Dear Doris,

Dear Doris,

You were the best love. Some think there is only one kind of love, or there is only one thing to love, or one way to love, or that it doesn’t exist at all. They are wrong. There are many ways to love. Yours was the best of them all, a simple, uncomplicated, cherished love.

I was in the habit of helping lost dogs back in 2006. I’d see one wandering around the neighborhood with a gait like they got out and, if they were cool with people, I’d lure them into my backyard. I wasn’t a malevolent spirit, I was trying to be an angel.

I always found the owners via chips or tags or word of mouth. They arrived to pick them the dog up either mad and inconvenienced, or grateful and relieved. Regardless, I always felt like I jumped a dead battery or picked up some trash or helped a guy with a heavy load when I returned a dog. I felt like something was amiss in the Universe and I was available to make it right. It felt good.

I was trying to sell a car one particular night and gave the buyer a ride down Atlantic street in Algiers Point and he and I saw you running across the street in front of us.

“Man, I saw that dog almost get hit up on Opelousas!” he said.

“Let’s help it out,” I replied.

I pulled over to where you were, opened the door, and you jumped in. I sold him the car the next day.

You weren’t cute. You were dirty and had bugs and sores. So I kept you in the shed out back. Romy came home from work later and was externally processing about her job. Then I said, “I found a dog and she’s locked up in the shed.”

We tried to keep you there the first night but you weren’t having it. So we let you in the house to keep the peace. You wore a collar with no tag. It was going to be one of those flyer-and-word-of-mouth jobs finding your owner.

I was up for it.

We cleaned you up and noticed you had two sores on the insides of your ears in the exact same spot. It was odd and those of us who think the worst of people would think they were cigarette burns.

We distributed some flyers and it didn’t take long to find the man we would later discover to be your piece-of-shit owner.

The bartender who lived next door told us your name was Sophie and you often hung out in her bar, without your owner. She said you just wondered in and hung out with the regulars.

I liked that. You hung out in bars.

The bartender said your owner lived across the street from the bar so we pinned a note to his door and waited for the phone call.

It took two weeks.

By that time Romy named you Doris Day and we had fed you, housed you and taken you to the vet. Romy insisted we keep you and I resisted.

Your owner, let’s call him “Philly,” may be a piece of shit but you were his dog and the law of the Universe was that you had to be returned. That was my incorrect thinking at the time. It was 13 years ago and now I know about assuming responsibility for those weaker than you.

Philly finally called us and said he was out of town for the last few weeks and he left you in the care of his friend who wasn’t very responsible.

The bartender told us the friend was also a piece of shit and kept you locked up most of the day. We told her about the burns on your ears and she said it sounded like something he was capable of. She said your piece-of-shit owner was breeding Jack Russells and that was to be your use in life.

Nevertheless, I insisted you be returned to Philly. He was neglectful but not the abuser. I tried to give you back to him on the phone but he said he wasn’t currently in New Orleans. A little wiser, I put the ball in his court and told him to call me when he was ready to take you back, figuring it would be the next day.

It took another two weeks.

The neighbors said, “You should keep the dog!” and “Just keep her!” and “Don’t even think about giving her back!”

Philly did eventually call and thanked us for “watching” you and said he would be back in town soon and be in touch.

Two more weeks went by.

Romy decided we weren’t giving you back and this time I agreed. I didn’t need or want another pet. We had two cats. But, you weren’t being given back to Philly without some sort of official order or physical action. We contacted lawyers, the SPCA, cops, ran it all past them.

Philly finally called again and I told him we were keeping you to which he replied in his miserable fucking accent “I want my doo-wog be-yack!”. He started making demands and so did I. I wanted to be paid for all the food we fed you. I wanted the vet bills paid for and most critically, I wanted $10 a day in boarding fees for the time we kept you. It totaled more than $900. He said he would get in touch when he had it and I knew we would never hear from him again.

We “squatted” on you and won.

And you were legally “Doris” a few days later when we got you registered, vaccinated and, so you wouldn’t ever be commodified again, spayed. The SPCA found you had a microchip the entire time but it contained no data. We added ours.

Romy loved you but my jury was out. I was paycheck to paycheck, in debt, and had a job that didn’t leave much after bills were paid. Our house needed work. Money was hard to come by.

I softened a bit when I began to truly consider your intrepid spirit. Your creation myth was not that you were a stray or a rescue, you were a runaway. You were in a shit situation, being abused, and you took matters in your own hands (paws?) and broke free. You were smart enough to use your wards’ own irresponsibilities against them. You took your chances on the street rather than remain where you were being hurt. You were bold. You were badass.

