Epileptic Plane
The dog is a puppy. I am leaning against cheap cabinets our landlord installed, sitting on the epoxied concrete floor in the rented converted garage we call home. It’s early evening in late winter. The sunset is eroding to purple twilight outside the window. My wife is working at the table. Our new puppy is roaming outside his crate, finding extension cords to bite. He starts to whimper and my wife gives him a treat shaped like an alligator. He takes it in his mouth and waddles over to me, crawling into my lap before chewing it. This is the first time he’s sought me like this. It dawns on me that the dog is a helpless creature thrust into a human world. For the rest of his life I would be his sole shepherd through hunger, illness, and the unknown. Tears fill my eyes as the responsibility flows through me. I will never leave you, I whisper. I love you, I whisper even quieter. I stroke his fur as he gnaws the green alligator, his tiny teeth etching lines into the manufactured flesh.
The dog is a puppy. The breeder who sells him to us is a talkative woman who lives far out in the desert where there are no neighbors. We tour her property and see bengal cats, fennec foxes, and a single large wolfhound languishing on a dirt patch. One of her sons walks by with an assault rifle strapped to his back and rides away on a dirt bike. As we walk, she tells me to never spoil the dog, never let it win a game of tug-of-war, never let it get the best of me. My wife and I nod along. The two of us are wearing masks, the breeder is not. There is gunfire in the background. She coughs and asks me if I’m going to get the vaccine. I say I probably am, and she wishes me good luck. In the contract she’ll include the short list of vaccines and medicines the dog can take, everything else should be avoided. Finally, it is time to pick out the puppy. My wife selects one with floppy ears while I take out my phone to pay the breeder. I use a credit card instead of debiting our bank account. There is more gunfire in the background. We turn to leave, and my wife changes her mind. She instead wants the dog in the astroturfed corner playing alone with a sock. Beautiful choice, the breeder says. He has perky ears, his coat is a dark sesame, his tail curls up with a splash of cream. We wrap the dog in a blanket and place him in my wife’s lap on the drive home. I’m happy, the dog is already making me laugh by making noises, but I also spend money like a stupid person. I’m restless on the drive, half my mind dedicated to calculating minimum payment schedules.
The dog is a puppy. I am throwing away a yellowed slab of grass that smells like urine. It is held far from my body and draped over my outstretched arms like a corpse. At the communal trashcan in the alley, I run into my neighbor disposing trash of his own. He nods at me and smiles, lingering by the can a moment longer to hold the lid. I dump the turf over the edge and it falls on spare ceramic tiles and appliance packaging the neighbor had just thrown away. He is around my age and lives in the house next door with his wife and young daughter. On summer mornings, he will set up a sprinkler for her in the backyard and the water smacking against the window of our converted garage will wake me up. Back on our concrete patio, I unpack the new grass that has just been delivered. It comes wrapped in a plastic bag that has been stuffed in a cardboard box. I use the keys in my pocket to slice the packaging open then unfurl the slab in the plastic tray. The grass is warm and there are small grubs and larvae crawling through the dirt. It is a dark, supernatural green and still damp. The puppy can’t use any communal areas like public parks or sidewalks until his
The dog is a puppy. The breeder who sells him to us is a talkative woman who lives far out in the desert where there are no neighbors. We tour her property and see bengal cats, fennec foxes, and a single large wolfhound languishing on a dirt patch. One of her sons walks by with an assault rifle strapped to his back and rides away on a dirt bike. As we walk, she tells me to never spoil the dog, never let it win a game of tug-of-war, never let it get the best of me. My wife and I nod along. The two of us are wearing masks, the breeder is not. There is gunfire in the background. She coughs and asks me if I’m going to get the vaccine. I say I probably am, and she wishes me good luck. In the contract she’ll include the short list of vaccines and medicines the dog can take, everything else should be avoided. Finally, it is time to pick out the puppy. My wife selects one with floppy ears while I take out my phone to pay the breeder. I use a credit card instead of debiting our bank account. There is more gunfire in the background. We turn to leave, and my wife changes her mind. She instead wants the dog in the astroturfed corner playing alone with a sock. Beautiful choice, the breeder says. He has perky ears, his coat is a dark sesame, his tail curls up with a splash of cream. We wrap the dog in a blanket and place him in my wife’s lap on the drive home. I’m happy, the dog is already making me laugh by making noises, but I also spend money like a stupid person. I’m restless on the drive, half my mind dedicated to calculating minimum payment schedules.
The dog is a puppy. I am throwing away a yellowed slab of grass that smells like urine. It is held far from my body and draped over my outstretched arms like a corpse. At the communal trashcan in the alley, I run into my neighbor disposing trash of his own. He nods at me and smiles, lingering by the can a moment longer to hold the lid. I dump the turf over the edge and it falls on spare ceramic tiles and appliance packaging the neighbor had just thrown away. He is around my age and lives in the house next door with his wife and young daughter. On summer mornings, he will set up a sprinkler for her in the backyard and the water smacking against the window of our converted garage will wake me up. Back on our concrete patio, I unpack the new grass that has just been delivered. It comes wrapped in a plastic bag that has been stuffed in a cardboard box. I use the keys in my pocket to slice the packaging open then unfurl the slab in the plastic tray. The grass is warm and there are small grubs and larvae crawling through the dirt. It is a dark, supernatural green and still damp. The puppy can’t use any communal areas like public parks or sidewalks until his
vaccine treatments are completed in the coming months, otherwise he might catch an illness from an adult dog that would attack his intestines and kill him. My wife tells me horror stories about puppies that collapse in puddles of their own blackened stool before they convulse and die. Because we do not have a private lawn, we bought a a subscription that delivers us this slab of grass twice a month. I wonder where and how the grass is grown, how much material and fuel is required to ship it to me, and how much is wasted in that process. Likewise, outside the house, in the aisles of a grocery store, I wonder the same about the chip bags and boxes of food filling every aisle. Then I scale that abundance to the thousands of grocery stores in my state, the thousands of yardless dog owners in the country, and I wonder how much longer this can continue. My wife opens the door and lets the dog run out to inspect his new grass, cheering him on. She comes over and records a video of the dog plunging his snout deep into the pillow of sod and pawing at a dangling flower that’s crept over the fence. She squeezes my arm. Later that night, we will purchase another subscription that delivers frozen dog food to the house. Real vegetables, beef, and turkey.
