room.  My sister was in her own room but she is a bit of a night owl.  Around 12:30 a.m., her room phone rang.  This is a paraphrase of the phone call.

Sister:  “Hello?”

Male:  “Hi, this is ____ from the front desk.  We’ve had some complaints from other guests about some noises.  Are you watching porn?”

Sister:  “Porn?  No.  I have a movie on, but it is on really low.”

Male:  “Are you sure?  It sounds like there was someone being held up against a wall, and some bangs…”

Sister:  “No.  I just came out of the shower, and like I said, I had a movie on, but it is on really low.”

Male:  “What movie are you watching?  Is it porn?”

Sister:  “No, the Dark Knight.”

Male:  “Is that a porno?”

Sister:  “Nooo…it’s a Batman movie.”

Male:  “Well, I tell you what.  I get off in 5 minutes.  Why don’t I bring up some champagne and watch it with you?”

Sister:  “Sir, is that a joke?”

Male:  “No, I’m serious.   Why don’t I come up right now?”

Sister:  “Sir, that’s inappropriate.”

Male:   “No, it’s completely appropriate.  I’ve been watching you come in and out of the hotel for the past few days and I think you are smokin’ hot.  So you said you just came out of the shower?”

The male voice continued to talk to my sister even though she had gone silent.  He continued to ask her very inappropriate questions, of which I will not repeat.  He was absolutely filthy and very disturbing.  She hung up, and immediately called my dad on his cell phone.  My father immediately came down to her room, and listened to her story.  He brought her back to my parents’ room, and called down to the front desk.  He asked for confirmation on his wake-up call, and let my sister listen to the desk clerk’s voice.  My sister immediately nodded within hearing a few words of the desk clerk’s voice.  My dad said, “Thank you,” and hung up.  He then used his cell phone to call the police.     

A very long story short, the police couldn’t do anything because they weren’t able to determine if it was an internal call (which is what my sister maintains) instead of an outside call (which is what the front desk clerk maintains).  The front desk clerk, when confronted by the police, swore up and down that he had not made the call; he seemed extraordinarily nervous and agitated.  By this time, it was 2:00 a.m. and the hotel manager did not see a reason to replace the front desk clerk with someone else.  We packed up and moved to a different hotel at 2:30 a.m.  I laid awake until 4:30 a.m., too on edge to find comfort in sleep.  I was so angry towards the desk clerk, sympathetic towards my sister, understanding of my parents’ reactions, and professionally curious.  The manager sided with the employee, compensated my father for the rooms, and stated they were complying with the police.  But with a phone system that is untraceable, there’s no proof.  The desk clerk still has his job.

As a person who travels often, and stays in hotels just as often, this was a scary occurrence.  It’s always important to protect your room identity (for instance, when checking in if a clerk announces your room aloud, pass your keys back and ask for a different room and have them write the room number down on your keys in case someone heard them), and be aware of your surroundings, but if the front desk staff are the people you are normally supposed to trust, what do you do if the hotel staff is the one to blame?  I thought my father’s method of confirming the voice and then calling the police on his cell was very reasonable and smart.  Let this be a warning to all of you who travel alone or with your families:  be aware of your safety at all times.  This may have been the first time that a police report was filed against this person, but it may not have been the first time he committed the act.  It may not be the last, either.