I Want to Kill the Dog (5 page)

Born to Bark

O
ur menagerie currently resembles an Al Qaeda cell. I fear for the community. Jasper’s bark is big now. Bigger than he is. I wish I could describe the horrible noise that passes for a bark. It is an insult to dog dignity, an embarrassment to hardworking four-legged creatures. And this dog barks the way I breathe. Constantly.

I look around, indoors and out. Nothing is going on. There are no intruders or wild animals in the vicinity, just peace and quiet broken by his arbitrarily spaced barking. Jasper barks for the same reason other male dogs lick their private parts. Because he can.

Jasper was born to bark.

That shrill noise had come close to getting us evicted from a borough of New York City. In 2004, we were set to renovate our house: tear it down and try again. The project would take more than a year. We would be displaced to the Bronx.

Our kids still lived at home and considered themselves prisoners of the suburbs there. We were living in a small village along the Hudson River and owned enough land so Jasper only annoyed the hell out of me, but this move would place us in the big time, Big Town. This would be the Big Apple, where no prisoners are taken.

We would be in New York City in the heart of a tough borough. People live on top of one another there. I imagined Jasper would make enemies fast and meet a violent end. Maybe there would be a gangland killing, an end to the dog. Okay, I said. I’m there.

Meredith, inventing her own reality, assured me that the neighbors, though some were living ten feet from us, would have no problem with Jasper. In my mind’s eye, I still saw a hit. I mean, this was the Bronx. Da Brawnx. The move went off without a hitch. I waited patiently. It did not take long. The barking started.

The neighbors reacted. The cops came.

To my horror, the police were nice about the barking, even understanding. “That’s what dogs do,” one said. I cannot say the same about the community reaction, which was less charitable. The kids fielded irate phone calls. Angry passersby came to the door and vented, even to Lily, who was barely twelve at the time. Jasper brings out the best in people.

We lived a half block from a sprawling apartment complex. One day, a petition showed up, stuffed under the front door. The document demanded that we get rid of the animal and was signed by a large group from the apartment house. Finally, Meredith was upset. “What are we going to do?” she asked nervously. “I’m going to sign the petition,” I answered.

The protest went nowhere. Their bark was worse than their bite.

Back to cats for a moment: While we were in the Bronx, Beanbag, another cat that enriched our lives (remember Spike, the petrified cat? Beanbag was her brother), gave Gabe a present. We were up at 4:00 a.m. to get Gabe ready for a school field trip to Quebec. Beanbag had slept on Gabe’s new parka and confused it with the men’s room at the bus station. I don’t know about you, but cat urine is one of my favorite aromas.

For lack of a better predawn solution, Meredith sprayed the coat with some awful cleaner and told Gabe to go outside in the freezing darkness and roll in the snow. “That’s okay, Mom,” Gabe said. “I’m just sitting with the guys.” The guys noticed nothing, probably thinking Gabe was wearing some exotic new scent.

Beanbag left the owners of the rental a going-away present. The world’s largest urine specimen on a couch. (Wasn’t that an Olympic event?) We had to buy a new couch, which enriched our bank account. But we were alive, and so was our marriage. I had hated the year, but at last we were going home. Of course, Jasper went with us.

The kids are gone now. They are happy, and so are we. Sort of. The horrible animal now sleeps on the floor of our bedroom. Ugh. Meredith says she likes having that furry burglar alarm around, especially when she is alone. That is hard to argue
against
, though we never have had a burglar. The dog generally lies around the house, existing, or deterring burglars.

At holiday time, Jasper wears a necklace of jingle bells so the neighbors can tell their children those tinkling bells they hear are Santa Claus in the distance. Hearing the melodious mammal up close is a real treat, though he rarely gets up to move anywhere except, of course, to follow Meredith around or attack me.

It is the damnedest thing. The animal is glued to my wife. Jasper loves Meredith more than dog food itself. He will spend the day outside our room if she is inside and has locked the door (even Meredith has limits), waiting and watching for the opportunity to leap into her arms.

Anywhere Meredith goes, upstairs or down, inside or out, the dog trails her. “Whither thou goest, I will go,” the Book of Ruth tells us in the Bible, “and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people.” Wait a minute. Please tell me I am not one of that shrieking dog’s people, I imagine saying to the rebbe.

A trainer who once took Jasper for a while answered the desperate question, what’s going on here? The guy pronounced Jasper “extremely possessive.” Duh. Jasper follows Meredith from room to room, even into the bathroom. Have you no sense of privacy, woman? I demand. I know you feed him, but this is crossing the line. Meredith just looks through me.