The dog is three years old. I am driving through the city on a Sunday afternoon. Someone taped a lost dog poster to a pole next to a stoplight. The dog is a pit bull mutt, the photo blurry and indiscriminate. There is no reward advertised, the only information besides the dog’s name are instructions not to chase. The dog must be identical to thousands of others in this city just like it, I think, but means the entire world to one person. This thought drowns me in profundity and I spent the rest of the drive home in a silent, melancholic mood, wondering what might happen to that lost dog.
The dog is not yet two years old. We’re eating breakfast at a diner near the highway. It is mid-morning, and a calm golden sun shines through the large plate glass windows, illuminating the black vinyl booths and checkered tile, hitting the silverware on our table and reflecting across my wife’s face. She smiles, her white teeth looking angelic against her red lipstick in the pale light. I take a photo and tell her looks beautiful. It is her thirtieth birthday. We have just come from the veterinary neurologist where our dog will receive an MRI and spinal tap. He has been having unexplained seizures and they want to rule out a brain tumor. The waitress sets our enormous breakfasts at the table, plates full of chocolate chip waffles, greasy sausages, smothered hash browns, and buttered slices of toast. We hardly eat and decline the offer for takeout boxes. We spend the next few hours waiting in the parking lot in near silence before we get the call to return to the veterinary neurologist, a small, nondescript building nestled between a bottling plant and recycling center in an industrial park. While we’re still in the lobby, the neurologist comes out and uses a sing-song voice to announce our dog only has idiopathic epilepsy. Back in the private examination room, she details treatment and medication plans. We leave with a prescription and the knowledge that the number one cause of death in epileptic dogs is drowning. The second is voluntary euthanasia. They release our dog from the holding kennel in back and he’s beyond happy to see us. He turns around and I see they shaved a perfectly angled square into the back of his head for the spinal tap. You can see a patch of his fleshy skull beneath the bushy hair. It looks ridiculous and makes us laugh, but my wife’s laughter quickly turns to tears at the state of her poor baby. The procedure cost thousands of dollars, and I put it on a special line of credit for animal emergencies. It will be interest-
The dog is three years old. I am driving through the city on a Sunday afternoon. Someone taped a lost dog poster to a pole next to a stoplight. The dog is a pit bull mutt, the photo blurry and indiscriminate. There is no reward advertised, the only information besides the dog’s name are instructions not to chase. The dog must be identical to thousands of others in this city just like it, I think, but means the entire world to one person. This thought drowns me in profundity and I spent the rest of the drive home in a silent, melancholic mood, wondering what might happen to that lost dog.
The dog is not yet two years old. We’re eating breakfast at a diner near the highway. It is mid-morning, and a calm golden sun shines through the large plate glass windows, illuminating the black vinyl booths and checkered tile, hitting the silverware on our table and reflecting across my wife’s face. She smiles, her white teeth looking angelic against her red lipstick in the pale light. I take a photo and tell her looks beautiful. It is her thirtieth birthday. We have just come from the veterinary neurologist where our dog will receive an MRI and spinal tap. He has been having unexplained seizures and they want to rule out a brain tumor. The waitress sets our enormous breakfasts at the table, plates full of chocolate chip waffles, greasy sausages, smothered hash browns, and buttered slices of toast. We hardly eat and decline the offer for takeout boxes. We spend the next few hours waiting in the parking lot in near silence before we get the call to return to the veterinary neurologist, a small, nondescript building nestled between a bottling plant and recycling center in an industrial park. While we’re still in the lobby, the neurologist comes out and uses a sing-song voice to announce our dog only has idiopathic epilepsy. Back in the private examination room, she details treatment and medication plans. We leave with a prescription and the knowledge that the number one cause of death in epileptic dogs is drowning. The second is voluntary euthanasia. They release our dog from the holding kennel in back and he’s beyond happy to see us. He turns around and I see they shaved a perfectly angled square into the back of his head for the spinal tap. You can see a patch of his fleshy skull beneath the bushy hair. It looks ridiculous and makes us laugh, but my wife’s laughter quickly turns to tears at the state of her poor baby. The procedure cost thousands of dollars, and I put it on a special line of credit for animal emergencies. It will be interest-
free if paid off in six months, but I know it will not be paid off in six months. On the drive home, I realize I forgot to get my wife a gift, not even a bouquet.
The dog is two years old. We are hiking in the mountains east of where we live. It is overcast outside, a rare occasion in the desert and reason enough to go out. We have picked a trail we’ve hiked before, but never with the dog. It leads up the rolling slopes of the foothills, stopping just shy of a rising cliff face made from towering, jutting pillars of volcanic rock. The dog is hyperactive, seemingly fascinated by everything in his area, each step forward offering more scent and discovery. He tugs us along, bringing us up the steeper parts of the slope at a pace we can hardly handle. I am vigilant and keep him on a tight leash. Discarded yellow lobes of the cholla cactus are strung across the landscape like flower petals. Scorpions and snakes lurk underneath rocks and behind corners. My wife and I are sweating and flushed, but the dog’s energy is limitless. We approach a rock scramble that requires careful balance and maneuvering even when hiking alone. I’d forgotten about this part when I suggested this trail. For the first time on our hike, the dog hesitates and looks back at me. I look into his eyes and nod, giving him permission to go ahead. The dog and I spend the next fifteen minutes navigating our way up the rock scramble, frequently stopping to assess our position and testing with careful footing before pushing ahead. During our moments of struggle climbing the scramble, I feel something close to peace. At the top, the three of us stop to catch our breath. The dog stands at the edge of the rock, looking out over the valley below. From this height, the desert floor looks green from the sage bushes, juniper trees, and saguaro. The mountains in the distance are red and sandy. Thick and milky clouds crowd the peaks and boulders. Positioned over the edge like he is, the dog looks like a wanderer above the sea of fog. My breath coming back to me, I look at the desert and wonder if the vista is worth the burden, if the cost of living is worth a mountain. On our way down, the sun breaks through the clouds. It is near evening, and the western sunset casts a sharp relief against the cliffside. The pillars of rock that looked ancient and staid underneath the calm overcast now look mystic and alive, their black shadows crawling beneath the golden light. A darker storm is coming in. My wife takes photos of me and the dog. I squat onto my haunches and lift him up, his white belly adding even more color to the photo. He licks me with his pink tongue.
