I grew up with Maggy, my sister, my best friend. Maggy happened to be my dog. But I’m not kidding when I say that she was my sister. Until I was eleven I completely believed this, my mother convinced me that she gave birth to her. My dad would joke around and say “when Maggy was in the basonet, she was so hard to give birth to.” At my naïve age there was no reason not to believe that dogs were given birth to by humans… and in basonets. I spent more time with her than I did with my two older brothers, who I had a hard time relating to at that time.
Before me, my parents had two boys and had given up on having a girl. They always wanted a daughter named Maggy, so they adopted a daughter in the form of a Golden Retriever. I came along two years later but the name Maggy was taken so naturally I was named Kate. I like my name better.
In elementary school my dad used to put sweatshirts on Maggy on the first days of school, so we were prepared for whatever faced us together. One usual day in sixth grade, I was sitting in science class and a woman walked in with an adorable golden retriever puppy on a leash. At this point Maggy was getting grey and old, my dog-sister became more of a presence than a playmate, and this little puppy was so full of life. My teacher told us that the dog would be put up in our school’s annual auction to raise money for the school, a perfect tactic to use on young kids who they knew would fall in love with the adorable creature and run home to tell their parents the puppy is exactly what they needed. Some form of, “please put your money towards my school so I can have this dog and you can make me happy!” Obviously that is exactly what I did. I had to have this dog. It was so cute. I remember them telling me there was absolutely no way, Maggy was hard enough to take care of. There was no discussion and I was silenced in my misery.
A week later I was at my friends house and my parents picked me up telling me that they had a surprise for me at home. When I walked through the front door there was the puppy from the auction in my entrance hallway! They had foiled. I cried because I was so happy.
My new dog, Archie, was really rowdy. Five months after his addition to our family, Maggy had passed away. She might have lived longer if Archie didn’t ware her out. I think that my sadness towards Maggy’s death was slightened by Archie’s existence, something I see now as a blessing in disguise.
Even though I protested, we had to get Archie bark collars. He was out of control and would bark at every little thing that moved, or didn’t move. One time he fractured my Mom’s nose by jumping on her. My parents decided that something had to be done and ended up sending him to a guy people called “Hitler for Dogs.” He was this German man who has acres and acres of land in the middle of California and takes bad dogs and makes them better. Later I found out they spent $10,000 to make Archie calm down.
So Archie was away for half of a year on a farm with this guy. While he was gone we got another dog named Bentley, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, because we couldn’t be in a house without the companionship of a pup. I was never fully satisfied with Bentley because my loyalty to Archie was too solid. Unlike Maggy, I knew Archie was out there and I prayed that he thought of me, too.
Eventually Archie came home. The “Hitler for Dogs” gave us methods to maintain his new disciplined manner. We whispered to him when we wanted him to do something, because apparently dogs respond to your tone. They don’t know exactly what you’re saying so you have to keep a tone of neutrality. Anyway, no one seemed to pay attention to him because Bentley was in the house now, except for me. Archie and I slept together every night and I would whisper him my secrets. My parents said that when I left for college he would wait outside my door for me, or he would somehow get the door open and sleep on my bed. They tell me he’s never as happy as when I come home. He’d do this thing where if I was standing he would push his way through my legs and go around and around you. He was huge too, 110 pounds to be exact.
This year I went home for winter break and slept with Archie every night, as usual. A month after I came back to school my Mom called me and told me that he wasn’t doing very well. This didn’t worry me because he’s only eight years old and dog’s get infections all the time. I called home a couple of weeks after her call and he still wasn’t better. I was told he couldn’t walk or pee and he would stay awake all night whimpering. It was so bad that my Mom took him to a special MRI specialist. While my mom was at the vet she called me and told me they had found cancer all over Archie’s body. It was Valentines Day.
My friends and I were at my apartment drinking wine and avoiding the fact that we were alone on the day of love. While we were getting drunk and dancing to music my phone was going off with calls from my Mom, but I did not want to talk to her. I ignored the calls and vowed I’d call her in the morning, when I was sober and could deal with her nagging about how much money I spent or my grades. I had completely forgot that Archie was taken to the vet that morning.
The next day I called my Mom, and with out letting her speak I asked her if I could go on a road-trip with my friends for spring break. I went on and on about all the details and was so wrapped up in excitement I didn’t realize she wasn’t responding in her usual authoritative, perhaps concerned, way. She told me that all my plans sounded “fine,” and then paused. “Archie was put to sleep last night,” she said.
I could not stop crying. My friend came over and brought me cookies and a bottle of wine but no one seemed to care because it was a dog that died, not a “real person.” I would tell people that my dog died, and I never got more than an “Oh, that sucks.” I was alone in my mourning, and I was so far from home. I called my brother for support and he told me to forget about it and distract myself, so that is what I did.
I don’t think the reality of the situation will sink in until I go home and expect my dog to be there waiting by my door ready to push me down and follow me around. I’m so far away from home and the familiar roles in the life that I have there that I haven’t realized what is lost. I feel how I once felt when he was away learning how to be obedient. I have to pretend that he is off living somewhere, just without me, and it’s only a matter of time before I see his smiling, slobbery face again. I will take my cookies and my wine and ignore the fact that when I go home, I will be sleeping alone.
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