Dogus Interruptus

I’ve come to appreciate the differences between Henry’s and Jasper’s personalities, but there are some traditions I carried into Jasper’s life after Henry died. For example, I tell Jasper that we have to put on his necklace to go outside. It’s just a regular collar, but it sounds more special if I call it a necklace. Which is kind of like calling ground chuck “Salisbury steak.”

I also came up with a kiss attack game that both of our dogs loved. Peter and I will slowly come at Jasper from either side and I’ll whisper, “We’re gonna get you… We’re gonna get you…” and Jasper sits there in anticipation, not moving anything but his eyes, and when we get close enough I give the signal and then we give him a kiss attack, smooching him as fast and as many times as we can.

One thing we vowed not to do with Jasper is to give him as many table scraps as we gave Henry. I used to feed Henry half of my plate, and I snuck food to Henry when I thought Peter wasn’t looking, then Peter wouldn’t give me a hard time about not eating enough. Of course, Peter says he always knew when I’d given my dinner to Henry because (a) he wasn’t blind and (b) I was snappy when I hadn’t eaten enough. True on both counts.

I’ve long wondered if giving Henry so many table scraps affected his health later on. I know that most dogs live only to thirteen or fourteen, so Henry had a long life for a dog. But I believe he would have been healthier and maybe not have contracted Cushing’s disease with a more healthful diet.

Jasper gets a mix of kibble and grain-free protein, and on weekends I’ll make him some scrambled or poached eggs if we’re having the same. He loves bully sticks, which are a good chewy treat, but they smell disgusting.

Once at a friend’s house, they’d bought Jasper a Texas Taffy bully stick to chew while we watched a football game. The husband of the couple almost threw up. He is an NYPD detective and he said that while he’d smelled plenty of dead bodies, bully sticks were much worse. It smelled awful to me, too, but I laughed so hard I cried.

Meanwhile, Jasper was unaware of the problem his treat was causing. He just chomped on it and ignored our cries to open the windows. Too bad they got the extra-large size.

And there’s a new treat he’s been getting. I hate to admit it, but how can I resist? At our favorite restaurant in South Carolina we take our friends and sit outside with our dogs, and I splurge on a side of bacon. But it isn’t for me. The dogs get to share it. They love it and I get a kick out of watching them devour it.

A special treat that only I give to Jasper is a spot of lotion on his paws. Most dogs love lotion, especially after you’ve just come out of the shower and moisturized. It’s cute, but no one wants their dog to lick off their lotion.

So instead of yelling at him, I taught Jasper to lie down and stick out his paws. Then I put a little dab on the top of each paw and he gets to lick it off.

“You want your lotion?” I ask him at night when he comes in before bed. He gets so excited and Peter just shakes his head, bemused, as Jasper and I do our thing. When Jasper goes to stay the night at someone’s house while we’re traveling, I note this little tradition in case they want to try it, too.

As an adult, I swore our dogs would never sleep all night in bed with us. For years, I’ve fallen asleep on Peter’s shoulder and that’s still my favorite spot—where I feel closest to him and safest in the world. Unfortunately, Peter has to travel a lot, and when Jasper and I were alone, I lost all of my “no dogs in the bed” willpower one night.

The entire time Jasper had lived with us, he’d slept on his little bed next to Peter, boxed in with suitcases and cardboard boxes so he couldn’t wander around in the night. Peter would drape his hand over the bed and settle Jasper down if he woke up, and we’d look at each other and giggle when Jasper would yawn in the morning—you’ve never heard such a high-pitched squeal. Then we’d try to sneak pictures of Jasper as he learned how to clean his face and lay on his back playing with a toy. It was a small bedroom, a tight squeeze with our bed, nightstands, dresser, and puppy. But there was no place else I’d rather be.

So, back to my weak moment that changed everything. Peter was away and I had been late at work one night. A sitter had taken care of Jasper and when I got home, it was time for bed. I got ready and put Jasper into his bed and made sure the suitcases were in place to block his way.

I turned out the light and said good night. There’s enough ambient light in New York City that the room wasn’t completely dark, and I could see that Jasper wasn’t settling down. He was just sitting on the floor, his head now tall enough to see over the mattress. He was staring at me.

“Go to bed, Jasper,” I said.

He didn’t move. He just stared. If a dog can look incredulous, he did.