The dog is less than a year old. There are two pink bubbles coming out of his penile sheath. I do not know what they are. My wife is working at her computer, I ask her if it’s possible for the dog’s balls to come out of his body. She turns around, confused, to see what I’m looking at. The bubbles are big like boils and vaguely translucent, as if they could be popped and fluid would gush out. The dog keeps trying to lick them. She asks me what they are, a rising panic in her voice. All I can say is they’re not supposed to be there. I put the dog in the car and rush to the vet, cutting through the medical complex north of our converted garage, ignoring the flashing signs calling attention to pedestrians. By the time I get to the vet, I am out of breath from emotion. I explain the issue to the receptionist, but when I lift the dog’s underside to better illustrate, the two pink bubbles have disappeared. I then wait, half-embarrassed, in the corner of the room. When the vet calls me in, she is wearing a faded college sweatshirt and bluejeans. She had once given the dog the nickname Looney Tunes because of the way he would run around the office, unable to control his excitement and happiness at seeing new or familiar faces. Male dogs, she tells me, have an extra set of
The dog is two years old. We are hiking in the mountains east of where we live. It is overcast outside, a rare occasion in the desert and reason enough to go out. We have picked a trail we’ve hiked before, but never with the dog. It leads up the rolling slopes of the foothills, stopping just shy of a rising cliff face made from towering, jutting pillars of volcanic rock. The dog is hyperactive, seemingly fascinated by everything in his area, each step forward offering more scent and discovery. He tugs us along, bringing us up the steeper parts of the slope at a pace we can hardly handle. I am vigilant and keep him on a tight leash. Discarded yellow lobes of the cholla cactus are strung across the landscape like flower petals. Scorpions and snakes lurk underneath rocks and behind corners. My wife and I are sweating and flushed, but the dog’s energy is limitless. We approach a rock scramble that requires careful balance and maneuvering even when hiking alone. I’d forgotten about this part when I suggested this trail. For the first time on our hike, the dog hesitates and looks back at me. I look into his eyes and nod, giving him permission to go ahead. The dog and I spend the next fifteen minutes navigating our way up the rock scramble, frequently stopping to assess our position and testing with careful footing before pushing ahead. During our moments of struggle climbing the scramble, I feel something close to peace. At the top, the three of us stop to catch our breath. The dog stands at the edge of the rock, looking out over the valley below. From this height, the desert floor looks green from the sage bushes, juniper trees, and saguaro. The mountains in the distance are red and sandy. Thick and milky clouds crowd the peaks and boulders. Positioned over the edge like he is, the dog looks like a wanderer above the sea of fog. My breath coming back to me, I look at the desert and wonder if the vista is worth the burden, if the cost of living is worth a mountain. On our way down, the sun breaks through the clouds. It is near evening, and the western sunset casts a sharp relief against the cliffside. The pillars of rock that looked ancient and staid underneath the calm overcast now look mystic and alive, their black shadows crawling beneath the golden light. A darker storm is coming in. My wife takes photos of me and the dog. I squat onto my haunches and lift him up, his white belly adding even more color to the photo. He licks me with his pink tongue.
The dog is less than a year old. There are two pink bubbles coming out of his penile sheath. I do not know what they are. My wife is working at her computer, I ask her if it’s possible for the dog’s balls to come out of his body. She turns around, confused, to see what I’m looking at. The bubbles are big like boils and vaguely translucent, as if they could be popped and fluid would gush out. The dog keeps trying to lick them. She asks me what they are, a rising panic in her voice. All I can say is they’re not supposed to be there. I put the dog in the car and rush to the vet, cutting through the medical complex north of our converted garage, ignoring the flashing signs calling attention to pedestrians. By the time I get to the vet, I am out of breath from emotion. I explain the issue to the receptionist, but when I lift the dog’s underside to better illustrate, the two pink bubbles have disappeared. I then wait, half-embarrassed, in the corner of the room. When the vet calls me in, she is wearing a faded college sweatshirt and bluejeans. She had once given the dog the nickname Looney Tunes because of the way he would run around the office, unable to control his excitement and happiness at seeing new or familiar faces. Male dogs, she tells me, have an extra set of
glands that help them latch onto a female when they mate. They come out when the dog goes erect and usually recede along with the penis. It seems our dog was a unique case and had trouble retracting the glands. It might happen again, but it is a problem that will go away if we get him neutered. She then asks if my wife and I are still weighing our options for that procedure. I sheepishly say yes. Still avoiding medication, too, she asks, and again I say yes. We are holding off on parasite medication and operations against her best advice, hoping to instead have our dog live a more natural life. Okay, she says, faintly laughing.
The dog is less than six months old. I am reading a book on raising a puppy the breeder recommended. The book is written by a group a monks who reside on a large farm and sustain the monastery by breeding and training large dogs. Some of the advice is against intuition. When a dog is distressed and reacts by whimpering or growling, the owner is not supposed to soothe the dog for this would validate the dog’s behavior. Instead, the owner should take the opportunity to scold the dog until it behaves properly. There is a chapter on what every prospective dog owner should do when selecting a puppy from a litter. I read that chapter in slow horror, realizing I had shown no diligence when picking our dog. I spend the next hour of the evening performing tests on our dog post facto. I roll him onto his back and stare into his eyes, hoping to provoke a reaction. I squeeze the webbing of his paws to gauge his sensitivity. I try to startle and frighten him with loud noises of clattered pots and strange actions like altering my gait and voice. I call him over to me, hoping he will wag his tail in excitement. This is all to see if he is sociable, docile, and capable of bonding. I am not sure how to interpret the results. My wife asks me to quiet down, it is impossible to ignore me in our small converted garage. She is wading through online articles describing what type of treats are best for the dog, what sorts of creatures we need to avoid in the desert, how to effectively perform dog first aid, how to best ensure the dog gets enough exercise, the necessary nutrients and care for a long and happy life, what sorts of toys they might like most. I see she is also watching videos of other couples with their dogs that are the same breed as ours. The couples are playing with the dog in molted autumn leaves, laughing as the dog runs to them when they enter a room, walking the dog near the riverbank in a busy megacity, introducing the dog to their new child, taking holiday photos with the dog in a sweater, preparing tasty stovetop meals for the dog, tossing a ball to the dog across wide flower fields, plunging with the dog into cool mountainside lakes, packing the dog into the back of the car for adventurous roadtrips, and sitting beside the dog as they look dumbfounded at a lit birthday cake. Some of these moments are isolated videos, others are stitched together into a collage set to music, usually used to commemorate a dog’s death.