You won me over more when I began to design Web sites and do graphic design on the side. I was trying to learn work that was rapidly developing past my skill level and my attempts to keep up were frustrating. I would cuss and act out at my desk and when you saw my distress you would attempt to jump on my lap and comfort me. Bark at me. Try to be as close to me as you could. This was something no dog I had growing up would ever do.

During my crying jags to nobody in particular on late whiskey Wednesdays you would do the same. You paid more attention than most people and didn’t hesitate to offer your sweet, loving soul to mine, always at the perfect moment. Just when I needed something amiable and devoted and loving to break me from that visceral place I was at, there you were with your best love.

You knew when I was hurting because once upon a time, you were hurting too.

We would road trip together and you were good company, often in my lap, sometimes out the window. We made many trips to my parent’s house in Florida and you would always get very excited when we pulled in the driveway. They had a big house with more expanse and sometimes you would run in circles through the kitchen, into the dining room, and into the living room so fast that it seemed like your ass was going to run past your happy doggy face.

It was on one of these road trips that I realized that I loved you and that it was the best love. We were with Randy and his two dogs Puck and Clio. They were a trio of experienced hikers. You and I weren’t. It was Randy’s idea to hike to Alabama’s biggest tree in the Sipsey Wilderness outside of Birmingham.

“How far is the hike?” I asked him on the way there.

“About six miles” he answered.

It was 12 miles. Six there. Six back.

“Can I do it in these canvas Converse?” I asked him.

“Hmmmmmm. Yeah, you should be able to,” he answered

I was indeed able to but with giant blisters afterward.

“You think Doris got this?” I asked him.

“Oh yeah,” he answered.

It occurred to neither of us that you never traveled any sort of distance or terrain like that, that you had the smallest legs of all of us and took so many more steps just to cover the same ground.

There was a moment in the hike I will never forget. There was a small crevasse that only had a fallen tree to cross it. It wasn’t a long fall if you slipped but, enough to cause injury, possibly severe injury.

We made it over with a lot of trepidation the first time but it was closer to the beginning of the hike. We had stamina and strength. On the way back, far less of both. You were in front of me on the way there but on the way back, I was a little out of it and walked across first without thinking. I then stopped and looked back and saw you sitting on the other side. Looking at me.

You weren’t coming across.

Several thoughts went through my mind.

The first thought was action. How am I going to get you over? Go back and get you? I barely kept my balance on the way over. Now I have to do it again to get you and then again holding you in my arms? What if you started freaking out and threw me off balance? We both could fall.

The second thought was, what if you just just wandered into the wilderness? I could very well lose sight of you and perhaps you would catch a scent and follow it. And how many nights would I stay in the Sipsey looking for you?

The third thought was just how devastated I would be if that happened. Then I realized I had the best love. I considered the void you would leave and just how close to my heart you had become. And inside, I panicked.

Dogs look to their owners for strength and if I freaked, maybe you would to Maybe you would run. So I just stepped out onto the log and called you, over and over. I tried sweetly. I tried commanding. I acted like maybe there was a small varmint on the other side you could chase. I guess it was combination of everything because after a few minutes of coaxing, you began to cross.

I’ll never forget the determined look on your cute doggie face as you just looked at me and made your way across the fallen tree without looking over the edge or up at the sky or anything but the few steps ahead of you and me at the end.

When you made it I kind of cheered and picked you up and you had that weird dog smile that isn’t really a smile but more of a projected human emotion…or is it?

We finished the trail and we were all hurting but I knew how bad you were when I saw you try to crawl over a log and your belly got caught on it and your big Jack Russell chicken breast hind legs came off the ground and kicked a few times before you just rolled off.

We made it back to the car and you slept on my lap exhausted while Randy and I sought beer through a series of dry Alabama counties.

The five of us were a pack that night and would reunite several times for more hikes, another of which I remember in particular. We were on Randy’s wife Elise’s family’s property outside Tuscaloosa. They call it “Contentment.” It was a beautiful house on a beautiful property. On these hikes, Randy was the leader and we all followed. He had the experience. He knew the land. Puck and Clio were his dogs. So, he led.

We were clearing brush after dark one night, the five of us again. We got to a clearing and, the light pollution was minimal so we all laid down and looked at the stars. We could see satellites, shooting stars, fireflies. It was magical. After a while, Randy had duties back at the house and got up to go but I wanted to stay a little while longer, catch a few more meteors, take it all in. He departed and his dogs, and you, went with him.

