Chapter 21

THE DOG DAYS OF SUMMER

“So, you have five kids, a touring husband, are recovering from brain surgery, and you decided to get two puppies?” is a question you might ask an insane person. Or a Gaffigan. True, the Gaffigans like a challenge, but while some of these seemingly overly ambitious, self-sabotaging exploits—such as a decision to put a date on the calendar to film a special without any new material, or to bring five kids along on a comedy tour of Asia, or the absurd undertaking of writing a book shortly after a medical crisis—are taken on purposely, some craziness happens by accident. And so it was with the two puppies.

My kids, particularly Katie, have always asked us for a dog, but there was never, ever a good time to get one. Because of the brush with my own mortality, I realized that a “good time” would likely not ever happen. Why not get one now before the dog got sucked into the “mini-kitchen effect.” Let me explain.

When Katie was in nursery school, her favorite playtime activity was the mini kitchen. She would walk into the classroom, put her coat in her cubby, and bee-line straight for the toy kitchen. She would don the apron and busy herself with organizing the pots and pans to create delicacies out of wood and plastic food. There were many organized activities in nursery school, including art, music, alphabet, and counting games, but when it was free play time, Katie would always go back to the little kitchen. When I would pick her up she would ask, “Mommy, can I please get my own little kitchen?”

“Of course you can!” I already knew from my Amazon Prime addiction that I could get an affordable little play kitchen delivered to our door in three days or less. The problem was, where to put it? At the time we had seven people, one of whom was a new baby, living in a two-bedroom apartment. We barely had room for our actual kitchen, let alone a play one. We had been “in the process of moving” for a couple of years already. After finding an apartment we wanted, we would start packing up our stuff in boxes, and then not actually move because the deal fell through for one reason or another. The boxes became part of our furniture. They were sat on, used as side tables, and accumulated other things on top of them. At least we had more seating for dinner guests. I could start a shabby chic trend. Sometimes I’d throw a tablecloth over a pile of boxes and stick a scented candle on top so it looked more purposeful. It was like in the Winnie-the-Pooh story where he got stuck exiting Rabbit’s house so Rabbit put a frame around his butt. The walls were closing in on us, and I could not find room for the promised Katie kitchen, though she would not give up the dream, as we understood from her constant reminders. We eventually found a space to move into, but it would require a huge time-consuming renovation to combine two apartments. But at the end of the long tunnel there would finally be an area for the kids to play in!

When we walked around our future home while it was under construction, Jim said proudly, “Look! Here is where we could put Katie’s kitchen!” After a full two-year process of building, and promising Katie she would finally get her wish (as she continued to ask for the play kitchen on almost a daily basis), we were emancipated into an apartment that could accommodate all of us, with no boxes as furniture, and a playroom for the kids complete with a little kitchen, which we proudly unveiled for Katie. Unfortunately, by this time, she had outgrown the kitchen and had transferred her love of mixing plastic food into science experiments and making slime. The kitchen got plenty of use by Michael, and eventually Patrick, but I had tremendous guilt about my unfulfilled promise to Katie. One of the best (and worst, depending on your mood) things about kids is their resilience. Their dreams and desires are constantly evolving, so not getting the kitchen in a timely fashion did not kill her spirit. The latest Katie ask-obsession was her ceaseless begging for a dog, which I also had been putting off for years. While I was lying in the hospital, my thoughts often went to Katie and the dog. I thought, If I die, there will never be a dog, and another promise will have been put off and remain forever unfulfilled.

Now that I had survived and was home I resolved, “We are getting that dog Katie asked for!” But how could we do it now—when I was too weak to even take care of myself, or my own children for that matter, and I wanted Jim to be able to get back to work? I felt the old determination fire driving me. I needed to take action, but I also knew I couldn’t do it alone.

As providence would have it, my brother Patrick and his wife, Emilea, had recently relocated to our neighborhood from up in Harlem so that they could be closer to help my family while I recovered. Yes, I know, we should nominate them for sainthood. While they were over one day, everyone ended up sitting on my bed, which, at my request, was becoming the new living room/hangout place. Pat and Em were talking about how much they loved their new place, the whole area, and how great it was to be neighbors. The discussion turned to dogs. They’d just taken the kids to nearby Washington Square Park, which blossoms in the warm weather with young people, families, musicians, and tons of dogs playing around the giant fountain. “I wish we could get a puppy!” said Emilea. Patrick agreed, but since they each occasionally traveled for work, it didn’t seem realistic. Jim and I concurred, noting that before I got sick, the Gaffigan travel schedule was a main factor preventing us from getting a pet. I had a crazy idea: “What if we share a dog?” It was like the “you got your peanut butter in our chocolate” moment. Jim, Patrick, Emilea, and I simultaneously realized that if we shared a pet, the out-of-town issue would rarely be a factor. We could co-adopt a puppy from a shelter. Jim was incredulous. He always had this joke whenever someone asked us if we had a dog: “No, Jeannie hates animals.” When I suggested the dog-share, he said, “Are you sure? You are still really weak!”