The dog is a year old. It is 3am on a weeknight. My wife is in bed. I am in my underwear on the cold epoxied concrete floor rubbing a slurry made from warm water and sugar onto the dog’s penis. I woke up from the noise of his excessive licking. His glands were out again. The longer they were unsheathed, the higher the chance of necrosis setting in. An article online said the sugar mixture would help draw the moisture out of the glands so they could shrink and recede. Another said ice cubes will reduce the swelling. I spend the next hour alternating between rubbing the mixture on the dog’s glands and pressing a cold pack against them. The dog watches me as I perform this intimate gesture, impatient because he wants to go back to licking. The glands are smooth and wet. I finally fall asleep with the dog on the couch. The next day we make an appointment to get him neutered. We also agree to a
The dog is less than six months old. I am reading a book on raising a puppy the breeder recommended. The book is written by a group a monks who reside on a large farm and sustain the monastery by breeding and training large dogs. Some of the advice is against intuition. When a dog is distressed and reacts by whimpering or growling, the owner is not supposed to soothe the dog for this would validate the dog’s behavior. Instead, the owner should take the opportunity to scold the dog until it behaves properly. There is a chapter on what every prospective dog owner should do when selecting a puppy from a litter. I read that chapter in slow horror, realizing I had shown no diligence when picking our dog. I spend the next hour of the evening performing tests on our dog post facto. I roll him onto his back and stare into his eyes, hoping to provoke a reaction. I squeeze the webbing of his paws to gauge his sensitivity. I try to startle and frighten him with loud noises of clattered pots and strange actions like altering my gait and voice. I call him over to me, hoping he will wag his tail in excitement. This is all to see if he is sociable, docile, and capable of bonding. I am not sure how to interpret the results. My wife asks me to quiet down, it is impossible to ignore me in our small converted garage. She is wading through online articles describing what type of treats are best for the dog, what sorts of creatures we need to avoid in the desert, how to effectively perform dog first aid, how to best ensure the dog gets enough exercise, the necessary nutrients and care for a long and happy life, what sorts of toys they might like most. I see she is also watching videos of other couples with their dogs that are the same breed as ours. The couples are playing with the dog in molted autumn leaves, laughing as the dog runs to them when they enter a room, walking the dog near the riverbank in a busy megacity, introducing the dog to their new child, taking holiday photos with the dog in a sweater, preparing tasty stovetop meals for the dog, tossing a ball to the dog across wide flower fields, plunging with the dog into cool mountainside lakes, packing the dog into the back of the car for adventurous roadtrips, and sitting beside the dog as they look dumbfounded at a lit birthday cake. Some of these moments are isolated videos, others are stitched together into a collage set to music, usually used to commemorate a dog’s death.
The dog is a year old. It is 3am on a weeknight. My wife is in bed. I am in my underwear on the cold epoxied concrete floor rubbing a slurry made from warm water and sugar onto the dog’s penis. I woke up from the noise of his excessive licking. His glands were out again. The longer they were unsheathed, the higher the chance of necrosis setting in. An article online said the sugar mixture would help draw the moisture out of the glands so they could shrink and recede. Another said ice cubes will reduce the swelling. I spend the next hour alternating between rubbing the mixture on the dog’s glands and pressing a cold pack against them. The dog watches me as I perform this intimate gesture, impatient because he wants to go back to licking. The glands are smooth and wet. I finally fall asleep with the dog on the couch. The next day we make an appointment to get him neutered. We also agree to a
heartworm, flea, and tick medicine the vet recommends, especially since we will be taking him out hiking.
The dog is a year old. I wake up one morning while the dog is recovering from neuter surgery to find he’s rolled himself into the small gap between our bed and the wall. His four legs are sticking straight into the air like he’s a rack of lamb. The Elizabethan collar has made it so he can’t move or free himself from the crack, so he’s crying for one of us to save him. I lodge him free and we laugh about it for days afterward. Who knows how long he had to stay like that?
The dog is dead. This hasn’t yet occurred, but narrating the past does not negate future horrors and aftershocks. I am looking at him now as he is resting in the warm glow of iridescent light coming from our floor lamp with the dancing flame of a candle reflecting in his eyes. I see his chest rise as air fills his lungs. He closes his eyes and slowly lowers his head. He starts to sleep. Soon I will hear the bright noises he makes when he dreams. One day, perhaps in a few minutes, this idyllic membrane will be pierced and ruptured by a seizure and the endless dread that follows. I hope he will die in peace like this, on chosen terms and not the punctation to moments of epileptic terror. I hope I see his death as the next natural swell in life’s undulation, not an aberration or an error reading.
The dog is two years old. I am reading a novel written by Dostoyevsky. Dostoyevsky had seizures, as do many of his characters. In the book, the epileptic character is closer to God than the others, both because of his hardship and because only he alone can visit the epileptic plane. I wonder if my dog has a deeper relationship with God due to his condition, or if this comes by his very nature of being an animal. He does not live in fear of his own seizures like I do. They seem to be forgotten as quickly as they come. Do I suffer more than he does?
The dog is three years old. I am walking to the sink for a glass of water and catch my wife on the computer. She is looking at a service that will freeze-dry your animal after they die. You put the the animal corpse in a bag and mail it to the facility. Over the course of several months, they remove all moisture from the animals body and apply cosmetics to the corpse. In the end, you have a product that looks exactly like your animal and will stay that way for the next decade in ideal climate conditions. She tells me she wants to do this to the dog after it dies, it will help bring her closure. The website says it costs five thousand dollars. We get in a fight. She’s unable to define closure. I’m unable to define what natural means. I say that when things die they are supposed to disappear, they are not meant to hang around. She asks me why we have rituals, churches, catacombs, and memories. I tell her I don’t know. She starts to cry. She says she just doesn’t want to lose the dog. I resist the urge to ask her what losing something means, if anything is ever ours at all. I spend the next few minutes looking at the countless photos of freeze-dried pets on the company’s website. Hundreds of people over the years who have contracted this service. Hundreds, maybe thousands more that I’m not seeing. We are pathetic beings groping toward love. We have destroyed so much of the world to give us the right to build rockets, large hadron colliders, and converted garages for rent in the desert, but in the end we just want to freeze-dry our pets after they die so we can continue to look at them and continue to prostrate before their totem. Animals do not weep and
The dog is a year old. I wake up one morning while the dog is recovering from neuter surgery to find he’s rolled himself into the small gap between our bed and the wall. His four legs are sticking straight into the air like he’s a rack of lamb. The Elizabethan collar has made it so he can’t move or free himself from the crack, so he’s crying for one of us to save him. I lodge him free and we laugh about it for days afterward. Who knows how long he had to stay like that?