The four of you were gone a minute or so before I heard your dog tags clinking against each other in the night as you came back and laid down next to me in that clearing. You didn’t leave me out there. I was your pack and you were mine. You were the best love.

After this I became more comfortable walking you on the batture between the river and the levee on Algiers Point. When the river was low, a beach would form and we would walk and forth up and down it. Sometimes on the batture you got too far ahead of me on our walks and I would hide behind a big tree and peak out and watch you stop, look around and double back looking for me just like that night in Tuscaloosa. Then I would jump out from the tree and scare you and I swear you had a look on your doggie face that said, “Aw shit, you got me dude.”

You were protective.

One time you wouldn’t stop barking at the baseboard in our bedroom. The same spot. growling, barking, pawing, snouting. For days, the same spot, over and over. I knew there was a crawl space on the other side of that spot and a cat had kittens in there previously so, maybe the same thing was going on. I was sorta right. It was a possum. I set a trap for it with some cat food. It worked quickly. I pulled the trap out with the possum in it, let you see that it was caught, put you both in the truck and made sure you saw me let it go down by the river. I took you along because I wanted you to know you did a good job, that you were a good girl.

The next time you got protective, in the best case scenario you prevented a property crime and, in the worst case, you saved our lives.

Barack Obama had just been reelected president of the United States and I recently accomplished my lifelong dream of owning a kegerator. In that kegerator this night was a keg of Andygator and I would drink that stuff from a 20-ounce pint glass. One of these 20-ounce pints always got me in the mood for another and after the second one I wasn’t in the mood for anything because I passed out. I had that second one for democracy this night and the last thing I remembered was the graphic announcing Obama’s victory. You were curled up next to me on the couch.

I was stirred from my dunk slumber by you instantly up, alert, barking and running intensely to the window in the next room. This wasn’t normal so I groggily followed and when I got to the window you barked even louder and I heard a crash outside. You continued to furiously bark. I stepped outside the front door and saw a fallen ladder that had been placed by the window and the side gate open. I looked out into the street and saw a man trying to lay as flat as he could on my neighbor’s front yard.

“Oh I got your ass!” I yelled at him as you admonished him with barks by my feet.

The police were called as I followed his limping frame down the street. You had obviously scared him off the ladder and he injured himself. He moved slow so I stayed back a few feet on the phone with the 911 operator. She told me to stop following him and I did, and by the time the cops came he was gone.

You did your job though. He was trying to remove a pane of glass from the window, maybe to get the computer monitor that was on the other side or, maybe to get inside and do who knows what? He didn’t get inside though, because of you.

Though you helped me in so many more ways throughout our lives, this night was the most tangible and easily expressed manner. I remember the many, many more personal, intimate and spiritual moments we shared but, very few dogs get to run off a burglar. This was rare air for dogs. You were a champion that night. You were the MVP.

These were the best years of our household on Pacific. All five of our spirits were still robust. Some nights you and I and Romy and Tybalt and Tallulah would all be out on the porch in the Autumn or Spring, with our favorite songs playing, sitting on the swing, drinking mixed drinks. The neighbors would visit and the nights would go late.

Most mornings would begin with you sleeping at my feet, your resting soul the first thing I saw on so many days. It was an inspiration. For the first twenty minutes of the day it would be just you and I kinda cuddling and talking in the way you and I did,. Then we were up, coffee and more porch sitting as I threw dog treats into the front yard and challenged you to find them, and then into the workshop.

You were there with me in the workshop many hours as I learned to create art. You in the yard, snouting around and me sawing, hammering and painting. I made more bad pieces than good ones at first but then I found a success I never even knew I wanted. You were also, a success I never knew I wanted.

And then after the work was done it was you and me again on the porch, looking over the finished pieces of art and drinking the little puddles of beer I poured out for you.

Yes, you did drink beer. I would bring you to the bar for Romy’s gigs on Monday nights and I would get a pint of beer and you would get a shot of beer and we’d watch her sing. These were good, good times.

And then the cats got sick and one died and then other one died and the neighbor’s marriages fell apart and then so did my and Romy’s, an event I’ll never properly reconcile. It will just be something I carry.

There was no way I was taking you with me. The separation was my decision and she needed you more than I did. I lost a lot during these years, the togetherness of our pack, the bond of marriage, my life’s stability, my standing as a dutiful husband, my partnership, and you.

