It is April on Southport Island now, and the cabin is open. This precious cabin. There is solace for an old dog here, perhaps even something like heaven. I bathe in the warm sun of the sliding glass doors until I grow sleepy. There is no crate here. There is swimming and walkies, and Don is always ready with snacks and adventure.
My life has moved over me the way the Maine seasons do. Warmth. Abandonment and emptiness. Survival. And then—after it all—spring begins as a small light. A feeble stirring. Warmth and softness return, and then life gushes forth in a fierce flood.
From my place in the sun, I hear the small, gentle things returning. The chicka-dee-dee-dees. The hummingbirds' drone. The slow, deep burr of lobster boats cutting across the still ocean at dawn. Even the buzzing of mosquitoes and black flies just outside the screen.
But I am not here yet in the telling of my life.
I have many years to tell before we arrive here.
MY NAME IS ZINNIA
Once I understood what was expected of me, my life soon became a sleepy routine. I ate, relieved myself, and slept. Then there was training. I looked forward to it. I was just happy to be out of my crate.
Joan taught me my name: Zinnia. For the longest time I believed I was named after a yellow flower the color of my fur. Later, I found I was named after a flower with many colors. I remember feeling sad that my name had nothing to do with me.
Joan trained me with treats and sharp, swift corrections. The best training times were when she brought me to sweet-smelling parks and athletic fields with silky green grass. One time Joan let me run around and explore before starting. I was overwhelmed by all the smells at the edge of the woods. Those earthy, tantalizing scents called to me. They pulled me to a life of adventure well outside my paw's grasp.
When any Bipeds came over to our training sessions, they asked what my name was, and Joan always said "Ganglepuss," because my body parts grew at different rates. My ears grew to adult length overnight, whilst my legs grew not at all, and so I constantly and whimsically tripped over my own ears.
Those Bipeds played with me. They took me up in their arms and my nose was assaulted with the strange, alien worlds they came from; choking perfumes and subtle scents dribbled down their shirts during lunch or breakfast.
I always tried to do what Joan asked of me. She got very excited when I learned things for the first time, and she would clap her hands together in front of her face. She called me a good girl and gave me a tasty treat.
The worst times were when she had no time to train me, but felt she had to. She would speak quickly and abruptly, her hand gestures alien and frantic. When I didn't understand her, she raised her voice and I became afraid. There was no teaching me when I was afraid. Joan called me nasty names and bustled me up into the back seat of the truck.
Joan drove away rapidly and chain-smoked cigarettes. Oftentimes, she only acknowledged me by refilling my food and water bowls at the Sky Prison. Other times she wouldn't give me a kind word for days. It was her way of punishing me.
My world became slippery when Joan punished me. I grew uncertain, as if the ground beneath my feet quaked and nothing felt safe, as though nothing I could do would make it right.
DOUG
When I was a mere pup, I thought Doug was cruel.
When I got older, I thought he was angry.
Now, in the quiet of my years, I think he was something much simpler: he did not know how to be otherwise.
It would be wrong for me to paint Doug or any other character in my story with a single brush. I do have a few fond memories of Doug.
One breezy, drizzly spring morning in my youth, we all went down the stairs to see Doug off to work. In an instant, a large neighbor dog charged me.
I was knocked over and pinned down. The dog forced himself on top of me and grabbed a hold of my throat, his teeth ripping. He shook me furiously. My tiny feet clawed at him uselessly, and I squealed at him with my diminishing breath to please stop.
Doug quickly and silently grabbed the dog by his neck and knocked him to the ground with me still in his mouth. I saw Doug's solid boot heel press against the neighbor dog's neck, and then my world began to fade. I was certain I was meeting The Great Black Dog.
Gradually, the weight around my neck relaxed, and I gulped air in great, greedy lungfuls. I dumbly realized through the ringing in my ears that I was still alive. The world reassembled itself, and I saw the neighbor dog's head hanging oddly, like a puppet with its strings cut. His limbs twitched as the last life from his body drained to The Great Black Dog.
Doug lifted me to the safety of his chest. He examined me through the blood-caked apron around my neck. I screamed a late warning to everyone that there was a mad dog loose. Doug pressed me gently to his chest and kept hushedly saying, "OK... OK... OK..."