The dog is dead. This hasn’t yet occurred, but narrating the past does not negate future horrors and aftershocks. I am looking at him now as he is resting in the warm glow of iridescent light coming from our floor lamp with the dancing flame of a candle reflecting in his eyes. I see his chest rise as air fills his lungs. He closes his eyes and slowly lowers his head. He starts to sleep. Soon I will hear the bright noises he makes when he dreams. One day, perhaps in a few minutes, this idyllic membrane will be pierced and ruptured by a seizure and the endless dread that follows. I hope he will die in peace like this, on chosen terms and not the punctation to moments of epileptic terror. I hope I see his death as the next natural swell in life’s undulation, not an aberration or an error reading.
The dog is two years old. I am reading a novel written by Dostoyevsky. Dostoyevsky had seizures, as do many of his characters. In the book, the epileptic character is closer to God than the others, both because of his hardship and because only he alone can visit the epileptic plane. I wonder if my dog has a deeper relationship with God due to his condition, or if this comes by his very nature of being an animal. He does not live in fear of his own seizures like I do. They seem to be forgotten as quickly as they come. Do I suffer more than he does?
The dog is three years old. I am walking to the sink for a glass of water and catch my wife on the computer. She is looking at a service that will freeze-dry your animal after they die. You put the the animal corpse in a bag and mail it to the facility. Over the course of several months, they remove all moisture from the animals body and apply cosmetics to the corpse. In the end, you have a product that looks exactly like your animal and will stay that way for the next decade in ideal climate conditions. She tells me she wants to do this to the dog after it dies, it will help bring her closure. The website says it costs five thousand dollars. We get in a fight. She’s unable to define closure. I’m unable to define what natural means. I say that when things die they are supposed to disappear, they are not meant to hang around. She asks me why we have rituals, churches, catacombs, and memories. I tell her I don’t know. She starts to cry. She says she just doesn’t want to lose the dog. I resist the urge to ask her what losing something means, if anything is ever ours at all. I spend the next few minutes looking at the countless photos of freeze-dried pets on the company’s website. Hundreds of people over the years who have contracted this service. Hundreds, maybe thousands more that I’m not seeing. We are pathetic beings groping toward love. We have destroyed so much of the world to give us the right to build rockets, large hadron colliders, and converted garages for rent in the desert, but in the end we just want to freeze-dry our pets after they die so we can continue to look at them and continue to prostrate before their totem. Animals do not weep and
do not laugh, they do not grow into adults with antisocial ideas about the economy. I tell my wife we can do this when the dog dies, hoping she will have abandoned the idea by then because I do not want to spend the money or explain my choices to others. Why do we not freeze-dry dead children?
The dog is four years old. We are on a small vacation in the mountains that was planned months in advance. There is a chill in the air, dusty pine needles fall as the wind blows through the trees. Days before, the dog just started a new round of medication meant to bring his seizures back to a tolerable level after a troubling increase in frequency. He is more fatigued and dazed than usual as his body adjusts. The three of us are waiting on the outdoor patio of a cozy breakfast cafe near the cabin we rented. The dog is lightly swaying on his feet, his eyelids droopy. My wife is sitting on a small stone bench, holding his leash close to her body. There are is another dog on the patio interested in ours, but our dog does not acknowledge it and we do not acknowledge the owner. I am standing near the windows, gazing inside the cafe, looking at the plates of potatoes and eggs other people have ordered. There is a flyer taped to the glass asking for donations. There is a child in the small town with epilepsy who wants to play for the local football team and he needs special equipment on account of his condition that the family can not afford. The flyer has pictures of the boy, smiling at a birthday party, dressed up in a football uniform on Halloween, posing for a portrait with his siblings. I wonder what the child’s seizures are like and what sort of medications he is on. I wonder how his parents felt when they received the diagnosis, how drastically they needed to recalibrate their expectations for his life. I wonder if they have moments of unsullied peace or if the epileptic threat is constantly humming in the background like a drone. I wonder how the child feels, if he is old enough to have an awareness of his illness as a malignant object, or if epilepsy is merely part of his life just like breathing, coughing, or sleeping. I wonder how anyone finds the strength. Our table is ready. Following the waitress to the outdoor patio, the dog trips and is unable to get up. He isn’t having a seizure, but the medication is messing with his legs. I pick him in my arms and we walk back to the cabin. We spend the rest of the day inside, tending to the dog on the couch and watching television. I try to read but instead look out the window and count the pinecones littering the ground. My wife takes a nap and I clean up the used tissues around her. When she wakes up, we decide to go home early and forego the remaining time we paid for at the cabin. We pass the local high school on the way out of town just as they’re holding practice on the football field. The teenagers are tackling each other at full force. If I rolled my windows down, I would hear the clattering of hard plastic followed by the soft thud of bodies hitting the turf. On our way down the mountain, I realize we didn’t even get to visit the lakeshore. I wanted the dog to swim in the water. Far off in the distance, we can see the smoke and glowing embers from a wildfire on another range. They would be issuing evacuation orders for the town and our rented cabin in the coming days.