I was able to see you a few times a week when my shop was still in the backyard but you weren’t in my life every night and morning. I would come to the house and work on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and go away at night. Our day to day closeness was gone but your spirit was required there, on Pacific. Mine was too but, in my reasoning, you were my stead, and this was a tremendous gift you gave me.

On heartbreaking nights, as I left the house Romy would make sure to let you out on the porch as I left, forcing me to literally turn my back on you and my past life, get in my Ford truck and drive away as you barked and barked and whined and whined. This happened many times and each one was as sorrowful as the next or previous, and I seldom made Slidell St. before the tears would flow. I was filled with hurt in these moments but deserved all of them.

As the years went by our separation proceeded into divorce and I was no longer owner of the house that was once all I had ever wanted. I was no longer a husband and a partial owner of you. I saw you less and less but would still come by for walks on the levee. You were a little slower but still came back for me when I hid behind the trees.

By this time you had been with us 12 years. You were estimated to be 14 years old but, since we never really knew when you were born, you could have been older. You seemed slower but spry.

Then, you developed a cough.

The vet said it was chronic bronchitis or COPD, a disorder I only knew people to have but little dogs get it too. The cough caused something called esophageal collapse which made your coughs sound more like honks. Still, the condition sounded and appeared worse than it was. You could live with it on medication the vet said. It was true. We treated you with the meds.

When someone owns a dog, one they have owned since they were young, something very extraordinary and spiritual happens. When the pet is brought into their life, it is a child. Then it ages far more rapidly than its owner until at one point, both are the same age. Then the pet passes the person by on the mortal coil and leaves them alone on the path.

These years where I was in a midlife crisis, you were an old lady, facing trials I will not have to endure for decades. But you still had that intrepid spirit, the one that took you from those abuses you lived through as far more youthful soul.

Then something terribly unexpected and stupidly self-inflicted happened. Feelings got hurt between Romy and I. I made the decision that I couldn’t have her in my life anymore. I got all my things out of the house, sat on the porch with you one last time and said goodbye. I knew shared custody would mean interacting with Romy and that, to my stricken little soul, was not an option. So I forced myself to say goodbye to you right then and there. It wasn’t what I planned but, it was what happened.

Shit wasn’t easy. Pride versus regret is a pretty fucked up scenario. I would bemoan your absence to my new love Tisha and she would try to understand my prideful position but I knew she was pulling for regret. It would be one thing to lose you naturally but this decision to end it on my own terms was tough, stupid really.

I bought a house in Algiers and you were only a few blocks away. I daydreamed that you would get out and someone would find you and call my number which was still on your tag and I could come get you. Of course I would give you back but I would get a few more moments with you.

One night we were all drinking in front of the gallery, the gallery created from the art you and I used to make together, and I was lamenting my life without you and Tisha, a little more spirited and perhaps a little less protective of my ego, said, “You sure fucked yourself there!”

It hurt but it was true. I sure fucked myself.

It got to be torture. Jack Russells are a ubiquitous breed. They are easily trained and smart and cute so they tend to show up in film, TV, ads, and so on.

Reruns of Frasier would play and in my head …

“You sure fucked yourself there!”

I’d see Crate and Barrel ads with Jack Russells and…

“You sure fucked yourself there!”

On the packaging of dog food while grocery shopping…

“You sure fucked yourself there!”

Jack Russels being walked by the gallery…

“You sure fucked yourself there!”

Finally, I was watching a film featuring a Jack Russell named President Pierce and in the film there is a scene where a man is tasked with killing the dog for constantly vexing members on a wagon train. During the scene where the dog is shot I became unreasonably moved and damn near despondent over this fictional dog’s death and I knew it wasn’t the dog on the screen I was so overcome with grief about. It was you.

The dog in the film ended up escaping but by that time I decided I couldn’t live with the fact that one day I was just going to hear second hand that you had died. All because I “sure fucked myself there.”

So I decided to unfuck myself.

It worked.

Romy was amenable to partial custody and she didn’t have to be.

One cool night in December, for the first time in 8 months, I got to hang out with you at my house, on my porch, with coffee in the morning and beer at night. You were the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing I saw at night. You would hang out with me in the back while I made art. I would hear you barking at noises and it warmed my heart. I had unfucked myself and it felt good.

