A Reason to Care

I pulled the leash out of the coat closet, and Sandy leapt for joy. Her glossy red fur bounced on one side like a shampoo commercial, but stuck out stiff and matted on the other side. I pushed down the guilt. I should brush her.

No, what I should really do is take her on walks and play fetch so that she’s not lying down all the time.

She dashed around the yard while I opened the hatch-back trunk of my mini-SUV and rearranged miscellaneous stuff. I really need to clean out my car.

I reanimate an empty bag by filling it with its previous contents: garbage. Fast-food wrappers, a dozen empty plastic water-bottles that I’d bought instead of filling my steel water bottle, a tag from a sweater I didn’t like but had to buy one extra long day because I started my day unprepared. I stuffed it all into the bag, evidence of about $90 worth of purchases I wish I hadn’t made.

Sandy, losing sight of me as I walked to the dumpster, raced across the driveway and slowed to a jog next to me. She was excited to be alive and carrying a stick in her mouth, tendrils of slobber almost making cobwebs. I was about to take it and throw it out, but the droozly stick made her happy and it really couldn’t make my car worse.

She eagerly leapt into the filthy trunk of the SUV, stick and all.

I rolled down the backseat window and watched Sandy in the rearview mirror. From the trunk area, Sandy arced her neck over the back seat to sniff the incoming breeze. We arrived at the dog park and she was beside herself, bouncing around the trunk like a crazy dog. What happened to all our training? She slithered from the trunk, over the backseat and leapt through the back window before I was completely parked. She stumbled, but didn’t stop her mach 3 pace.

Thank goodness, she could have been hurt.

Cursing her naughtiness as I parked, I glanced out the window and cringed: Bob and Sandy, the human retirees, waved to me and called the name of my Sandy. Their French bulldogs joined my Sandy on the other side, barking and racing and pacing the 12 foot stretch by the gate.

I struggled to move past my Sandy and open the gate. The dogs rejoiced, nipping and dashing around, Sandy gracefully outstripped the French bulldogs, did a loop, then not-so-gracefully crashed into my legs, and dashed away again.

“She’s hyper today!” Bob called, walking over hand-in-hand with his wife.

“I think she’s just really excited to see Nacho and Ted,” I called.

“Well it’s been almost six months since we’ve seen you.” Sandy called.

“We’ve been going to a closer dog park,” I lied.

“She’s gained some weight,” Bob said. I looked at her again.

“Yeah, my roommate and I have been double-feeding her, it turns out.” Which was true. I’d arrive home well after dinner time, after my roommate already left for an evening job.

Cheerful play-snarls from the three-dog wrestling-match began.

“Oh! Well who wouldn’t — with those puppy-dog-eyes?!” Human Sandy said, her gray curls bobbing as she nodded understandingly.

Nacho, now weary of the wrestling match, waddled over, plunked down on Bob’s feet, like a combination of a fat baby and a leg of ham.

“It’s hard to tell whether she’s fibbing with those puppy-eyes or not, and since it’s gotten cold and I started my new job, we haven’t been as good at our daily walks.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear,” Human Sandy said, patting my arm with a grandmotherly hand. “It happens to all of us.”

Ted and Sandy, finally weary of their games, came and greeted the more stationary group. Ted came to me for butt-scratches, enjoying my sharp broken nails against his velvety haunches. He writhed and rolled onto his back, panting and huffing. I need to clip my fingernails.

Sandy, with her soft reddish fur, loped up after him, having been distracted by a labradoodle on her way over. Her gentle nature and sunny disposition instantly won over anyone she met.

“Well hello, name-twin! We’ve missed you!” Human Sandy said to my dog. Dog Sandy leaned gently against her legs, and looked up at her with adoring eyes. Human Sandy didn’t seem to notice the matted fur from her sleeping side and just caressed the soft reddish ears.

I looked at the French bulldogs, though they were naturally portly creatures, they were not fat — far from it — they were as athletic and svelte as French bulldogs can be.

As the sun set, we said our goodbyes. I clipped Sandy to her leash — like she’s supposed to be — and we walked in an orderly fashion to the car. Like a good dog, she didn’t pull at the leash, so different from the wildness of the same dog that had, only an hour earlier, leapt out of my car window.

We got home, and I got out the brush. When was the last time I had brushed her? A month ago? Six months ago?

Afraid to tackle the matted fur on her sleeping side, I brushed out her glossy shampoo-commercial side first. Done with that, I started on the crunchy mattes, and she yelped softly as I tried to pull out a tangle.

That soft little yelp broke a dam. I started sobbing.

I had neglected Sandy in every way, but still she chose to love me, and now I had caused her pain. I thought of all the nights I had come home late, and she had been waiting at the door, instead of snuggling in bed with my willing roommate. Tears burned tracks down my face.

I thought of all the times she had whined and begged for a walk, but lay down and sighed with resignation when I told her ‘no, not tonight.’ When was the last time she had begged for a walk? It had not been recent. I choked and coughed.

And now, here she was, overfed, under-exercised, matted, and now she was putting her paw on my knee, and through the veil of my long, uncut hair, came a snout with ticklish whiskers on it, sniffing and whining. Checking to see if I, the person who had neglected her, was okay.

I need to schedule a haircut. I thought, brushing it out of the way as she crawled onto my lap and let me hug her.

How had things gotten this way? I had been so hopeful when I started this amazing job.

It looked great on a resume, but was it worth it? I had been there for six months, and during that life-sucking six months, Sandy had gained all the weight that I had lost from having an irregular eating schedule.

I’ll apply for jobs tomorrow, I thought, using a pair of scissors to snip out a particularly aggressive matte. Sandy patiently panted, relieved that my emotional melt-down had quieted to occasional sobs.

I gave Sandy a bath — better seven months late than never — then chased her around the house with a towel. I clipped her claws, which were long from lack of attention plus the lack of friction that she normally got from cement sidewalks. After the evil blow-dryer finished its dark work, we hopped into bed together, and she laid her head on my legs while my laptop clacked away at updating my resume.

Her paws twitched while she dreamed, and I glanced at her soft, furry face. What was she dreaming about? Chasing prey? Running from a predator?

Going on a jog together?

My eyes welled up again. She deserved a better human. Even if she had a worse human than me, she’d surely forgive them the second they offered her kindness.

I don’t deserve love from a being made of such pure light.

Yet here she was.

She had plenty of opportunities to run away — yet even after leaping out of a car window to see her friends, she still came trotting back to me.

I’ll do better. I’ll quit this black hole of a job. I’ll get a job that doesn’t expect my soul and 20 hours of overtime every week. I’ll start jogging with Sandy every day again. We’ll go to the dog park more.

“I’ll get a new job for you, Sandy.” She opened her big brown eyes at her name, and cheerfully whapped her tail against the dirty quilt. I need to wash my bedding.

“You’ll go jogging with me when I quit this job, right?” She whapped her tail a little faster.

“I knew you would.”

Sometimes, love gives you a reason to take care of yourself because it’s a prerequisite to care for someone else. Especially love you don’t feel like you deserve.

Thank you:

Rhiannon Carswell, Editor
Sara Weikel and Nancy Granducci, Proofreaders
Ryan Stone, Photo (Unsplash.com)