“Now, Jasper. Go to bed!” I raised my voice. Still he didn’t move. I turned over so that I couldn’t see him, hoping that he’d realize it was time to go to sleep. But he didn’t move. He was playing the game of statue with me, and he was winning.

Feeling his eyes on me, I said again, “Jasper, go to bed now!”

Then I decided to ignore him. If he didn’t want to sleep but instead chose to sit there looking at me, I’d leave him to it.

But he kept staring. I could feel his eyes on me. And I was feeling lonely and restless, too.

“Well, maybe if he just sleeps with me when Peter is gone… No, that’s a terrible idea,” I thought.

And then, in a moment of exasperation and weakness, without turning around to face him, I reached my hand back and patted the bed. Jasper recognized the invitation, and he was up like a shot, curling into the backs of my legs. It was so cozy.

“Oh, Jasper. We are in so much trouble,” I said. But I smiled and fell asleep.

I’d broken the seal. And he’s shared our bed ever since.

I try to make room for him while also sleeping on Peter’s shoulder, but sometimes that’s uncomfortable. I’ve tried putting him on the other side of us, so that I’m in the middle, but that doesn’t work because Jasper likes to be in the middle.

Jasper and his sock monkey, sleeping on the bed.

“Dogus interruptus,” Peter calls Jasper.

So then we tell him to go to his own bed and he does… for a while. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I’ll hear Jasper get up and walk over to my side of the bed (not Peter’s—he knows who will cave), and he shakes his ears and sits down and stares at me. I wait a bit, and then I just pat the bed. Up he comes. He still likes to spoon into me, but I have to brace myself—Jasper curls around, gearing up, and then slams into me. We laugh and then Peter and I hold hands on top of Jasper’s flank. No wonder he likes to be in the bed with us. It’s a family cuddle.

And it all started with a moment of weakness on my part. Now it’s a strength. Why? Because Jasper has helped me relax and not be so uptight. I don’t have to rigidly follow the rules anymore. And that’s made life a lot more fun.

Jasper is such a good companion. He’ll do whatever we’re doing—follow a soccer match on TV, cheer for a team, settle down for a nap. He spends a lot of time standing on his two back legs using a counter for support. And he and never sits on the floor—he prefers to sit on the furniture. My friend Jeanie Mamo has always thought Jasper thinks he’s human.

Getting up on the furniture was a big no-no for dogs in my house growing up (the cats had no such rule). And Henry didn’t particularly like to get up on the couch, unless he was told he could and even then he’d last only a while because he got too hot sitting next to us.

Jasper, on the other hand, never saw a chair or sofa he didn’t think he had the right to get up on. He sits up and stares straight ahead, sometimes watching TV, acting like a person. His favorite show, of course, is Wheel of Fortune. Followed by The Five and football.

He particularly likes it if there’s a person already sitting in the chair. He clambers up and will always find—or make—room to sit next to whoever is sitting, no matter how small the chair is. And this is not a small dog.

My lap dog. Greg Gutfeld took this picture to try to show people how small I am.

On my rocking chair in the bedroom where I write, he will sit at my feet and look at me, ignoring my suggestion that he choose the bed so that I can study for the show. Eventually, because it is hard to work when someone is staring at you (unless you’re an actor), I invite him up.

Jasper weighs about sixty-four pounds and is tall and lean. That makes getting up and turning around a bit of a challenge. But he’s never failed to curl up and squeeze in right beside me. He sits straight up for a long time, resisting sleep. When his head and his eyes get too heavy, he’ll give in and negotiate for some more room on the chair. That gives him nowhere to rest his head except for on my arm or my keyboard. And still, I adjust. I use his back as a table to rest my computer, or I type at an angle with my head cocked to one side so that I can see the screen straight on. It gives me a real pain in the neck.

Peter gets the same treatment. Jasper lies next to him all day while Peter works from the sofa. Sometimes when Peter has had conference calls, he’s had to apologize for Jasper barking—he also wants international clients to know it’s not him making strange noises. A few times Jasper has ended up in the screen shot during a Skype call and thankfully, the clients on the other end laughed. They either thought it was charming or that Jasper was the sales rep. It really is a one-man-and-his-dog operation.

At night when we’re cleaning up the dishes or getting ready for bed, Peter or I will make excuses for staying put, saying, “I’d get up, honey, but… the dog.” And because we don’t want to disturb him, neither of us minds doing the dishes. (I just try to be the one that happens to be trapped by the dog.)

It’s a dog’s life in our house. Happily so.