My husband has lingered on the periphery of these stories because he is not the main character in the kids and animals lives. I am. After all, I feed them. But on occasion my husband plays a central role and I would be remiss if I didn’t mention it. To properly understand his current relationships with our animals it is helpful to know that he was raised with dogs only. His family had a Beagle when he was quite young that never obeyed, and then a yellow Lab named Pogo who was my husband’s companion through his boyhood and into high school, when I met them both.
Pogo died one day when we were both at my husband’s house with his best friend. He had gotten into something poisonous, a dead fish or some fertilizer. He was in the house, laying on his side, bloated. He was a big dog and not knowing what to do I called home. My husband was crying, and his best friend was paralyzed in response to that display of emotion. My brother answered the phone and I burst into tears, sobbing out words that were nearly incomprehensible. My brother must only have heard, “Just come over, now!” So two minutes later (we lived across the road) he burst into the house carrying a loaded shotgun, highlighting the difference between our two families and what describes an emergency. “No, no, no,” I said, “Pogo died!” “Oh,” he said, deflating slightly, taking in the terrified look on my husband’s best friend’s face and uncocking his shotgun. He glanced at Pogo in the corner and said, “I’ll be back with a shovel.”
We had buried many pets at our house over the years, but my husband only had the one dog so it was quite a blow when he died. Perhaps that scar is the reason he has not entirely attached to our animals the way the kids and I have, or maybe he just wasn’t used to having such a menagerie. He has tolerated them though, and even shown them some affection over the years. He said he never really liked cats, but that Sugar was different. “She doesn’t act like a cat,” he said once. “That’s how cats ARE,” I replied, having several over the course of my childhood, each one cleverer and more intellectually fascinating than any of the dogs. Sugar climbs onto him when he’s laying in bed and kneads her claws into his chest, knowing as cats do, that he is reluctant to pet her. He has such a pained look on his face that I can’t help laughing.
But Charlie is different. He doesn’t merely tolerate her, he ADORES her, more than any of us I think sometimes. I got Hank for his fortieth birthday present, six years ago. Hank is the black Lab he always wanted. And Hank is the perfect dog, mellow in temperament, loyal, good, handsome. My husband loves Hank, but their connection is average. Hank is simple in some ways, and my husband is complicated. Their attachment goes only so far, the barrier between man and dog remains intact. The rest of us don’t distinguish much between family members, whether human or animal. But when Charlie arrived, everything changed. She snuck into his heart like quicksilver, and hasn’t budged since. It’s absurd to be jealous of a pint sized Corgi, but occasionally I get annoyed at the attention she receives. This is the thing about Charlie, she DEMANDS it. And she’s so cute, nobody can resist her. She’s not quiet, nor mellow, nor loyal, nor good. She is NAUGHTY. But her face is so alive with mischief and energy, that it’s infectious. She is FUN. That is what my husband connected to I think. What we all did. But she also likes to cuddle, and needs to be stroked and petted and loved. That sweet feminine side to her nature, in contrast to her tomboy personality, is what fascinates my husband. She is interesting, complicated.
So when she didn’t get up one morning he panicked.
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