W hen my husband moved out, our children were confused, frightened, and desperately unhappy. As much as I tried to soothe their hearts, their emotions ran deep. One afternoon, in a moment of what was either brilliance or foolishness, I took my son, age eleven, to a local pet store. Matthew immediately fell for a tiny Australian shepherd mix (the salesperson swore the dog would grow to perhaps fifteen pounds…ha!), and we agreed that a little black puffball of a cockapoo was perfect for his sister, age nine. When we presented the puppy to Alisa, she let out a little shriek of surprise and then melted with pleasure. By the end of the day, Matthew was the caretaker of Pookie, and Alisa was devoting every ounce of maternal instinct to the cuddly mass she had named Muffy. I watched the children with their new pets, saw the joy and tenderness in their faces, and knew with certainty that, no matter how much work these puppies would require, they would bring joy to my children.
Four years later, Matthew was fourteen and living with his father, and Alisa had moved with me to a turn-of-thecentury craftsman-style home in Palo Alto. The old house was nearly perfect; the only drawback was the backyard. While it was more than large enough for trees, flowers, and a vegetable garden, it was inadequate for the needs of what had become a very large Pookie — a full-sized dog whose need to run far exceeded the space. At the time, Matthew’s father was unable to keep the dog, so we were left with a terrible decision — what to do about Pookie, one of the most loving and intelligent dogs who ever existed. With a deep sense that I was letting down my son, I gave Pookie to a woman who had long admired and adored him. The fact that she lived on more than an acre of doggie playground did not assuage my guilt.
I had decided to make the move to the active and education-focused Palo Alto, from the sleepy Los Gatos community at the foot of the Santa Cruz Mountains, because I believed Alisa would thrive in this new and culturally rich environment. I was wrong. Adolescence was not easy for my daughter. Here we were, in a town where she knew no one, yet she soldiered on through middle school. When she entered high school, she was charming and beautiful, and made many new friends, but I became overly protective and too often distrusted her choices. We argued incessantly. Was she really going to wear that to school? (Glare.) Did she have any intention of doing her homework? (Roll eyes.) Was it asking too much to meet this girl’s family before my baby climbed into that car and disappeared into parts unknown? (Slam door.) There were times when I questioned whether my daughter, or even her mother, would survive these years, and I sought counsel about being a better mother, more accepting, less controlling.
As I floundered and gasped through the process, often leaving my daughter wondering what the hell her mother was trying to convey or accomplish, there was one constant in her life that never, ever let her down. Never forgot to love her. Never turned away and sighed too loudly when she was in the throes of one of those teenage pique or angst moments. That constant was Muffy, the sweetest dog, the most steadfast companion. I recall telling my friends that Muffy was my protector as well, because, had my daughter ever been armed, she would never have pulled the trigger for fear that the bullet might pass through my heart, hit the wall, deflect off a pipe, and somehow find its way to Muffy!
Imagine, if you will, a girl of fifteen, tall and coltish, a mass of auburn hair tumbling around a face that, only a year earlier, was notable for the braces she wore on her teeth. Suddenly she was duckling-to-swan beautiful. My daughter was bighearted and kind, unaware of her beauty, and yet she suspected that something was indeed changing. Now imagine a girl typically confused, wondering where her life was going, too young to imagine more than a few days into the future. Was she afraid? Did her world feel unsafe? I wanted only to protect her, to provide a haven where she never had to question whether she was accepted and loved. I didn’t always succeed.
Filling in the gaps was Muffy, a fluffball of a dog who would race into her room, jump on her bed, use his nose to lift the covers, then rush down to her feet, where he would promptly turn around, scoot back up toward the light, and, in a show of devotion and uncanny — but perhaps not uncanine — perception, plop his head on the pillow, look into this girl’s eyes, and give her one slurpy lick on the face. After sighing in unison, they would fall asleep. And those times when my beautiful woman/child picked up Muffy and hugged him? He would place both paws on her shoulders and return the hug. Thanks to this dog, the confusions of adolescence were less painful.
