We pulled into the parking lot of the Mercedes dealership where Vanessa, Comet’s foster mom, worked. I got out of the car and looked up at the building, my hand still on the open car door. What if Daphne didn’t like him? What if he didn’t like her? What if Vanessa didn’t like us? Daphne barked from the backseat. I turned my attention back to her, opening her crate and attaching her leash.
“Ready?” Chris said.
“Yeah. Though I’m freakishly nervous about this.”
As we headed toward the gleaming glass showroom and office building, I saw Vanessa walk out with Comet. She held him close, yet he didn’t fuss in the least. I wasn’t used to a beagle that enjoyed being held. Seamus couldn’t stand to lose control of a situation for any length of time and thus struggled and howled when anyone attempted to pick him up. Daphne came to us weighing forty-two pounds, so that limited my efforts to pick her up. But as she slimmed down and I tried occasionally to pick her up , it was clear she didn’t like it, though her method for avoiding it was to go limp and roll over onto her back when we moved toward her. Chris had begun calling her the “Flopsicle” for the way she sort of melted down to the floor.
Vanessa motioned for us to head over to a large grassy area in the parking lot (it was Mercedes after all). She put Comet down on the grass. He was every bit as cute as I remembered him. So tiny, especially next to Daphne, whom we had dubbed “Daphne-esque” in size.
Daphne immediately began to sniff Comet from head to tail—well, actually in the reverse order as dogs will do. Her tail wagged and she didn’t howl. A good sign! They each jumped sideways, tails wagging quickly, enticing each other to play. Another good sign! They both peed on the pristine Mercedes grass. Another good sign? Who knew, but it wasn’t a bad sign. Vanessa suggested we take them inside to her office, now that the obligatory dog sniff-and-pee greeting was over.
The three humans and two beagles traipsed through the shiny showroom of gleaming, expensive vehicles and went upstairs to Vanessa’s spacious office strewn with dog toys. Comet immediately picked up a toy and ran around with it, the dog version of asking to play. To our surprise, Daphne chased after him. We had not seen her play alone or with another dog yet and were beginning to wonder if she knew how. Poor Maizy had tried so hard to get Daphne to chase her, with no luck at all. Comet had only to ask once and they were off and running. My smile widened into a big grin—they were tossing a purple toy. (Dear, sweet Maizy—it was probably like loosening a jar lid. You did all the hard muscle-work and then Comet got the last twist in.)
They chased each other around. Comet, knowing the office layout better, looked nimble and athletic, leaping up and off chairs, turning corners sharply, and zipping around and under tables. Daphne was older but craftier. She quickly figured out how to cut him off and realized her superior strength—once she had a bite of the toy, she yanked it out of his mouth easily. Comet seemed to love the game, nonplussed when he lost a toy. He simply grabbed another and took off again.
I found him adorable. And Daphne seemed to agree. When Comet tired, he jumped up on a chair and lay down. Daphne approached the chair, put her two front paws up, and leaned in to smell Comet. Their noses touched. Vanessa, Chris, and I broke out in a chorus of, “Awww.”
Curled up in the chair, he looked like a baby deer. I lifted him up.
I was surprised by his weight. He was so light. Surely he needed to put on more weight. He leaned into me and rested his head on my shoulder. Perfection! I was falling in love. Looking over at Daphne and Chris, I could see I was not the only one bitten by the love bug.
“He’s so tiny,” I said.
“He’s gained a couple pounds since he was rescued from the lab. He really wasn’t much of an eater at first. But he definitely likes his meals now. Though yeah, he could stand to gain a few more pounds,” Vanessa said.
“So odd for a beagle. I guess he wasn’t exactly given table scraps and treats at the lab, though.”
Chris came and stood next to me, petting Comet’s soft head.
“No. Definitely not. They feed them specialized junk dog food that is primarily meant to reduce their bowel movements. I can’t imagine the food tastes or smells any good,” Vanessa said.
“Seriously? They can’t even feed them well while they subject them to all the horrible tests?” I said this, and I meant it, but I still wasn’t clear what those tests were. What had been done to Comet in the name of “science”?
We left reluctantly, giving lots of hugs and kisses to Comet. Daphne seemed to genuinely like Comet, evidenced by the complete lack of barking. Date number one had gone very well. Rizzo had his work cut out for him.
Our Beaglerette slept for the forty-minute drive to her next date. I’d call it beauty rest, but not the way she was splayed out and snoring.
