Right now, I have an old dog. A few weeks ago, I started hosting “foster” dogs who would otherwise be in a kill shelter down South waiting to die and re-doubling other traumas they’d experienced. There’s a Brooklyn agency that focuses on rescuing these dogs by giving them decent training for the potential to be adopted into permanent homes. The adoption fee is about $500 and since losing a roommate to independent living, this household has been wanting to get a dog. At first, hosting foster dogs seemed like a good arrangement because it wouldn’t be too strong of a commitment in case I wanted to travel or, in the rare instance that, I just decided to stop having animals for my well-being. I have been largely selfish on that front, never really raising an animal except when one of my girlfriends had an adorable pitbull-boxer mix named Benny. Benny was a great companion. He would be territorial and cumbersome but never mean or too aggressive. I’d throw him a stick or a bone or a rope and he’d use his ultra-powerful jaw to pull on it until I couldn’t hold it anymore or simply conceded that it was his battle for the day. There was a little cafe on Indian Road in Inwood that put out dog treats and a bowl of water and that was Benny’s Walk of Fame. The owner and patrons loved him. That happened way before the pandemic times when you could see people out walking their dogs after 11 p.m., unmasked.
Benny had a few minor health issues but he wasn’t hard to handle. He walked reasonably well and took long car rides with me and that girlfriend. The last time I heard about Benny she was asking me to keep him in my thoughts because he was at that age that organ trauma starts descending and it becomes costly to keep the dog healthy. I am not certain when or if he died. Since that was a dog’s lifetime ago, I don’t hold out much optimism for Benny’s fate. Even thinking of Benny not existing makes me sad so I’d been hesitant to take on the mortality of an animal. That’s what hosting or fostering or having a dog means: you will be face to face with its death and you will not be ready. The former roommate said that was what made the fostering situation disastrous and he didn’t want to deal with the difficult emotions of bringing dogs back. I thought he might be underestimating the benefits and focusing on the negatives of this arrangement. Then, Cruz entered my life.
Cruz Bay and I met along Eastern Parkway with her then-foster owner carrying her bag of treats, her chew toys, a few ropes she could tug on, and a small bowl for her food. That pre-used grocery bag said a lot about its possessor. She cared for Cruz and wanted that dog to feel special even while spending time away for a week. I wanted that for the dog too, but I’d become very focused the week prior on dog training and discipline techniques. I internalized the idea that a dog could and would be the ultimate test of how regimented and disciplined I could become. After all, dogs are “pack” creatures and they gravitate toward the behavior set by their environment. In my household, there are some fluctuating routines, guests who enter and exit depending on the level of relationship we each have with them, and a general laissez-faire attitude about bedtimes and weekly tidying of unfolded laundry. There is plenty of love and a baseline sense of responsibility but that can be offset by changes in habit.
As Cruz and I took our first walk down the parkway, I noticed she was really excited and pulling me along the leash. I would not brook disobedience so I imposed my will on the leash, yanking it with a short, swift motion like I’d seen on Cesar Milan’s “Dog Whisperer.” (I knew this to be effective at jogging the dog’s mind and getting them out of a fixated state.) That’s to say nothing of the complete dog-training toolbox I lacked to give Cruz a solid message after my alarming yank. She would look at me flustered and wide-eyed and pull some more. When we got back inside of my apartment, Cruz was overjoyed to meet me and anyone she encountered. She’s just older than a puppy so her reliable maneuver is pouncing people and licking them while sniffing and shaking her entire slim frame. She became a salsa dancer in final-round competition when she met a person, or when that person came back inside, or when I had a treat, or anything that a dog could even become temporarily intrigued about. But for dogs saying “intrigue” is too understated. A dog is either hyped or it is asleep. There are no in-between emotions.
That provided challenges I was expecting but not prepared for. I took Cruz on hour-long walks, watching with vigilance for her tongue to start lazily slipping out of her mouth to indicate fatigue. We jogged up and down the park bleachers on Sunday afternoons to wear her down enough that she wouldn’t lash out once inside. I sat next to her the first three nights she was in the house as she struggled to accept being put in a crate. The foster agency calls it that; it’s a cage though. I don’t need to be a dog to know it’s devastating being caged. If that’s the crux of animal rights movements, I’m an activist. The gutting feeling of luring her into the cage with food and then clamping it shut never went away. I’d share a sidelong glance before leaving the room to go to bed. At first, it was “put her in the cage but ONLY while cooking” or “don’t let her upstairs or on the couches” and then it became “Cruz seems lonely. I’m going to bring her downstairs to sit on the couch with me.” That is the nature of caring for another creature. You become attached to their spirit, their presence, their health, their mood. Again, there is no in-between. You are a parent and caretaker and they’re your emotional shepherd, in a sense, too. I believe aging people should have pets because humans in the West tend to leave our older relatives behind when they no longer work or produce profits for the system.
In a week, I’d have to return Cruz. I felt much more sullen than I thought I would. She was a lightning bolt and a warm candlelight. I had to keep my eye out for her or she’d destroy something or burn out of control. She was just being a dog. I was discovering my capacity for care and responsibility. The entire day after returning her, I was down, like I’d lost purpose by shuttling this soul through my life who would possibly never return.
I looked forward to getting the next dog in the house. That dog’s name is Laverne. She’s a “senior dog” as described in the first email to me. Her wobbly hind legs make it hard for her to traverse the kitchen tiles and the hardwood around the house, the features that make this apartment a little bit special. She can’t walk up or down steps without stumbling. I call her Stumble-ina. Her legs jut out from her body, making obtuse angles away from her frame. Her eyes are graying as if she’s losing at least some sight. She wasn’t too rattled by the 4th of July fireworks because she may be hard of hearing.
With Laverne, it was a study in contrast from Cruz. She ate about half as often. Couldn’t walk around the block or much at all. She made short trips of a few feet from one spot on the rug (laid out to give her traction) to the next spot on the rug. Her constant look of exhaustion and resignation remind me of how my joints feel each day I wake. I am not yet a senior human but I am older than I am young. The doctors say things like “You’re still young enough that this won’t be a problem but…” and qualify anything about my youth with relative adverbs (“reasonably young,” “deceptively young,” “mostly young” etc.) Laverne is just old, not in any way young. One day, I will be old the way she is, with mobility problems, reluctance to eat unless it’s something I truly love, unwilling to waste energy on long walks unless I believe it’ll be worth it or I have to go to the bathroom. Laverne likes naps under the air conditioner, soft shredded chicken breast, and calm petting before her AC naps. I like Laverne. I wanted a dog to teach me things about discipline and routine and Laverne certainly does that, but to a lesser extent than hyperactive Cruz did. Laverne knows that she may not eat at the scheduled time each day but that food is important enough to stop for. She is aware of nighttime being good for bed and sleeping but will just as likely find reasons to rest during the day. Laverne has little to no tolerance for other dogs but relies on tender interaction with people and will whimper when left alone. That’s a trick I want to learn from her. I don’t like being alone or admitting that I don’t like being alone which leaves me in a quandary. What kind of man whimpers about the pain of solitude? Not a hale, mostly young man.
With Laverne, there is a different rhythm we’ve established, where routine and discipline are not the centerpiece of our brief union. Instead, after I get in from playing basketball, Laverne is laid out near the doorway. Her head and ears gyrate upward with the jingle of keys. She raises up to greet me and then lays back down. She has been on Earth a shorter time but approaching her natural end gives her wisdom that I don’t yet carry. I give Laverne back on Saturday. It will be even harder than the first time.
This post originally appeared on Medium and is edited and republished with author's permission. Read more of Andrew Ricketts' work on Medium.