There was a time when, for many long and difficult months, my daughter had to share Muffy’s tender nature with me, a mother going through her own angst. I had fallen in love with a smart, quirky man who was, alas, emotionally unavailable — a recurring theme in my life — and the collapse of this relationship left me bereft. (Actually, miles beyond bereft, but gasping for air or falling into a useless and pathetic mass of protoplasm seem melodramatic, accurate as these phrases might be.) I worked all day, nagged Alisa about her homework and responsibilities all evening, and then cried myself to sleep. My poor daughter was torn between keeping her own head above water and making certain her mother’s life jacket was securely fastened. Enter Muffy. In addition to being my daughter’s loving support, the dog who may have understood nothing about teenage challenges and brokenhearted women somehow keenly sensed the need for his loving presence. With Muffy nearby, both of us felt adored and appreciated.
ALISA WAS NEARLY EIGHTEEN and about to graduate and head off to university when disaster struck. After a weekend away, we came home to find Muffy on my bed, his curled up body surrounded by feces. I was furious and shouted at him to jump down, which he did. Rather than racing into the kitchen and out the doggy door as usual, he scuttled along the floor, back legs dragging behind him. Alisa and I rushed him to a local vet, where they kept him overnight for observation. The next day, they informed us that he had ruptured a vertebra and nothing could be done: the paralysis was permanent.
We were faced with a weighty decision. The vet told us that surgery was purposeless, but what if there was even a smidgen of hope? Certainly the dog who had given his all to our family deserved every chance at recovery. We spoke to several veterinarians and learned that a clinic in Santa Cruz specialized in the kind of spinal surgery that sometimes reversed a dog’s paralysis. We made an appointment and murmured hopeful incantations.
After the surgery we brought Muffy home. Over the next few weeks, we tended to his wound and kept him comfortable. I took him onto the lawn several times each day and performed acupressure on his bladder, because he was no longer able to empty it on his own. He always looked away, as if embarrassed that a life of joyful dashing about had somehow come to this. Were we expecting too much from him and selfishly trying to convince ourselves that he could live a happy life on two legs? Ambulatory or not, Muffy would continue to dispense unlimited love, but at what price?
I rigged a sling for his midsection and walked him around the neighborhood, his hind legs dangling above the ground and his front legs racing as if nothing had changed. A veterinarian who specialized in acupuncture came to the house and inserted needles into areas that energized nerves. We bought a wheeled contraption that, when strapped on, took the place of his paralyzed legs. Sadly, nothing changed the fact that, when Muffy was not harnessed, or his legs were not supported, those legs dragged behind him like boneless flesh. Even worse, he became quiet and withdrawn.
The day finally arrived when we had to accept the truth. With Alisa now a young adult and her mother finally getting the hang of motherhood, we were able to talk this through, share our sense of impending grief, and give each other the emotional support required to make the right decision.
On the appointed day, we drove back over the Santa Cruz Mountains for the postsurgical evaluation. Alisa carried Muffy into the waiting room and held him close. The evaluation took only minutes, and we were told that, as we had feared, his injury was too severe, that nothing had changed.
Alisa and I were left alone to confer. We both knew what had to be done, but the choice was beyond painful. We held each other, Muffy between us licking our faces as we wept over what we both knew to be the inevitable. As the doctor and his assistant assembled syringe and vial, we cradled our dog, stroking him and speaking with love. We thanked him for the years of joy he had brought into our lives and wished him a life where he could run freely and without pain. With Alisa holding his head and murmuring to him, and me scratching him behind the ears and wishing him a peaceful journey, he died quietly.
I loved that dog. Even when he rushed up to me, rolled over to have his tummy scratched, and piddled every damn time, he was special. The fact that he died more than twenty years ago and his memory can still evoke such emotions says so much about the role he played in our lives. There’s a joke that has to do with the question of when life begins. Three clerics are arguing the point. The priest insists that life begins at conception, while the minister states that life begins at birth. The rabbi announces, “Life begins when the children go off to college and the dog dies.” Muffy’s death was not a new beginning but the end of a period in our lives that had been fraught with tension and uncertainty, teenage confusion, and a mother’s need to control. It was also a time when love and acceptance, warmth and joy, were delivered by a fluffy little dog who reminded my daughter every day that she was lovable, that she mattered, and that no matter how difficult life seemed, no matter how much she felt that her well-intentioned mother was making a botch of mothering, he was always there to share her pillow, listen to her secrets … and never tell.