You were pretty gross by this time though. You farted a lot. The steroids you were on caused you to have a distended belly. The honks were louder. You didn’t always piss where you were supposed to. You breathed real heavy and slobbered far more than before. Everything leaked. I loved you as much as ever but you were definitely gross. I was fine with it. I have a high tolerance for gross.

Months went by and your visits became more and more frequent. I decided to build a fence around the front yard for you so you could roam more freely. I had just finished it and was hoping to bring you over that night when Romy called and said you had taken a turn for the worse. I came to see you and so began what Lucinda Williams calls “those long last moments.”

All the medications, and your conditions and your age were catching up to you. You weren’t walking much. Your breathing was much more heavy and, instead of the alert and receptive appearance you always had, there was very lethargic and exhausted manner about you. You were losing weight, eating less.

Several vet visits followed over the next week or so and in one I saw your vet, while looking at the file and trying to walk a tightrope between too much of this drug or not enough of another and the side effects of both, subtly shake his head. It was almost unnoticeable. I felt my heart sink.

The next 10 days saw a further decline in your health leading up to a necessary trip out of town for Romy in which I would be watching you. The night before I picked you up, Romy said you only ate a spoonful of food. I brought you to my house the next day and you were walking very slow and not very far. It didn’t matter if the fence was there or not.

I came back from the store with an arsenal of easily digestible food for you. Canned tuna, baby food, cold cuts, chicken broth, Pedialyte, anything to get nutrients into you. I wanted to get you back to your home alive. I didn’t want you dying on my watch.

You would eat nothing, not the food I bought for you, not the bacon I put by you, not even the steak I cooked up for you. Not eating meant no meds, no liver meds, no lung meds, no insulin injections twice a day.

A few more visits to a different vet and you got I.V. fluids, antibiotics, and a new prescription for your cough, this one an opiate based syrup that would also make you drowsy. It worked on your cough and we got your blood sugar under control but still no eating. Then, no drinking. Death was creating its cradle.

Your lungs, pancreas, liver and guts were all shutting down and I began to focus on comfort more than survival. I upped the dose on your cough syrup. I held you in my lap and in my arms many times throughout the day. Tisha and I sprayed Pedialyte in your mouth and sometimes you would swallow it.

Tisha and I carried you up to the levee and laid you down on the concrete overlooking the river. You were still somewhat aware and alert and a few times you sat up. Your ears perked up when others walked by. We stayed up there for awhile and let you take it all in. It was good to be with you and we soaked it up.

The following Friday you were very languid and far less alert and Tisha and I considered, with the prescribed drugs we had available, yours and ours, maybe making a strong enough dose of syrup to escort you from this world. We didn’t though. I desperately wanted to get you back to Romy alive because she loved you as much as me, and it was only 36 hours away.

I was punished for my hesitance the following morning when I awoke to find you with a death rattle, twitching on the floor. There could be no more waiting. Romy and I agreed and an appointment was sorrowfully made.

I ran some warm water to tidy you up for your journey and carried your limp body to the tub. You were conscious and awake but very distant and when the first few drops from the shower head touched your body you seized, shook and died.

It wasn’t peaceful, as if you were in my arms wrapped in blankets and slowly slipped away.

It wasn’t palliative, with a veterinarian and an accurate dose of barbiturates.

It was vulgar and horrifying and heartbreaking. I have never been more chastened by the Universe. I will always carry a guilt in my heart for letting that happen to you after all you had done for me.

We wrapped you up and put you in a safe place and drove through a thunderstorm to celebrate my mamma’s 70th birthday.

Romy and I buried you the following Monday in the backyard with Tybalt and Tallulah and all the other creatures that passed away away at 829 Pacific for one reason or another. We dug deep enough to hit water and laid you in it and mounted a marker with your dog tags nailed to it like a soldier. We drank and poured a little out for you, had a wake in the very spot where you and I made art together ten years earlier, in another life.

People like to describe unconditional love. It all seems too complex. It requires conditions to exist in the first place. It is better to call it an uncomplicated love. That’s what yours was. The best love. I learned so much about love from you but all you learned from me was how to sit and shake and speak for a treat.

You weren’t my pet, you were my friend. I’ll miss you forever and look forward to the day when I can hear your name or think of our time together and not be dungeoned by your void.

I know you are teaching me one last lesson, how to live with loss. It is a spiritual skill I will need more and more as I consider my life and the lives of the loved ones around me as my spiritual Universe stops expanding and begins to contract.

I am a better soul for having you with me Doris and I will always be grateful for your sweet uncomplicated love, the best love.