The dog is two years old. I come home from an errand and he is excited to see me. He jumps up and gently bites my hands. I talk to him in a stupid voice with a high pitch and ridiculous vocabulary. He licks my face and I scratch his body in the way I know he likes. He then scrambles to the small box where we keep his toys. He picks out his favorite one, a slipper, and brings it to me. I try to take it and lead him around as he clenches into the toy slipper with his teeth. The whole time I am talking to him in my stupid voice. My wife is watching
The dog is four years old. We are on a small vacation in the mountains that was planned months in advance. There is a chill in the air, dusty pine needles fall as the wind blows through the trees. Days before, the dog just started a new round of medication meant to bring his seizures back to a tolerable level after a troubling increase in frequency. He is more fatigued and dazed than usual as his body adjusts. The three of us are waiting on the outdoor patio of a cozy breakfast cafe near the cabin we rented. The dog is lightly swaying on his feet, his eyelids droopy. My wife is sitting on a small stone bench, holding his leash close to her body. There are is another dog on the patio interested in ours, but our dog does not acknowledge it and we do not acknowledge the owner. I am standing near the windows, gazing inside the cafe, looking at the plates of potatoes and eggs other people have ordered. There is a flyer taped to the glass asking for donations. There is a child in the small town with epilepsy who wants to play for the local football team and he needs special equipment on account of his condition that the family can not afford. The flyer has pictures of the boy, smiling at a birthday party, dressed up in a football uniform on Halloween, posing for a portrait with his siblings. I wonder what the child’s seizures are like and what sort of medications he is on. I wonder how his parents felt when they received the diagnosis, how drastically they needed to recalibrate their expectations for his life. I wonder if they have moments of unsullied peace or if the epileptic threat is constantly humming in the background like a drone. I wonder how the child feels, if he is old enough to have an awareness of his illness as a malignant object, or if epilepsy is merely part of his life just like breathing, coughing, or sleeping. I wonder how anyone finds the strength. Our table is ready. Following the waitress to the outdoor patio, the dog trips and is unable to get up. He isn’t having a seizure, but the medication is messing with his legs. I pick him in my arms and we walk back to the cabin. We spend the rest of the day inside, tending to the dog on the couch and watching television. I try to read but instead look out the window and count the pinecones littering the ground. My wife takes a nap and I clean up the used tissues around her. When she wakes up, we decide to go home early and forego the remaining time we paid for at the cabin. We pass the local high school on the way out of town just as they’re holding practice on the football field. The teenagers are tackling each other at full force. If I rolled my windows down, I would hear the clattering of hard plastic followed by the soft thud of bodies hitting the turf. On our way down the mountain, I realize we didn’t even get to visit the lakeshore. I wanted the dog to swim in the water. Far off in the distance, we can see the smoke and glowing embers from a wildfire on another range. They would be issuing evacuation orders for the town and our rented cabin in the coming days.
The dog is two years old. I come home from an errand and he is excited to see me. He jumps up and gently bites my hands. I talk to him in a stupid voice with a high pitch and ridiculous vocabulary. He licks my face and I scratch his body in the way I know he likes. He then scrambles to the small box where we keep his toys. He picks out his favorite one, a slipper, and brings it to me. I try to take it and lead him around as he clenches into the toy slipper with his teeth. The whole time I am talking to him in my stupid voice. My wife is watching
with a smile on her face. We play fetch. He eventually tires and lays down next to me and I pet him some more. He leans over to kiss my face. My wife asks the dog if he loves his dad, and I know he would say yes if he could.
The dog is one year old. I give him the heartworm, flea, and tick medicine after taking him out to pee for the night. I lay in bed to finish reading my book. I hear the sound of tap-dancing on the epoxied concrete floor. My wife calls my name, then calls it again with a different tone of voice. Something is wrong with the dog. I run into the room, he is struggling to crawl into my wife’s lap. He won’t stop trembling. His legs extend and stiffen, he spreads the webbing on his paws. He looks at me with confusion, then past me. He goes catatonic. My wife is crying. She wants to know what is wrong with him. I don’t know. It might be poison. She lifts him up and I usher them into the car. I drive as fast as I can to the all-night emergency vet. I run red lights and pull my fingers tightly around the steering wheel. I hear my wife whispering to the dog in the backseat. She is asking him not to die. By the time we get to the emergency vet, he seems back to normal. He jumps out of the car and is eager to see a new building. Inside, we wait with the other pet owners who need emergency medical care. Some have cats groaning in cages, others have dogs lying on their sides with bloated stomaches, others don’t have animals with them at all. A nurse comes out and orders me to call the poison control hotline. On the phone, I first need to pay the eighty dollar charge before the hotline will give me any information. I tell them everything the dog ate that day, including the medication. They will call me back once they investigate. Meanwhile, the nurse checks our dog’s vitals. They can find nothing wrong. He seems fine to us, too. We pay an examination fee and are told to come back if his behavior changes. The poison control hotline calls me back, they also don’t see anything wrong. We go home and try to get a few hours sleep before work in the morning. The dog lays on the bed with us. I am restless and grab my phone. I search the name of the heartworm, flea, and tick medicine and see other people who had similar experiences. The medicine works by sending a neurotoxin to the parasites, but this same neurotoxin may break the dog’s blood-brain barrier and attack their nervous system. Our dog had a seizure, it appears. One person’s dog never stopped having periodic seizures after taking that medicine. Another person’s dog had a series of seizures over the next few days before dying. I feel sick to my stomach. My mind can’t stop replaying the moment before I gave him the medicine, it can’t stop considering the different branches had I chosen not to give him the pill, the different ways our lives would have stayed the same.
The dog is one year old. I wake up to a strange sound. I see the dog in the corner, bundled into a blanket. He is in the pre-ictal phase. His paws then start tapping against floor. His ears are pulled back, and he has a look of fear and longing in his eyes. He does not know what is happening to him, and he wants help. I get out of bed and hold him for the duration of the seizure. I am in my underwear, and the concrete is cold against my thighs.
The dog is two years old. We are woken up by the dog pouncing onto the bed, excited to start another day with us. He is most excited to see my wife this morning, and he jumps onto her face. The small sharp claw on his front paw gouges her eye. She jumps up and screams. I don’t understand the gravity of the situation at first, I think she is just talking about the pressure from his paws. Later that morning, as I drink my coffee and look for jobs online,
The dog is one year old. I give him the heartworm, flea, and tick medicine after taking him out to pee for the night. I lay in bed to finish reading my book. I hear the sound of tap-dancing on the epoxied concrete floor. My wife calls my name, then calls it again with a different tone of voice. Something is wrong with the dog. I run into the room, he is struggling to crawl into my wife’s lap. He won’t stop trembling. His legs extend and stiffen, he spreads the webbing on his paws. He looks at me with confusion, then past me. He goes catatonic. My wife is crying. She wants to know what is wrong with him. I don’t know. It might be poison. She lifts him up and I usher them into the car. I drive as fast as I can to the all-night emergency vet. I run red lights and pull my fingers tightly around the steering wheel. I hear my wife whispering to the dog in the backseat. She is asking him not to die. By the time we get to the emergency vet, he seems back to normal. He jumps out of the car and is eager to see a new building. Inside, we wait with the other pet owners who need emergency medical care. Some have cats groaning in cages, others have dogs lying on their sides with bloated stomaches, others don’t have animals with them at all. A nurse comes out and orders me to call the poison control hotline. On the phone, I first need to pay the eighty dollar charge before the hotline will give me any information. I tell them everything the dog ate that day, including the medication. They will call me back once they investigate. Meanwhile, the nurse checks our dog’s vitals. They can find nothing wrong. He seems fine to us, too. We pay an examination fee and are told to come back if his behavior changes. The poison control hotline calls me back, they also don’t see anything wrong. We go home and try to get a few hours sleep before work in the morning. The dog lays on the bed with us. I am restless and grab my phone. I search the name of the heartworm, flea, and tick medicine and see other people who had similar experiences. The medicine works by sending a neurotoxin to the parasites, but this same neurotoxin may break the dog’s blood-brain barrier and attack their nervous system. Our dog had a seizure, it appears. One person’s dog never stopped having periodic seizures after taking that medicine. Another person’s dog had a series of seizures over the next few days before dying. I feel sick to my stomach. My mind can’t stop replaying the moment before I gave him the medicine, it can’t stop considering the different branches had I chosen not to give him the pill, the different ways our lives would have stayed the same.