The neighbor dog's Biped ran up to us. He was very angry. He got very close to Doug and yelled at him. Doug's weather was calm that day, and he explained that he was late for work, and he was bringing me to the emergency veterinarian. If the man was smart, he would pay every bill Doug sent him. Even the loss of his pay for taking me to the emergency vets.
The owner turned and kneeled down over his dog. He was crying. After a moment he began dragging his dog's limp body back to his house.
It was then I noticed Joan in wide-eyed shock, leaning against the Creaky Door with her hands over her mouth. Then I noticed other Bipeds in their nightclothes staring at us from their windows, decks, and tiny lawns.
Doug saved my life.
Something passed between us that day, although I did not yet understand its shape nor its meaning.
GOOD TIMES
I wondered at times what Doug did to Joan when I could not see.
There were tumultuous fights between them where I wished there was more room for her in my crate, but I never saw or heard him strike her. His cruelty and anger lived elsewhere—in his mind and in his heavy, unmoving silence.
As I grew older, he began to take me with him in his truck. He brought me places that felt like gifts.
Places like Dunkin' Donuts where he would get me a Munchkin, or let me have the last bite of his sandwich. Sometimes he held his coffee out to me and laughed when I recoiled from it.
He often put more food in my bowl than Joan. Not out of care I think, but because he did not measure things carefully. It did not matter. I was grateful for the extra food.
Sometimes, when he was relaxed, he would let me on the couch whilst he sat before the glowing screen. He rested his hand on my head gently. I would stay very still, believing that if I did not move, I might quiet whatever demon lived in him.
A LIFETIME OF DOUG
It was a large party, even for The Sky Prison. Joan and her friends were all there. Neighbors and lots of dogs were there, as well as small Bipeds chugging around uncertainly on their young legs. Almost everyone was wearing a costume. Streamers and decorations hung from the ceiling, walls, and everywhere. There was food packed on the table on "The Good Plates." The male Bipeds mostly satellited around the keg of beer at the bottom of the stairs, and the female Bipeds mostly stayed upstairs around the spirits, food and throbbing music.
I met a Mini Dachshund named Skeeter. Oh, how he made me laugh! He called his Bipeds "Deadnoses" and did an impersonation of them by looking vacant and far away. Then he cocked his head quickly at you with crossed eyes and said "What was that smell?"
Skeeter had all the dogs following him throughout the night. We were a Dog Army underfoot, and we scoured the Bipeds and the carpet with hungry eyes for the merest of snacks. I heard Joan say, "Get Ready for Dog Diarrhea Sunday!" and everyone and everydog laughed.
In the wee hours, our Dog Army approached two Biped Males sharing a freshly-delivered pizza at the kitchen table. It smelled delicious. They taunted us by making grotesque faces and waving their slices at us. Then they stuffed their mouths and held their hands up as if asking, "Where did all that pizza go?"
They playfully wound us up and gave away little crusts to all the dogs in front of them.
The drunker of the Bipeds taunted me with a whole slice a little too low, and caught up in their game, I lunged for it.
I had that succulent pizza slice in my mouth for less than a second before I was struck on my side and cast across the room. I hit the wall and grunted. I felt an enormous pain in my side. I lost my breath. I heard Doug yelling at me. I couldn't understand what he was yelling. I could only hear the never-ending pulse of the loud music.
Then the music stopped and I heard the drunker Biped with the pizza loudly say, "Jesus Christ, Doug! What the Fuck?"
Doug was red in the face, "She stole your food!"
"We were teasing them!"
"Don't give my dog human food. She's got allergies." He turned and started walking down the stairs.
I was still alone, crumpled at the base of the wall where I landed. Skeeter came over and looked at me with wide eyes. I tried to get myself upright and to the safety of my crate, but I floundered and had to drag myself. The other dogs were long gone.
I heard a loud, rapid thumping up the ancient wooden stairway. It was Joan. She was yelling at him. I heard her say, "...A PUPPY! A TINY PUPPY!..." and then more mumblings I couldn't hear.
Joan ran in and brushed Skeeter aside. She scooped me up gently. Oh my Dog that hurt!!!! She placed me in my crate and locked the door-- the spirit of the party broken. Everyone and everydog filtered out.
The next day I was able to get to my feet and get myself down the creaking stairs to make water.
I have always lived with this pain.
And in that way, I will always live with Doug.
********
I think I have gone as far as I can today.
I'm an old dog and I need my rest.
We will walk a little further next time. Perhaps the path will be kinder to both of us.
- Zinnia