When I hear the dog running down the stairs, it means Meredith is not far behind. The animal is like a Secret Service agent. He functions as a self-appointed bodyguard. When anyone approaches Meredith with open arms, poised to kiss her on the cheek, Jasper snarls and lunges.

If Meredith is lying on the couch or in bed and I move to join her, my jugular is at risk. Meredith simply says, “No, Jasper.” That sure makes a difference. The beast is not playing, just guarding his common-law wife. This mean mammal could pose as a Doberman, except when he is hungry. Then we are fraternity brothers, all for one and one for all.

Meredith insists Jasper is a smart dog. I do not think so. The animal cannot name the capital of New York and is content to eat dog food every day. When he behaves, I promise him water with his next meal. If he is very good, I mean exemplary, there is a special treat. Dog food, again.

I have to trick Jasper into going outside, which he never wants to do. I am smarter than the dog is. Not by much, Meredith suggests. I leave a door open and eventually he sees or hears something and goes out. Genius. Jasper will chase anything not nailed down. Not another dog, of course. That would be too much work. And Jasper’s little legs would never work that hard. He would demand a lunch break.

No, Jasper is more likely to go after a leaf gently falling from a tree. He repeats the exercise many times an hour. All the while, his shriek can be heard in the next county or picked up by Navy intelligence from a submarine in the Indian Ocean.

Other dogs run and jump and play outdoors. We have a large enough property with an electric fence, heaven for an ordinary dog. Ours whines to get back in minutes after he leaves the house. There is nothing worse than a whining dog. Man up, I yell to deaf ears. If Meredith is there, she jumps to her feet to let the beast back in.

No response to the bark? The dog is so determined to find Mama and stay by her side that he chews through screen doors and throws his ample bulk at the barrier. Jasper is, well, a bit overweight. A large tear in the screen magically appears. The two are reunited.

By Meredith’s count, this has happened seven times. The animal breaks through. The door is repaired. That is called perpetual motion. And we are left supporting the local economy.

“Why don’t you leave him out and let him pretend he is a dog?” I ask. “You are a broken record,” she responds. Jasper prefers sounding off from a corner of the couch in the family room.

This is how smart the smart dog is. He routinely stands in front of our car and bites the license plate as we start to pull out of the driveway. He remains in front of the car as we pick up speed. A slip of the right foot would turn him into a pancake. At the last minute, Jasper steps aside and barks himself silly as we pull away.

Smart.

Jasper’s claim to a working brain comes because, after watching us push down on our horizontal door handle for years, he finally has learned to jump on it and use his weight to pop open the front door. The animal seems to be particularly fond of popping the door open on frigid winter days. My study sits directly up the stairs from that door. Instantly there is a subzero wind tunnel that I have to deal with.

Going up and down stairs to close doors is hard for me because I have multiple sclerosis and walk with a cane. I move at a glacial pace and see glaciers forming as I head for the door. If that animal is so smart, why doesn’t he learn to shut the freaking door behind him? Jasper just sneers as I close the door. He knows I cannot catch him. I am just grateful he doesn’t pull the door open as soon as I get back upstairs.

When he’s not attacking, the dog makes a show of not just ignoring me, but pretending I do not exist. I can walk by him, though if I get too close, the little darling growls under his breath and shows me his teeth. That is just his gentle gesture of contempt to remind me he is still here.

When Meredith goes away on business, Jasper is beside himself. More than that, he is pissed off and expresses his displeasure by using the living room as his personal bathroom. You can’t flush a floor. Meredith calls and I calmly tell her the dog has enriched our lives all over the living room.

We raised three children. Who needs a dog that acts out? You guessed it: Not me.

Meredith has traveled the world and left me alone with the kids. She trusted me, and if she had qualms about passing the baton (mothers usually do), she did not share them. But she does not trust me with Jasper when she leaves town. Meredith routinely checks on the dog’s health when she calls.

Always, the same question finds its way into the mix at the end of the conversation: “By the way . . . how is Jasper?” I think she believes she will detect something in my voice if the dog is already suffering from a bad case of rigor mortis.

My wife delights in telling anyone who will listen that Richard hates dogs. I do not hate all dogs. I like other people’s animals or those I cannot have. And I do not hate our dog. I hate the word
hate
. I do.
Hate
is imprecise and so overused. I just want Jasper to go away. “Run away, Scar,” Simba commands. “And never return.” That worked in
The Lion King
.