Dog Medicine (21 page)

A
PRIL
1997

Almost a month later, the night before Bunker's second surgery, Greg slept in my room all through the night. Usually he slipped back to his room around one in the morning, but we fell asleep, and I needed his comfort.

“I think I left my door open last night,” Greg whispered in the hallway. “The jig might be up.” Melissa didn't say anything, but the way she said good morning told me she knew everything.

“Cat's out of the bag,” I said.

“First things first,” he said, petting Bunker. “You're top priority today, bud.” I sat fighting the urge to think catastrophically, trying to remember the positive thoughts that had calmed me during the first surgery.

Greg drove my truck, and I sat in the back with Bunker on the way to the surgeon's office. Bunker pulled on the leash away from the hospital doors as we approached the building.

“He's no dummy,” Greg said.

“Can you give us a minute?” I asked, needing to be alone with my boy.

“Sure. I'll wait inside.” Greg seemed unperturbed by my request. He understood that my connection to Bunker was like that of two soul mates, and he didn't try to change it. He didn't feel jealous of my devotion to my dog. On the contrary, he would watch and admire us. He would comment to his friends and family that I was the most incredible dog-whisperer he'd ever seen.
He'd say that I could anticipate my dog's needs in a remarkable way, and he'd never met a better dog than Bunker.

I sat on the ground in the parking lot with Bunker, put both my hands on his shoulders and tried to explain. The hair on his left hip was about half an inch long, soft and downy like a baby's. “Remember that awful, confusing thing that happened?” I said, and he sat down in front of me. I wrapped my legs around him. “That's going to happen again, okay?” I said. “It's going to be awful one more time, okay? And then I'll help you, and Greg and Melissa and Chris will help you. And you'll be better, Bunk. You'll be so much better. We can go to Marymoor and
run
. Can you imagine? How wonderful that will be?” He heard the joy in my voice and his tail wagged. A car pulled into the parking lot and a woman noticed me sitting communing with my dog. She smiled at us as she walked past. Oh, how I loved Seattle people.

“You'll be okay,” I said. “You can do this.” He stood up. “You ready?” I started walking and he hesitated again, then reluctantly walked into the clinic, his tail tucked tight between his legs, his head down. When the receptionist saw him, she remembered him. “Bunker!” she said. “You're back! Oh, we love Bunker!” She turned to me and said, “We all just fell in love with this guy last time he was here. What a great, great dog. Hi, buddy!” Bunker still had his tail tucked between his legs, but it wagged ever so slightly and he whimpered a loud, long half-howl, half-cry.

I put my mouth next to his ear and whispered, “You'll be okay.”

The receptionist took his leash and walked him back through the swinging door. “What a great boy you are,” she said. “We're so happy to see you doing so well. Look, guys! Bunker!” I heard her say.

Greg looked at me and smiled. I couldn't smile back yet. I couldn't really focus on anything. My boy was gone again, and I had to wait one more excruciating day to see if he would be okay. The receptionist came back, beaming and laughing as if she'd just stolen a dose of antidepressants from me. I tried to keep my
composure as she explained the procedures to me a second time, reminding me that I would get a phone call around four or five o'clock with news about how the surgery went and that I could pick him up in the morning.

I thanked her, saying a silent prayer, trying to repeat everything I did after I dropped him off for the first surgery. Positive thoughts. Patience. Good things. Greg took my hand as we walked back to the car and I felt shaky. Ominous. I tried to shake it off, buckled myself into the passenger seat, and Greg started driving.

The farther we drove, the worse the ominous feeling became. I realized with a panic that Greg hadn't come with me to drop Bunker off for the first surgery. I had done that alone. I had taken him to the clinic myself, comforted him alone, driven to work alone, and everything had turned out okay. Why had I agreed to let Greg take us to the second surgery? My superstition about this was so intense and real that I burst into terrible sobs, unable to speak, my head in my hands, my breath jagged. I was so heavy with regret that I could hardly breathe. I cried hard. I had never cried like this in front of anyone except my parents and therapists. This was the kind of crying I did in the shower in New York when I feared for my sanity. I couldn't control it. And I couldn't look at Greg. I was terribly embarrassed and convinced that something awful would happen because I'd let this man come with me and I shouldn't have. This was something sacred between Bunker and me. Not Bunker, me, and Greg.

