As a child David Bezmozgis longed to have a dog, but his mother refused. So when the chance came years later, in the form of a gentle lab-collie cross called Moody, he thought he'd found a new best friend?
For as long as I can remember, I wanted a dog. I don't know why. I don't come from a family of dog-lovers. On the contrary, my mother has a long-standing aversion to dogs ? also cats, mice, horses, hamsters and snakes. I always found this strange since my mother grew up in a small Latvian town where the horse and wagon were still common features of daily life. The family had a guard dog, a German Shepherd named Ralphik who was kept chained in the yard. Once, a neighbour's errant chicken pecked into his range and Ralphik killed it. Shukin, the neighbour, thrashed Ralphik with a stick. Later, Ralphik, who never forgave the insult, tore free of his chain and bit Shukin.
This happened 20 years before my birth, but I suspect that my mother's memory of snarling Ralphik decided my fate. Years of my pleading accomplished nothing. Though at one point, to placate me, my mother promised to get me a dog when I turned 12. My 12th birthday came, but my mother just couldn't bring herself to honour our bargain. She said, "You choose: me or the dog."
Flash forward almost 20 years. I am now approaching 30 and, after nearly a decade spent acquiring impractical university degrees in Montreal and Los Angeles, I have returned to Toronto, my childhood home. I have returned, if not in disgrace, then in defeat. By my family's exacting immigrant standards, I have achieved nothing. I have also returned with a girlfriend from Los Angeles. About this, what need I say? After wandering in the wilderness of the entertainment industry, the prodigal son of Russian Jewish immigrants returns home with the girl he loves: who cares to wager that she is Jewish? Or that she is the daughter of pleasant Midwesterners, and that she was raised in a sunny canyon near Malibu, in a rambling house with multiple dogs, cats and even horses?
Flash forward one more year and my girlfriend is scanning the classifieds and online bulletin boards for a dog. We have made a home together in Toronto and it seems only natural to her that we bring a dog into it. Besides, it is an optimistic moment in our lives; almost unaccountably, a publisher has offered to buy my first book, a collection of stories, and I am at home most days trying to finish it. The prospect of having a faithful dog companion is appealing. Not far from our apartment is a park where I go jogging ? wouldn't that be altogether more enjoyable and wholesome with a dog? What's more, wouldn't it also demonstrate that I have eluded another of my family's neuroses and become a proper western person?
Our search lasts a number of weeks. We place phone calls. We visit the local pound. We discuss every dog- related topic. I venture one condition: in the event of calamity, we should set a limit on how much money we would pay to save the dog's life. My girlfriend asks what number exactly I have in mind. I say $500 and, by her reaction, am made to understand that I am nowhere near a proper western person.
We find our dog at a shelter for rescued animals about an hour north of the city. Anne and Pete, English expatriates in their 60s, run the place out of their home. In their backyard, we are greeted by a blind terrier. Anne, particularly, possesses an air of virtuous asceticism, the quality of having pledged herself to a higher purpose, personified by a mix of one third kindness to two thirds severity. When she looks at me, I have the uneasy sensation she can see into my innermost soul, down to the miserly particle in me that would fix a price on the life of my dog.
The dog we have come about is advertised as a female lab-border collie cross, six months old. Anne and Pete lead us to another chainlink enclosure that holds two dogs. When we approach, the larger of the two leaps on to its hind legs and scrabbles eagerly against the fencing. The smaller one sits in a corner and eyes us apprehensively. Another family has already claimed the larger, happier one. Anne opens the cage and coaxes the little dog out. My girlfriend lowers herself on to the grass and the dog instinctively curls up in her lap. This is where she remains while we discuss the formalities of the adoption.
Some days later, we bring her home and name her Moody, on account of her sad, gentle nature. If there is a less malicious creature, I have not met her. As a puppy she chews through undergarments and shoes, but as she matures she does none of the things for which dogs are notorious. She never climbs on to counters or tables. She does not dig in the garden. She is mostly silent, barking only to announce visitors. Terrified of being abandoned, she never strays. But for a handful of bizarre exceptions, she never lunges at other dogs ? though other dogs, sensing her meekness, often lunge at her. And with people, she never imposes herself, but withdraws, preferring to keep her own company. This quality is the one that ultimately wins over even my mother.
Moody lives with us for eight years. She initiates me into the joys and frustrations of responsibility, of answering for the welfare of another living thing. She moves with us to four different houses. Once, when we must spend four months in Rome, we drive across the continent to leave her with my girlfriend's parents. She survives a number of mishaps ? a mysterious sore on her paw, five stitches in her hide caused by a belligerent Weimaraner, an ill-conceived canoe trip where she is ravaged by mosquitoes. She has her eccentricities, some less than charming. In the winter she eats frozen dog shit; in the summer she rolls in it.
Until our daughter is born in the spring of 2008, Moody occupies the centre of our domestic lives. But after our daughter is born, my girlfriend ? now my wife ? is too overwhelmed to devote much attention to Moody. Moody becomes increasingly my dog. And increasingly I meet my obligations to her grudgingly. I compare myself to other dog owners ? people who identify themselves as their dogs' mummies and daddies ? and feel an intrinsic difference between us: their hearts can admit an animal in a way mine cannot. I have no doubt that Moody intuits this. Always a sad dog, she grows sadder. We are like a married couple, where one has fallen out of love with the other but stays out of loyalty ? and yet, cruelly, undeniably, dreams of flight. For this, I feel no small amount of shame. Many people manage to have children, jobs, and dogs: why do I find it so difficult?
Then, in the winter of 2010, I am offered a fellowship in New York City. We decide to move to Brooklyn for the year. But what to do with Moody? A timid creature, accustomed to spacious Toronto, frightened of busy streets and loud noises, she will be miserable in Brooklyn. We try to imagine who of our friends or relatives might consent to take Moody for the year. Even my mother is surprised. "Are you really going to give away Moody?" she asks.
But that is what we do. Moody is taken by Nina, our dog walker, who adores Moody and whom Moody adores. At Nina's, she will live in a community of dogs. She will have long walks every day. She will ride in the passenger seat of Nina's minivan. She will sleep in a bed beside Nina. Her coat and her teeth will be brushed daily. In other words, Moody will take up permanent residence in the equivalent of a dog spa.
That we find her an excellent home only slightly dampens my sense of having committed an act of betrayal, a socially, if not morally, reprehensible act. Also, it is unpleasant to admit that I am not the person I imagined myself to be. That the image I have long cultivated of myself ? of the boy who dreamed of a dog ? is a false one.
David Bezmozgis's new novel is The Free World (Viking)
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/apr/17/david-bezmozgis-pets-family
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