The dog is one year old. I wake up to a strange sound. I see the dog in the corner, bundled into a blanket. He is in the pre-ictal phase. His paws then start tapping against floor. His ears are pulled back, and he has a look of fear and longing in his eyes. He does not know what is happening to him, and he wants help. I get out of bed and hold him for the duration of the seizure. I am in my underwear, and the concrete is cold against my thighs.
The dog is two years old. We are woken up by the dog pouncing onto the bed, excited to start another day with us. He is most excited to see my wife this morning, and he jumps onto her face. The small sharp claw on his front paw gouges her eye. She jumps up and screams. I don’t understand the gravity of the situation at first, I think she is just talking about the pressure from his paws. Later that morning, as I drink my coffee and look for jobs online,
she tells me she can’t see correctly out of the injured eye. We spend the next few hours at the urgent care near our converted garage only to be told that we need to see a specialist due to the depth of the gash. We have to pay a bill for over a hundred dollars. The ophthalmologist is on the other side of town, my wife holds both hands up to the injured eye on the drive since the sunlight burns it. There is a waterfall built into the wall in the lobby. White leather low-slung chairs surround tasteful modern coffee tables, and the receptionist asks how they can help us before we reach the counter. My wife is diagnosed with a corneal abrasion and is prescribed steroids and an eye patch. In time it will heal, but things may always be just a bit blurry out of that eye, she might always need eye drops. It is the eye she holds up to a camera’s viewfinder when taking pictures. I expect her to be devastated, but she tells me the corneal scaring will be how she always remembers the dog, even after he’s gone. The ophthalmologist will mail us a bill.
The dog is three years old. My wife gives him a bone to chew on, a high reward treat. We’re watching television and he’s on the floor next to us, enjoying the cold raw beef bone with all its marrow and cartilage. Suddenly, he starts screaming, high pitched and staccato. My wife jumps from the bed to the floor to see what is happening, and the dog is limping in a small circle. He sees her, runs, and jumps into her arms like a child wanting to be held. My wife is asking him what is wrong, running her hands across his body. When she touches his hind leg, he screams again. My wife adjusts herself and the dog panics, burrowing himself even further in her arms. He doesn’t seem to be having a seizure, but will scream when his hind leg is touched. My wife sets him down, but he jumps into her arms again and places his head on her shoulder. He just wants to be held. I’m worried, but it is so heartwarming it makes me laugh and smile. We go to the expensive emergency vet, only to conclude that he likely cramped his leg due to the odd position he assumed when chewing the bone.
The dog is four years old. He in inside with my wife, and I am outside on the porch for a breath of fresh air. It is the middle of summer and hot outside. When the dog dies, I will no longer worry. Peace comes over me as I adopt this mantra.
The dog is two years old. I am playing one of our favorite games where I chase him around the house. I back him into a corner and he turns around with his tail wagging. When I say, teasing, that I have him captured, he responds to me in what can only be called talking. He makes strange barking noises varying in tone and pitch. When I laugh and talk back or just make a funny face, he responds again. This is typical behavior when he is in a good mood. I pretend to find meaning in the patterns and repetition.
The dog is one year old. We are cooking dinner, chopping up a bell pepper. My wife cuts off a small piece for the dog and tosses it across the room for him to chase down. On the way, he collapses. He is having a seizure. My wife drops the knife and rushes over to him. I pull out my phone to record the incident, since the only thing we can control is tracking and measuring the terrible things that happen. My wife rocks back and forth. I am keeping track of the time. If the seizure lasts more than a few minutes, it could leave him brain dead. The water boils over on the stove. After the seizure, as the dog stumbles around and regains his footing and my wife and I sit in silence, unsure of what to say, I put the video in a hidden
The dog is three years old. My wife gives him a bone to chew on, a high reward treat. We’re watching television and he’s on the floor next to us, enjoying the cold raw beef bone with all its marrow and cartilage. Suddenly, he starts screaming, high pitched and staccato. My wife jumps from the bed to the floor to see what is happening, and the dog is limping in a small circle. He sees her, runs, and jumps into her arms like a child wanting to be held. My wife is asking him what is wrong, running her hands across his body. When she touches his hind leg, he screams again. My wife adjusts herself and the dog panics, burrowing himself even further in her arms. He doesn’t seem to be having a seizure, but will scream when his hind leg is touched. My wife sets him down, but he jumps into her arms again and places his head on her shoulder. He just wants to be held. I’m worried, but it is so heartwarming it makes me laugh and smile. We go to the expensive emergency vet, only to conclude that he likely cramped his leg due to the odd position he assumed when chewing the bone.
The dog is four years old. He in inside with my wife, and I am outside on the porch for a breath of fresh air. It is the middle of summer and hot outside. When the dog dies, I will no longer worry. Peace comes over me as I adopt this mantra.
The dog is two years old. I am playing one of our favorite games where I chase him around the house. I back him into a corner and he turns around with his tail wagging. When I say, teasing, that I have him captured, he responds to me in what can only be called talking. He makes strange barking noises varying in tone and pitch. When I laugh and talk back or just make a funny face, he responds again. This is typical behavior when he is in a good mood. I pretend to find meaning in the patterns and repetition.
The dog is one year old. We are cooking dinner, chopping up a bell pepper. My wife cuts off a small piece for the dog and tosses it across the room for him to chase down. On the way, he collapses. He is having a seizure. My wife drops the knife and rushes over to him. I pull out my phone to record the incident, since the only thing we can control is tracking and measuring the terrible things that happen. My wife rocks back and forth. I am keeping track of the time. If the seizure lasts more than a few minutes, it could leave him brain dead. The water boils over on the stove. After the seizure, as the dog stumbles around and regains his footing and my wife and I sit in silence, unsure of what to say, I put the video in a hidden
folder on my phone. I didn’t like to see these seizure videos next to banal photos of desert landscapes or screenshots of emails I sent to our landlord.