I didn't notice until I began to stop sobbing that Greg had pulled the car over to the side of the road. We were on a busy two-lane highway, but he found a spot to safely pull to the side and turn off the engine.

“He'll be okay,” Greg said. “Did you see the way those people greeted him? They're going to take such great care of him.”

I nodded, my face still in my hands. I couldn't tell Greg that
something had busted open in me—that letting him come with me to drop my beloved off for his second awful, terrible, traumatizing surgery felt too intimate. I wasn't ready to let anyone in like that. I wasn't ready to trust that any man could handle this situation and not turn and run because his new girlfriend was a crazy dog freak. I imagined all the awful things he could say or do—tell me I was nuts, sit silently waiting for me to stop, then not know what to say and leave me apologetic and awkward and deep-down regretting ever letting him see me in such a vulnerable state.

I cradled my face as if there were a hideous disfigurement under my hands, and I couldn't let Greg see. I didn't want to let any light in. I didn't want to look up and see his face. I didn't know what I would find, and I felt such comfort in the darkness with my eyes closed, my face cradled in my palms. This place was too familiar, too real, too inviting. He wasn't speaking, and I didn't dare say anything. I just tried to calm my breathing and keep my face covered. My hands grew hot, my face sweaty. Five minutes passed, then more. I wondered what on earth was going on. Was Greg sleeping? Was he staring at me like I was a zoo animal? Was he at a loss for words?

I finally pulled my hands away from my face and slowly opened my eyes. The cool air on my cheeks and forehead nearly made me shiver. I looked straight ahead—the cars flying past us on our left, the windshield a little bit foggy from my heavy breathing. I turned my head slightly, not sure what I might see.

What I did see was Greg: calm, clear, loving. He tilted his head a little, searched me with his eyes and said three of the most beautiful words I've ever heard, “I'm still here.” I knew right then that no matter what, I would never, ever lose this man again.

M
AY
1997

Bunker made it through his second surgery. He trusted that I would carry him down the stairs for several weeks. He seemed to understand that our walks would stop for a while, but return eventually. He appeared content, as if he knew he'd been saved and would endure the painful recovery so he could soon commence his work on this earth with me and all who loved him. He would sit in his lidless crate, his chin on my bedroom's opened windowsill, his nose poking out the window. I watched him for hours because he emanated contentedness simply watching a bird alight on a branch on the pine tree. His nose would twitch and he'd sniff furiously when another dog walked by. When the roommates came home, they would come straight to my room, greet Bunker with a howl and a pat, and he would return the howl with his chin high. I marveled at him, because even with his hip shaved naked, dozens of metal staples jutting out at the mark of the two large incisions, he still radiated peacefulness. Even in his confinement, Bunker went from contemplation to tail-wagging glee at the mere scent of a friend. Of course, he was still teaching me, leading by example. He had no opinion about his bum hips, about his tough situation. The second period of confinement to a cage did not appear to upset him. He simply sat, pondering, wagging, being. He'd accept our love and attention, breathe in deeply, catching new scents with nose-twitching curiosity and wonder, then curling up for a long, quiet nap. If that's not a lesson on how to live, I don't know what is.

Greg and I told the roommates about our romance and they both said, “Yep, we know.” So much for keeping it a secret. Still, once our relationship was public, dynamics in the house shifted. We all mourned the loss of our lovely family-of-friends vibe. We would now become a couple and two friends.

Not long after Bunker had fully healed after the second surgery, I got a phone call from Clay. “Julie?” he said. “I just wanted to know if you would please be in my wedding. Megan has picked out some dresses. She'll call you to talk about sizes and stuff. It'd be really great if you could be part of it. It would mean a lot to me,” he said.

