No Name Doggie
…to name my dog. I just can’t get down to it.
Like Moses on the River Nile (though less momentously), my dog came into my family’s life tucked in a basket. A year ago, my dad came home from a friend’s house carrying a basket and, trying to be funny, said he decided to buy a raccoon to keep as a pet. You never know with my dad, so George and I were quick to believe him and refused to go near the thing. (Remember that House episode where the autistic kid had parasites in his eyes from eating raccoon, uh, waste? It has scarred me for life. For a hypochondriac like me, watching House is a bad idea, but I can’t resist. It’s like picking on a scab.)
Then my dad picked him up out of the basket and it took us a while to figure that the furry little runt was a mixed-breed puppy (a cross between a terrier and a Fendi white fox fur). It wasn’t too long before we were lovestuck.
To use my previous Moses comparison, my brother-in-law Gilson (who is excellent with dogs and my go-to guy when it comes to this dog and who has gorgeous Belgian Malinois and rotweillers) pointed out that the puppy could’ve been killed if we hadn’t taken him in since it was a runt whatever way you looked at it (especially from the underside. He had no, ah, basta “they” didn’t descend even after 6 months—and now, a year later, he just has, well, one teeny one. Georgia suggested we call him Ace). Apparently, if the dog isn’t a good candidate to breed (meaning, his genes are “sub-standard” in a dog’s world. I didn’t know there was prejudice and rank among canines!), they kill it off at the pound by crushing it or something. Gilson was going to supply me more details but I wouldn’t have it. Luckily, we got him, and now he’s not dogkind’s problem anymore—now he’s our problem.
He’s completely untrainable (it took months and months to housetrain him, and it got to the point where my mom made jokes—I think they were jokes—about poisoning him), kind of funny-looking, KSP, and so idiotic sometimes that for sure he would be the last God would call to take His people out of Egypt (although for sure my dog could easily get lost in the wilderness for 40 years). We thought he’d grow up to be a small, toy dog, but now he’s all of 25 pounds and registers as “medium”, a size too big. I don’t take him out on walks or play catch, although we tried to teach him—he kind of just looks at the ball and at us, like he means to say, If you want it so badly, I’m sure you can get it yourself. I wish I could say that at least he’s decorative, in the style of a maltese or Chihuahua, but he is too big to be cute; he is also too small and funky-looking to command respect in the same way a Doberman or a boxer might.
I don’t like dogs, and it’s no wonder: when I was a kid, I remember being chased a total of 5 times (5 too many) by various neighbourhood dogs; I got bitten by a friend’s dog when I was 12 and on top of the pain of the bite AND the tetanus shot I had to get that hurt so much my arm ached for a whole day, I even got grounded for a month for it (reduced to 2 weeks after begging and pleading with my dad), because I wasn’t allowed to play with the dog in the first place (the dog had a reputation for being fierce—the pre-Tyra/Christian Siriano definition of fierce); I got knocked down by a neighbour’s dog, too, and for years I always thought it was my sister Georgia who got knocked down by it, not me. (I think I brought it up pa nga in order to make fun of her. Me: “Remember when you got knocked down by Brownie after Rosemarie’s birthday party??? Hahaha!!!” George: “What are you talking about??? That was you!!!” I have not lived this down. I must’ve coped with the trauma by changing the memory to involve someone else.)
In spite of all this, I think I love the dumb dog. I think so. Let’s just see how I feel again the next time he does something stupid, like chew on my shoes (he’s done that) or a 1,000 peso bill (of all people, my mom’s pa. Apparently, he likes to live dangerously). But he’s also so carinoso. He’ll brush against anyone’s leg and stay there; he’ll sit on your feet; if you squat to pet him he’ll rest his head on your leg.
Last week, my dog had a fever and had to be prescribed oral medication, which worried me because he’s impossible to force-feed. I’ve had to be creative in the kitchen, stuffing the meds in meatballs, etc. In spite of all my culinary creativity, he didn’t get better, and on the 3rd day he wouldn’t even get up to greet me at the front door as he is wont to do. (WARNING: Gory details ahead.) I scheduled to bring him to the vet the next day, but was suddenly woken up by my dad early in the morning to tell me that the dog was bleeding from its nose; when I went downstairs it looked like there had been a massacre or something; there was blood on the floor and on the walls and on various pieces of furniture. There was blood in his pee and poopy. He made a mess (you can’t tell a dog, no matter how trainable it is, to blow into a hankie, or hide somewhere to do his business).
Turns out, after blood tests, he had something serious, and finding out more about the sickness, it seemed that the prognosis was bleak. I was surprised to find myself crying over this dog to get well and I never prayed so much for him and even asked my cellgroup to pray for his healing! (I used to secretly laugh at people who would cry when their dog died; I used to say, Sobra naman! I think it’s karma.) My friend Adriane ym-ed me and before she could even tell me anything I had to tell her to pray for my dog (it sounds so dumb but it was of utmost importance then!). She ym-ed back, saying, “I didn’t know you were so attached to your dog.” I replied, “Neither did I!” (I’m even surprised I’m spending time now writing about the stupid mutt.)
He is on 5 different types of medication (not cheap—one of them is 50 bucks a pop!), and getting him to take it is an ordeal for me and my dad. Now on his 4th day of treatment, we’re not only more creative but also resourceful, using the skin of leftover rellenong bangus to wrap the meds up or stuffing the meds in meatballs. He seems to be getting back to his old self, but he’s also becoming quite spoiled: he refuses to take rice or dog food and now won’t eat unless I actually feed him myself (his favourites: isaw, the aforementioned relleno, homemade chicken nuggets).
My friend Jean (who has a dog of her own, Kobe, a shih tzu, who’s been through quite a lot himself—distemper and eye surgery—and who I’m hoping my dog will take as his inspiration as he tries to get through this, haha) is pushing me to give him a name already. Although unofficially he is Jerry (to the supermaids Gina and Tintin) and was once named by my dad Scratch (parang naman we live in Oklahoma and he’s some Boston Terrier or something!!) which lasted very briefly (my dad has had dogs, quite beloved, named Slug and Bad Trip. I would actually prefer those to “Scratch.”), I don’t know why I can’t just pick one official name already. (It’s already messing up the vet’s files.) I think I’m just lazy, but I also don’t know if I feel right about naming a dog so randomly. It isn’t as complicated naman as that whole situation with The Cat and Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s (as she says, “We don’t belong to each other…”. My life is not that dramatic). I just haven’t found the right name yet. Maybe it runs in the family; Georgia picked up a stray kitten one rainy night after playing Frisbee in Ateneo; the vet’s file names her as Vicky (short for Victory, because her team won that day Georgia took her home, heehee) but she’s still Kitty, Cat, or Kitty Catty to all of us.
Besides, having no name means that the dog responds to anything I use to call him, and that’s convenient. Until I pick a name, I think my dog and I are happy to settle for Idiot Doggie (under the right circumstances), Ugly Doggie, Puppy Doggie, and Stupid Doggie. And ok, sometimes, I’ll admit, Sweet Pea.
