A Moment of Weakness

It could be that I was getting delirious, but it was at our first stop that morning that I experienced a sentimental moment. Sentimental moments for me come along about as frequently as Mets World Series wins, and I’m always surprised when I suddenly have one.

This one came as I was walking Weasel along the perimeter of our makeshift dog park. I looked over at all the great dogs milling around or lying down, and it hit me that pretty much every one of them would have been dead had we not intervened.

And then there were the people, these selfless, amazing people who’d given up their lives for a week to come do this. I knew they were having a great time, even if I had no idea why, but by any standard this trip had not been a walk in the park … it was more a tiring tiptoe through the dog shit.

And then there was Debbie, who at that moment was hugging Bernie and Louis simultaneously. If she didn’t exist, I wouldn’t have gotten involved in dog rescue. But if I didn’t exist, she would still have devoted herself to it.

I would love her no matter what, whether her time was spent saving dogs or collecting stamps. She takes her passion and runs with it, and a good strategy is not to get in her way. I can feel intensely about things as well, but I’m usually passionate from a seat on my recliner, remote control resting on my chest.

The way Debbie immersed herself in dog rescue was remarkable, and it’s not an emotionally easy thing to do. In baseball, they say a hitter can make it to the Hall of Fame by hitting not much more than three hundred, which means succeeding three out of ten times. But dog rescue is a hell of a lot harder; there is simply no chance to save three out of every ten dogs in Southern California shelters. For that reason it can be incredibly frustrating, and it can burn you out very quickly.

Debbie just shrugged this off and pushed on, using her time and money and energy and whatever else was necessary. The love and caring she put into the process over all the years makes me love her that much more.

And I looked at Wanda the mastiff, a gentle, lovable giant. There are thousands of Wandas chained up in backyards, spending their days alone and without the human contact they crave. I was just glad and very grateful that we had enabled her to live such a great life.

And of course there was Weasel, lumbering slowly at the end of my leash. Weasel had been with us since the beginning, which was almost seventeen years before. She’d lived with us in Santa Monica and Orange County, and since she had slowed down markedly, I’d been nervously hoping she’d be around to live with us in Maine.

And I decided that she would, even if I had to carry her across the finish line myself.

I remembered when we decided that Weasel would become a member of our family. She was the first dog for whom we had a permanent tag ceremony.

Some couples might play games like “lonely housewife and handsome deliveryman.” Not Debbie and me; our playacting, like everything else in our lives, is dog related.

So I would pretend not to want a dog that we’d brought in to become a permanent member of the household, and Debbie would pretend to try to convince me, though she was never successful. But she would “secretly” order a permanent tag, and once that arrived, the rule of the game was that it was too late for me to protest. So we’d gather all the dogs around and conduct a ceremony in which we’d put the permanent tag on the new dog.

I know … not exactly “stranded driver and the farmer’s daughter,” but we liked it. And the dogs liked it when they all got a biscuit as part of the ceremony.

But the goofiest thing I do, which I’ve never told anyone but Debbie before, is I talk to the dogs. Not just hanging out, “how’s it going” conversations, and it doesn’t happen that often, only when there’s something of significance to discuss.

For instance, whenever we bring a new dog into the house, I talk to the newcomer just before I go to sleep. It’s usually comfortably ensconced in a chair by then, or lying on one of the twelve thousand dog beds we have lying around the house.

But it had to have had a rough day, coming into a house with maybe thirty dogs, all of whom had bombarded the new one with attention and curiosity. And much worse than that is probably the life the new dog led before us that resulted in its being dumped in an awful shelter.

I never have any way of knowing how much it has been bounced around, or how many times it has been abandoned or thrown out. The poor dog could be viewing our house as just one more stop, one more place in which it would ultimately not be wanted.

So I would lean down and spend a few minutes petting and telling the dog that it was safe now, and would be comfortable and loved forever. I’d say how happy we were that it was part of the family, and that it should just relax and enjoy life. The dog never responded verbally, but I would keep petting until it shut its eyes, so if there was any discomfort it was well hidden.

The other time I’d talk to the dogs was when they were ill and we both knew the end was near. I’d tell them that I knew they didn’t feel well and that we wouldn’t let them feel that way for much longer. I’d tell them not to worry, that we would do only what was best for them. And I’d tell them that it was great having them as part of our family and that we would always see them that way.

But at that moment, in that makeshift dog park next to the RVs, I leaned down to talk to Weasel. We’d had a lot of conversations over the years. “Weasel, old girl, we’ve come a long way.”

She didn’t answer me, which was to be expected. Weasel had never been much of a conversationalist.

“You’re going to love Maine,” I said. “We’re on a lake, and the last time we were there, wild turkeys came right up to the house.” The truth was I had no idea whether Weasel had feelings for wild turkeys, either positive or negative. I was just very happy she was going to live long enough to see them.

Debbie came walking toward us; I would have bet everything I owned that she knew exactly what I was feeling.

When she reached us, she leaned down to pet Weasel and then looked up at me. “She’s going to make it,” Debbie said.

I nodded but didn’t say anything, since I was in the process of experiencing another sentimental moment. It was the second one in a half hour, doubling my previous high.

Finally I said, “Yup.”

I’m at my most eloquent in sentimental moments.