I hesitated before answering. The wedding was only six weeks away, and I wondered if I was a late addition, if my mom had forced Clay to include me. Either way, I felt as if the inclusion was a milestone. “I'd be happy to,” I said, and that felt right.

I invited Greg to fly home to Ohio with me, to be my date. Everyone in the family adored Greg, noting audibly that I'd finally wised up and chosen a nice guy. Aurora and Bob already considered Greg part of the family.

I remember standing on Clay's wedding day watching the photographer snap pictures of my parents flanking my brother. He smiled, towering, at six foot four, over both my mom and dad. They were each holding one of his hands. Tears came to my eyes because, as flawed as they were, my parents tried so hard to love. They showed up when they realized that my emotional problems had become dire. How could I tell them that, despite everything, their devotion to me in my early twenties saved my life? That their belief in me was what helped me want to learn to try to love myself? The photographer paused in between shots and Clay took a deep breath. He was an adult now. Married. But I could see, perhaps for the first time, the little boy in him. I could sense the hurts he held just beneath his skin, his feelings of inadequacy, his longing for his loving but too absent father, his inability to talk to
his mom, his fear of losing out to his sister and subsequent anger. I understood the solace he found in his dearest friends, a group of guys from high school who became like his brothers, who have loved, comforted, and drunk a lot of beer with him for almost thirty years now. In his desperation, Clay had made his own little makeshift family of friends. I felt immense tenderness toward him and all those guys as they smiled for the photographer. I was swept up in the joy of a wedding day. But also, I think a little part of me truly began to understand him and his ways of coping with the pain of growing up.

My job, after beginning to understand that my brother's abuse had nothing to do with me, was to try, again and again, to stop carrying it inside my own mind. It would become a lifelong mindfulness practice for me, to not think terrible things about myself, to not draw immediate, negative, judgmental, sad conclusions about every single move I made. My job is still to work my entire life to stop the self-hate. Bunker was my first and most influential teacher in this regard. He radiated contentedness and loved me no matter what. No matter how I showed up to him, no matter my mood, my energy level, no matter how I looked or smelled, he loved and adored me beyond measure. I felt the same way for him—and I'd saved him. We'd saved each other. Learning through watching his unconditional love slowly began to help me find true, compassionate self-love. It took me a long time, because healing often takes a long, meandering, circuitous route. But over time, with meditation, medication, therapy, friends, love from Greg, and lots of writing, I began to realize that the innocent, animal-loving little girl in me just wanted to love, and to be loved, and it would never be too late to give that to her.

Two months after the second surgery, Bunker and I hopped into the car and drove to Marymoor. It was the first time we'd gone there since the surgeries, since the incident with my parents and Aunt Aurora, when Bunker had fallen so badly. As we turned
off of the highway and toward the park, he started prancing in the back seat, howling. “Almost there, buddy,” I said, laughing, pulling into the parking lot.

I opened the car door at Marymoor and Bunker bounded out of it like a spring. He ran twenty feet, then stopped to look back at me, making sure I was coming. I was fumbling with the keys, trying to lock the door. I had my running shoes on, and I zipped my keys into my jacket pocket. He ran in circles, barking, waiting for me. The way Bunker loved me, so fully, clearly, and without exception, helped me remember every day to try to bring that kind of love to myself and others in my life. I ran toward him and he took off as fast as his bionic hips could go, which was not fast at all, rather just slow enough that I could keep up with him, run right behind him, watch his funny, slightly inflexible new hips do their job. He would never run like a normal dog, and I loved him for this. Both his back legs swung to the left, and he still ran his heart out. I ran next to him, watching him leap clumsily over branches, his tongue dangling, as carefree as I'd ever seen him. We made it to the creek's edge and he stopped there, circled me three times, and then howled his deep from-the-depths howl. I squatted down next to him, held his downy soft ears in my hands, and then whispered, “No, my love. Thank
you
.”