“We can get a small dog! Patrick and Emilea will help. They are a block away, and the kids will have to do their part!” Our two apartments would be one big house, one big family. This was a huge decision and something that was not like me at all (more messes!), but it seemed right. It was something active, something that would present new challenges but also be a new chapter in life! Katie just about lost her mind when she heard the news. “Really, Mom? Really?” Her reaction was one part bliss, two parts skepticism as she smiled at me in disbelief, as if my brain was going to heal a little and I’d suddenly exclaim, “Wait, no! What was I thinking?” The truth was, I was serious. It was the first big decision that I’d had a part in since coming home and it gave me a feeling of engagement and taking charge that I badly needed.

I lay in bed with my very smart phone, trolling different dog shelters’ Instagrams. They were all adorable, but in the “profiles” they gave projections of how large the dog would grow. I skipped over the ones that would get big enough to pull me off my feet into oncoming traffic, since I had no idea when or if I would ever get my strength back. I fell instantly in love with a little mutt puppy named Sharon. She was white with brown spots and had her head tilted to the side, making direct eye contact with the camera. I told the kids, “Look, we are going to adopt this one!” They weren’t picky. Who could be after seeing a photo of a cute puppy on Instagram? Though, full disclosure, my brother Patrick wasn’t a huge Sharon fan (she was super girly). Our next step to making this whole thing real was meeting the dog. We contacted the shelter and they let us know that Sharon had been adopted already, but they had many other needy puppies. I wondered if Sharon was even real. Maybe she was the model they used to hook people like me. By this time, the kids were totally amped that we were getting a dog ASAP, and by “the kids” I include Emilea, Patrick, and Jim, and Sharon’s adoption was not a deterrent. The kind people at the shelter invited us to arrange a meeting with the foster parents (the people who temporarily kept the dogs during the adoption period) of another puppy who was available and in need of a permanent home.

All nine of us made our way to the neighborhood animal shelter we’d been stalking and drooling over on Instagram, me with my oxygen tank and tracheotomy, Katie skipping ahead impatiently, to meet a little black puppy named Esther that my brother Patrick was head over heels for after looking at that litter’s Instagram posts. The kids were all talking at once about how much fun it would be to have a dog as part of our clan. Emilea and Patrick were thrilled about the joint custody arrangement, and hopeful that it would bring them closer to my kids long after they needed to be there to help me get out of bed and get around with my tank and walker.

We waited at the shelter for a while, but the foster parents were a no-show. We were all about to disappointedly drag ourselves out of there when someone who’d adopted two sister puppies came back to return one of them because it turned out two puppies were too much for her (she was an actual sane person). When she took the tiny dog out of the carrier, I saw the white puppy with brown spots. She tilted her head to the side and looked at me with sad eyes like she was posing for an Instagram photo with the caption “Please, adopt me!” I croaked, “Wait… is that Sharon?!” It was Sharon! I viewed it as a sign: We were meant to adopt her! It was in the stars!

We started the paperwork. The kids were overjoyed and Emilea, Patrick, who had now fallen victim to Sharon’s wiles, and Jim were beaming over her. Just then, a family walked in with another puppy, Esther, who was tiny and black. The foster family had gotten stuck on the train, but they were elated to find us still there. They had a little boy about Katie’s age, who said, “I’m so happy that my dog is being adopted by a family with kids!” Katie looked up at me with her big blue eyes: “Mom, they could be sisters!” I looked over at my brother Patrick, who was busy getting his face licked by Esther. Instant bond. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll take them both.” Jim and I caught eyes and shared a smiling look that said, “Are we crazy?” and “Yes, but together we can do absolutely anything,” at the same time. And that’s the story about how, in the middle of this family earthquake, we ended up with two rescue puppies that we promptly renamed.

Peggy and Larry the Girl