• • •
Rizzo met us high up in his foster dad’s arms, standing in their driveway. Like Comet, Rizzo was calm. Unfortunately, Daphne began howling at him before we even got her out of the car.
Dan, Rizzo’s foster dad, greeted us and then put Rizzo on the ground, nose to nose with our Bachelorette. He wagged his tail and she wagged hers. Both of their noses twitched into overdrive.
“I thought it would be a good idea to have them meet out here,” Dan said. “But let’s take them into the backyard and let them play a bit.”
As we approached the backyard, it was easy to see the decision to meet in the front yard was a good one. Dan and his wife had three dogs of their own and were also dog-sitting their daughter’s dog. Four small- to medium-sized dogs barked and rushed at the gate to meet the interloper. Daphne was not amused. She backed away from the gate and looked up at us like we’d lost our minds. We’re not going in THERE, are we?
Dan opened the gate and shooed back the exuberant dogs. Rizzo was clearly used to this mob scene as he slipped into the yard and began a fast run around the circumference of the long, narrow yard, hoping someone, anyone, would chase him. Daphne was having nothing to do with this. She entered and was immediately surrounded by yelping, barking, yapping, jumping balls of fur. She put her tail between her legs and jumped out of the way, then ran over to stand at Chris’s legs. And where was her date to rescue her?
Rizzo was still running about, so Dan came to the rescue. He moved the other four dogs into the house, but they all stood at the sliding glass door looking out and barking at a bewildered Daphne and a whizzing, spinning Rizzo. Comet’s calm, personal Mercedes date was the better idea, but we could appreciate Rizzo wanting to show his family side. Even if Daphne didn’t.
While Chris and I talked with Dan and learned what we could about Rizzo (they’d only been fostering him for a few weeks), the dogs began to play. Daphne finally chased after Rizzo, howling of course, but playing at least. Rizzo was fast. He was also very handsome. Where Comet was all cuteness, with a touch of mischievousness, dark almond eyes, and a saddle of black fur over much of his back, Rizzo was handsome, strong, and square, with a lot of white. Rizzo and Daphne looked like a “couple” whereas Daphne and Comet looked like big sister and little brother. Not that any of that would matter in this selection process. I could anthropomorphize my dog all I wanted, but she was not going to play along.
We tried letting the other dogs out again, if for no other reason than to silence all the noise at the door. But the experiment failed. As soon as the other dogs were back in the yard, Daphne lost all interest in playing with Rizzo. She wanted only to escape.
I, on the other hand, could have played all night with Rizzo. He was such a handsome boy and so stoic, yet merry. He seemed to be a very content dog. And like Comet, he enjoyed being held and swooned over. And I enjoyed swooning over beagles (I’m very good at it).
“This is going to be a tough decision,” I said an hour into our drive home.
“You think so? I don’t,” Chris said.
“Really?”
“It’s indisputably Comet.”
“But Rizzo is adorable!”
“I totally agree, but we’re letting Daphne decide. And to stick with your game, she clearly had more of a connection with Comet.”
I had to laugh. “Well, that seemed to be true. But she also met Comet first. I think she was exhausted and overwhelmed by the time she met handsome Rizzo.”
“It’s Comet.”
“Do you think we’re just being influenced by the fact that Comet met Seamus?”
Because of the passing of the bully stick, I felt that Daphne had an otherworldly connection with Seamus. And, I had to admit, I liked the idea of our new dog at least having met Seamus—as though some of the magic could have passed through their sniffing each other. I’d even settle for the mischief passing (prescient, as it turned out).
“Daphne doesn’t know that Comet met Seamus, and Daphne seemed to adore Comet. She didn’t even bark at him, for chrissake!”
“That’s true. And he may be the only dog at whom she hasn’t barked. Right, girl?”
I turned to look at Daphne in the backseat. She was sound asleep, snoring in a way that would never be shown on a real Bachelorette show. Except maybe in a blooper reel.
I turned back to face Chris. “But I love Rizzo too. I feel like I’m the Bachelorette: ‘I’m in love with two beagles and I have to break one of their hearts.’”
“Okay, you realize the dog doesn’t know, right?”
“But I’ll know. And the foster parents will know.”
“I knew this was a bad idea.”
I laughed again. It wasn’t a bad idea. I loved both dogs. I loved all beagles. I would have loved all of the Beagle Freedom Project dogs if I’d met them all. Heck, I love all of the beagles on their website and on Facebook. Which is why I was not the best one to make this decision. “You’re right. We said Daphne would decide. And Daphne picked Comet.”
