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| Hope keeping watch while Silas sleeps. Photo: Sydney Aronin |
We met Hope (we being my kids, Syd and Jon and I) when we visited a local shelter hoping to adopt a dog. We came upon a large cage in which sat one scrawny, black and white mutt. As soon as she saw us, she snapped to attention as if she knew winning the game meant making a good impression. She concentrated so hard on sitting still that she vibrated. Her tail rapidly mopped the floor in a sweeping arc, and she peered straight into our faces. The tag on her cage read "Maybelline."
I'm not sure why, but Maybelline seems to be the default name for all goofy-looking female dogs up for adoption.
"Guys," I said, "This dog has hope written all over her."
Isn't there an ancient admonition about becoming responsible for beings you have named? If there isn't, there should be, because now I'm responsible for Hope. It's not only that I inadvertently named her, but then I paid her adoption fees, paid for her shots, paid for her license, paid for her allergy tests, and paid for her skin infections. I just generally paid, and paid, and paid, and paid, and paid.
Complications related to Hope started on the ride home from the shelter. Thrilled to be going anywhere with anyone, she planted herself in the backseat between the kids, a soon-to-be-thorn-in-my-side nestled between two roses. Jon was cheerfully reading her paperwork.
"Hmm . . . This is interesting. It says here, 'Maybelline is partially housebroken.'"
I nearly pulled a U-turn in the middle of I-96.
"What??? She's an adult dog! How can she be only partially housebroken?"
I was already more than $150 in the hole with this dog. This news was like finding out that I'd just paid people for the privilege of inviting a stranger into my home, and now that stranger was going to urinate all over my carpet. Hope had lots of "accidents" before getting the kids and me trained.
The next thing we realized was that she'd probably been abused. When we'd reach out to pet her, she'd squeeze her eyes shut, hunker down, and brace for a blow. Eventually she learned to trust us but would get into scrapes with other dogs, so we had to be careful when walking her and never will take her to a dog park.
I've written about Hope here before. You might have already read about the day we moved into our new house. Feeling territorial and stressed, Hope shot out the front door like a fur-clad cannon ball and chomped down on an ancient basset hound belonging to our new neighbor. Hope is a lean and muscular dog with legs like an Olympic marathon-runner. Picture Eeyore plodding along, pausing to sniff a daisy only to have Goofy, all hopped up on adrenaline, screech up out of nowhere and jump him. That's what it was like, but luckily Selma recovered, I paid the vet bills, and my daughter took get well treats over to our neighbor who graciously forgave us.
Hope is otherwise quite social and likes to share. She likes to share my bed, my rocking chair, my love seat - but only when I'm trying to nap on it - and my personal space in the car. There has to be an important reason for me to drive Hope anywhere. Otherwise I avoid putting that dog in the car just as I would avoid putting myself into a tubful of dirt and drool, because that's more or less the equivalent.
The other night, I climbed into bed and shut off the light. Hope jumped in with me. Just as I pulled up the covers, she found the top of the blankets and systematically muzzled them to the foot of the bed - like a snow-plow driver. I'd pull the blankets back up, and Hope would push them back down. This went on until it dawned on me that she was trying to burrow beneath them, so I held the blankets up. Hope walked under, collapsed dramatically as if all that plowing had exhausted her, then sneezed against my bare leg like a snorting elephant.
Sometimes Hope does things that can only be described as inexplicable. One night when Jon was about 13, his friend Miles was staying over, and both boys fell asleep on the living room floor. Hope hopped off the couch, crossed to where Miles lay, and shoved her cold, wet nose into his ear to wake him up. Then she stepped on Miles on her way to where Jon lay and did the same thing to him. After she'd woken both boys, she stepped on Miles again on her way back to the couch and laid back down.
Hope is also protective of the kids and me. Once when my old boyfriend, Pete was playfully smacking Syd with a pool noodle, Hope barked out a few warnings, then bit down on the seat of Pete's jeans and pulled. She did the same thing when one of the neighbor kids was rough-housing with Jon.
Another time, when a date came to pick me up for lunch and Hope didn't know him, she repeatedly positioned herself between him and me and glared at him. This man, a self-described "dog guy," explained to me that Hope was "on alert."
"Right now I wouldn't consider even kissing you hello," he said.
Another of Hope's quirks is her jealousy of any dog that might be considered in any way superior to her - which some say is any dog ever, including Cujo. For Christmas a couple of years ago, I bought Syd a biography of Rin Tin Tin and Hope chewed it up before Syd got past Chapter One.
But then something will happen, and like those times when she tries to protect us, Hope shines. A couple of weeks ago, we brought home a kitten, a tiny orange tabby we call Silas. We read up on the popular wisdom for introducing kittens and dogs, and when we finally let them meet, Hope "motherized" him, herding and licking Silas, lying nearby as he slept, and patiently allowing him to maul her muzzle and climb all over her.
When our other cat, Kitt was perched on the sofa arm, Silas whacked her with his paw. Kitt tapped him on the head as a gentle reprimand, and Hope sent her flying with both front paws to the chest. Then she rushed back to check on Silas.
So now, not only am I responsible for Hope because I named her, I'm responsible for her because I love her. I love her for being such a well-meaning mama, not only to Silas but to my kids and sometimes even to me.
But thank God Syd's the one who named Silas; I don't need more responsibility.