“Comet it is.”
I sat quiet for a moment, but then I used the doctor phrase, “There’s just one more thing.”
“You want Rizzo to come visit.”
“Okay, two things. The other is—you know I can’t have a dog named Comet.”
“Comet is a cool name. Like a shooting star. It’s awesome.”
“But that’s not what he’s named for. He’s named for a reindeer. A Christmas reindeer. Me having a dog with a Christmas name is asking for trouble. It’s all I can do to not ask you to change your name.”
In case it’s not clear, I hate Christmas. Hate that whole time of year. When I think Christmas, I do not think peace on earth or shopping or trees or stockings or prettily wrapped gifts. I think Armageddon and cancer and tragedy, all wrapped up in a black bow shaped like a noose. A Christmas-moniker dog would not do.
“So, Percival?”
“Not just Percival. Percival Ramonce.”
Now we were both laughing. Our laughter woke Daphne, and she joined in by thumping her tail.
Nine years earlier, when Chris and I first started our relationship, it was summer. He lived in Los Angeles, and I lived sixty miles east in Riverside. Thus geographically challenged, we had several dates at Angels baseball games in Anaheim. He’d drive east from L.A., I’d drive west from Riverside, and we’d meet at the stadium. Chris frequently wore an Angels jersey to the games. The name on the back of his jersey was “Percival,” for Angels pitcher Troy Percival, who just happens to be from Riverside (though Chris did not know he’d be dating a girl from Riverside when he bought the jersey). Chris’s parents had Diamond Club tickets, so we’d spend the games in the club enjoying “premium liquors” and gourmet food, even occasionally watching the game. After one game, Chris (in his Percival jersey) and I walked out to the parking lot together and then kissed good-bye before we walked to our separate cars. As I walked alone to my car, two young men who’d also been in the Diamond Club started chatting me up about the game. I was a bit slow on the uptake, but soon I realized one of them was actually flirting with me. I was forty-one years old. Chris was then twenty-nine, and these men were probably his same age if not younger (can we all say “ego boost” together?). The one flirting said, “So are you headed over to The Catch?” (a renowned postgame sports bar) and his buddy playfully punched him in the arm and said, “Dude, she was just kissin’ on Percival!” The moment had made me smile and laugh (and feel wildly flattered like only a middle-aged woman could).
Of course I had to tell that story to Chris. And he also laughed, mostly because I did not in fact go to The Catch. (Who are we kidding…I was the catch! Well, in that moment anyway.) And from that day on, “kissin’ on Percival” became a regular saying between us. Chris had long ago commented that “Percival” needed to be our next dog’s name. (And if ever there was a dog that deserved a lifetime of “kissin’ on,” it’s a dog rescued from a testing laboratory.)
Then, sometime later, we were (okay, Chris was) watching college football and there was a player on the University of Texas’s team whose first name was “Ramonce.” Not Ramon. Not Roman. Not Raymond. Not even Romance. Ramonce. For some reason (there may have been margaritas involved), I found this hilarious and a perfect name. We knew someone named Ramon whom we referred to as “Sexy Ramon” (because he is), and this name just seemed to encapsulate that—it was sexy Ramon and romance all in one. We somehow (there may have been margaritas involved) decided that “Percival Ramonce” was an even better name for the next dog. So we could be kissin’ on Percival Ramonce. (Maybe we needed to cool it with the margaritas…but it’s too late now.) And thus, the name Percival Ramonce was born. And thus the dog, now to be Percival Ramonce Rhyne-Kern, was adopted.
• • •
Once I told Shannon which dog we wanted to adopt and she told the foster families, everyone was excited for us to pick up the dog, including me. The Beagle Bachelorette game that played out on my blog also meant the “fans” were waiting to hear which bachelor our Beaglerette had selected. I had visions of playing out the announcement with a photo or even video of the two love beagles together when we brought Percival home. (In my fantastically delusional mind, the two would cuddle, hold paws, and pose adoringly. Ahem.) The problem was our Bachelorette needed to be spayed first.
The fates (and my love of beagles) once again conspired against my carefully laid plans.
The following weekend, I was attending a vegan restaurant fund-raiser for Beagle Freedom Project in Los Angeles. Shannon thought it would be a good idea if Vanessa brought Comet/Percival to me then, as the whole Beagle Freedom Project family could wish the couple well. I understood. It would be hard on Vanessa to let him go, but even harder if we left him with her for a few more weeks. Thus, despite my prior planning and my doubts, I agreed to pick up Comet/Percival at the fund-raiser, and I scheduled Daphne’s surgery for the following week. A week would be enough time for them to get used to each other. Wouldn’t it? And she wouldn’t come into heat in just the next two weeks, would she? No worries there either, I told myself—Comet/Percival had been neutered.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been blinded by love. And when it comes to beagles, I’m sure it will not be the last.
My weekend plans were set. Saturday, I’d take Daphne to the Bark for Life American Cancer Society walk in Simi Valley where I would be the grand marshal. The plan had been for Seamus to accompany me, so I was thankful I’d be able to take Daphne with me. After that, we’d head to the BFP fund-raiser and pick up our boy.
But there was another event before then. I’d agreed to volunteer at the National Canine Cancer Foundation booth at the Southern California Pet Expo on Friday. Now that I knew I’d have a new puppy, I had an additional reason for going. Though he was nearly two years old, given his background, Percival was for all intents and purposes a puppy. Percival would need a bowl, a leash, a collar, toys, food, all the accoutrements of being a well-cared-for (some might say spoiled) dog. And ooh, this meant I needed to come up with a signature color for Percival! Red would have been the obvious choice since his name derived from an Angels baseball player. But red had been the signature color of my Richelieu, the beagle who had passed away a few months before I adopted Seamus. Blue, purple, green—all the usual “boy” colors had been given to my prior beagles. But I’d have an entire fairground of booths to help me decide.
As it turned out, picking Percival’s signature color was the least difficult thing I’d have to think about at the expo.
I rose much earlier than I like to (which, truth be told, is any time before ten a.m.) and arrived at the fairgrounds on time. Already a long line of families waited to get in. Seeing the numbers of folks there to celebrate animals and maybe even adopt a pet was almost as warming as the French roast coffee I was ridiculously trying to carry while also carrying a stack of my books and my purse and camera. The books got heavier as I made my way across the fairgrounds and into the expo building where the National Canine Cancer Foundation booth was located. Given that all of my concentration was required to not (a) spill coffee, (b) trip, or (c) collapse under the weight of what I foolishly thought I could carry, I didn’t pay much attention to the hundreds of booths along my path. I did see, however, that I’d have to take some breaks and go exploring.
This was an animal lover’s heaven. Outside they had sections set up for various rescue groups—German shepherds (love them!), bloodhounds (those faces!), boxers (so fun!), English bulldogs (such character!), so many more, and, be still my heart…beagles! Inside the buildings were a variety of booths with various pet food companies, dog and cat toys, pet photography, adorable T-shirts and pet-themed jewelry—basically anything that had anything at all to do with pets was there. I was doing my own little AAARRRRROOOOOOO inside my head, but I couldn’t stop to shop. I had a job to do and a box to set down.
I took a break after about an hour and a half of working at the booth. There was no way I’d have time to see everything, so a carefully plotted-out plan would have been a good idea, but I was not expecting the expo to be that large or that fascinating. I plunged in and began to roam the aisles. Vanessa told me she’d been feeding Percival a sweet potato and fish kibble, so my one specific goal was to find that brand of dog food. If I changed his diet, I’d need to do it slowly, gradually mixing the old with the new. I also wanted to explore other foods and see if The Honest Kitchen was still the best option. Daphne had been enjoying the many containers of PetStaurant gourmet raw foods, but we’d run through those and soon we’d finish up the last of the supply of The Honest Kitchen. As I did with Seamus, I wanted to give these dogs the best meals I could give them. But I still preferred not to have to cut up animal organs.
What better place to compare food products than an expo with nearly all of them on display?
For Daphne and Percival, I wanted, as I’d been doing for myself (and trying to convince Chris to do), the diet with the greatest health benefits, and given that one in three dogs die from cancer, cancer-fighting ingredients were definitely still going to be a part of that. Daphne was still overweight and probably got that way by living off the doggie equivalent of junk food, the commercial, cheap kibble sold in grocery stores, and then whatever she could forage for herself when she was a stray on the streets of Los Angeles. And Percival had spent all but the last four months of his life confined to a cage, eating a diet that had more to do with reducing his bowel movements than providing him with a quality of life (clearly, that was not their concern). So what was the best diet for these two?
I approached one booth that emphasized “natural,” “organic,” and “holistic” in its signage. These all seemed like good things.
“So, tell me about your food,” I said.
“What kind of dog do you have?” she said.
“I have a beagle and I’m about to get another beagle. They’re both rescues.”
“Good for you!” She moved down the display of dog food samples and stopped in front of a blue package. “Beagles are active dogs, so you’ll want something more like this.” She handed me the sample.
“Okay. Well, one of them is a bit overweight, and the other is underweight. The underweight one was rescued from a laboratory where he was the victim of animal testing. So I really want to be cautious about what I feed them both—no chemicals or preservatives, and as nutritious as possible.”
“Bless your heart. The poor dog. And a beagle you said?”
“Beagles are the dog most commonly used in labs. He’s one of the lucky ones to even be released, but he spent eighteen months subjected to testing—no sunlight, no playing on the grass, no toys or treats or love. So we owe him a lot.”
She grabbed a handful of samples. “It’s all natural. The highest-quality ingredients you’ll find.” She reached for a box of treats and threw that in the bag too. “You give him our best.”
My day continued in much the same way. I took small breaks to visit other dog food booths, and when my time at the National Canine Cancer Foundation booth was over, I roamed over to the other buildings. Everybody had samples they gladly handed out, but other than the usual “fresh, wholesome” advertisement-laden hyperbole, it was hard to determine why one food might prove better than another. I also found that even though I had yet to formally adopt Percival, I was already intent on telling everyone what he’d endured and speaking out on the need to shop cruelty-free. “Just look for products not tested on animals!” I found myself repeating. I found I just as often heard “I had no idea” in response. And this was in an exhibit hall filled with animal lovers. While I felt mildly better about my own naïveté (which apparently loves company), I despaired that animal testing was such a well-kept secret.
I explored still more booths, and it became my turn to say “I had no idea.” I was now noticing the emphasis on “toxin-free.” Toxin-free toys? Bowls? Dog beds? So, there is such a thing as a toxin-filled toy, bowl, and bed? Yikes! Where had I been? When did all this happen? When did owning a dog get so complicated?
My childhood dog, Tippy, was a shaggy black cockapoo who was given to me by my parents as a Christmas gift when I was six years old. He lived until my last year of law school—seventeen years. Tippy rode horses and motorcycles with us, sat in my pony-drawn carriage in the 4-H parade with me, drank out of plastic bowls, ate commercial kibble from the grocery store, and shared nearly everything I ate as well. For seventeen years.
Much as I had liked living in my naive precancer bubble, eating whatever I’d liked, not exercising, and not looking into reasons I shouldn’t be doing either of those things, I much preferred the nostalgic era where dogs lived simple lives unaccosted by toxins. Having witnessed Seamus’s battles with cancer, and before him Roxy with her heart murmur, and before her Raz and Richelieu, whose deaths were most likely cancer related, I could no longer ignore the obvious: something has gone terribly wrong in this world, and the results are causing cancer in us and our pets. This seemed simple, obvious, and overwhelming.
I had never considered how dogs are even more susceptible than people to the toxic household products we typically use in our homes until I walked the expo aisles. Seamus slept on the floor, ate food off the floor when I dropped any morsels (which was more frequent than I’d like to discuss), and slept and rolled on the carpets, in the blankets, and on the grass and landscaping in our yard. And now Daphne and Percival would do the same. These were all areas regularly subjected to chemicals and toxins in the name of “cleanliness.” Percival had already spent enough time around toxins, and who knew what Daphne had been subjected to. This was definitely something I could do better. I could find better products. I made a note and a promise to myself and to Daphne and Percival.
I walked from booth to booth, picking up brochures, talking to the manufacturers, and buying what seemed legitimate, though I couldn’t say what my standard was other than a gut feeling. The only decision I was able to make with any certainty was that Percival’s signature color would be orange—the color of the animal anticruelty ribbon.
I bought a book on easy, nutritious meals for dogs written by a man whose dog, diagnosed with cancer, set him out on a journey much like the one I’d been on to discover the best way to feed our beloved dogs. He at least had the good sense to have the book endorsed by a holistic veterinarian. I vowed to do yet more research, though my head spun. I needed to know about a human diet that didn’t include animals, a canine diet that did, products that weren’t tested on animals, products that wouldn’t cause cancer, and products that did not harm the environment in which all animals, including humans, lived.
Yikes.
In a less-contaminated world, this exercise might be simple, but as I was rapidly learning, getting accurate information and finding healthy products was very difficult. Nontoxic and healthy aren’t the norm. The norm had spiraled into a terrifying mélange of improperly or insufficiently labeled products that likely caused cancer, harmed people and animals, and destroyed the environment.
I was falling down a rabbit hole, and it seemed the rabbits were being harmed.