The dog is two years old. I am with him in the park near our converted garage. The sun is sinking into an orange polluted haze and pink clouds streak across the sky. We are standing on the bank of the constructed river that cuts through the park, I am looking at the reflection of the colors on the surface of the water and the long shadows of thin palm trees stretched across the width of the river. The dog is looking at the exotic ducks floating in a small huddle as pieces of trash drift by in the current. The ground near my feet is littered with more trash, goose droppings, and burnt pieces of tinfoil. I remind myself to vigilantly watch the dog, afraid he might eat some sort of drug. A teenage boy wearing clothes too large for him walks by and tells me the type of dog we have is expensive. I lie and say that the dog is adopted before tugging his leash and walking in the opposite direction, away from the water and palm trees, toward the neighborhood houses and mountains in the distance.
The dog is three years old. I was in a sour mood and made a mean-spirited joke to a friend that angered them. My brother confessed things our mother had said about me and she hasn’t returned my calls in the week since I confronted her. After my wife finished cooking dinner, she started watching a video on her phone and I tried to shame her for not reading instead. My boss has been acting distant since the dismal quarterly financial results were announced. My ankle feels strange when I put weight on it. The dog is lying on the bed and I bury my face into the fur of his neck. I stick my palm out and he licks it. I leave my face pushed into his body and breathe deeply through my nostrils. The dark and heavy orb of misery briefly leaves the floor of my stomach. I doubt there is a better experience of being than this, and in the moment I do not feel ashamed for failing to accomplish anything noteworthy, such as having children.
The dog is three years old. He is eating grass in a neighbor’s yard. I try to pull him in one direction, but he digs his legs into the ground and refuses to leave. I try again, practically dragging him. He extends his neck and chomps at the supple and overgrown blades of grass. We get as far as the driveway before he abruptly turns and tries to eat the grass again. Frustrated, I tug the leash so hard that the dog leaves the ground and plops down a few inches away. I drag him to the next house and he starts walking strange. I am afraid he is having a seizure, but it turns out he is just eating a piece of cat shit. I refuse to let him stop and sniff for the remainder of the walk, coming home in a huff and slamming the door. My wife is on an unplanned work call and widens her eyes at me. I come out of the bathroom and the dog bumps my leg with his nose, a stuffed toy elephant clenched between his teeth. I am uncomfortable to call myself his owner. We happen to be sharing the earth together.
The dog is one year old. I see a grainy video online that was captured on a cheap surveillance camera someone installed on their porch. A cop is visiting someone’s house, who knows the reason, and a neighbor’s dog, tail wagging, runs up to the cop, excited to see another person. The cop pulls out his gun and empties three rounds into the dog, his murky figure speaking into the radio as the dog’s body twitches on the ground and a dark pool spreads outward on the sidewalk. I learn there is little legal recourse the dog’s owner can take—the state views animals similar to how it views property, meaning there will be no murder charges, no
The dog is two years old. I am with him in the park near our converted garage. The sun is sinking into an orange polluted haze and pink clouds streak across the sky. We are standing on the bank of the constructed river that cuts through the park, I am looking at the reflection of the colors on the surface of the water and the long shadows of thin palm trees stretched across the width of the river. The dog is looking at the exotic ducks floating in a small huddle as pieces of trash drift by in the current. The ground near my feet is littered with more trash, goose droppings, and burnt pieces of tinfoil. I remind myself to vigilantly watch the dog, afraid he might eat some sort of drug. A teenage boy wearing clothes too large for him walks by and tells me the type of dog we have is expensive. I lie and say that the dog is adopted before tugging his leash and walking in the opposite direction, away from the water and palm trees, toward the neighborhood houses and mountains in the distance.
The dog is three years old. I was in a sour mood and made a mean-spirited joke to a friend that angered them. My brother confessed things our mother had said about me and she hasn’t returned my calls in the week since I confronted her. After my wife finished cooking dinner, she started watching a video on her phone and I tried to shame her for not reading instead. My boss has been acting distant since the dismal quarterly financial results were announced. My ankle feels strange when I put weight on it. The dog is lying on the bed and I bury my face into the fur of his neck. I stick my palm out and he licks it. I leave my face pushed into his body and breathe deeply through my nostrils. The dark and heavy orb of misery briefly leaves the floor of my stomach. I doubt there is a better experience of being than this, and in the moment I do not feel ashamed for failing to accomplish anything noteworthy, such as having children.
The dog is three years old. He is eating grass in a neighbor’s yard. I try to pull him in one direction, but he digs his legs into the ground and refuses to leave. I try again, practically dragging him. He extends his neck and chomps at the supple and overgrown blades of grass. We get as far as the driveway before he abruptly turns and tries to eat the grass again. Frustrated, I tug the leash so hard that the dog leaves the ground and plops down a few inches away. I drag him to the next house and he starts walking strange. I am afraid he is having a seizure, but it turns out he is just eating a piece of cat shit. I refuse to let him stop and sniff for the remainder of the walk, coming home in a huff and slamming the door. My wife is on an unplanned work call and widens her eyes at me. I come out of the bathroom and the dog bumps my leg with his nose, a stuffed toy elephant clenched between his teeth. I am uncomfortable to call myself his owner. We happen to be sharing the earth together.
The dog is one year old. I see a grainy video online that was captured on a cheap surveillance camera someone installed on their porch. A cop is visiting someone’s house, who knows the reason, and a neighbor’s dog, tail wagging, runs up to the cop, excited to see another person. The cop pulls out his gun and empties three rounds into the dog, his murky figure speaking into the radio as the dog’s body twitches on the ground and a dark pool spreads outward on the sidewalk. I learn there is little legal recourse the dog’s owner can take—the state views animals similar to how it views property, meaning there will be no murder charges, no
accidental death charges, and minimal chance of emotional distress payouts. This, even had the killer not been a cop. I spend a few minutes daydreaming about what I would do if someone killed our dog. I fantasize about long and calculated acts of revenge against police officers and strangers. I also fantasize about shooting them in a fit of passion. I carry this last thought so far that I consider what it would take to buy a gun and the logistics of actually killing someone. I am doing all of this while I am slowly moving through the drive-thru line, about to order a cheeseburger for dinner. I roll my window down and smell meat sizzling on a flattop. Through my windshield a sea of bright red taillights slowly crawls ahead. I know I will never kill anyone, even if they killed our dog. I feel pathetic and pay with cash.
The dog is two years old. I am with my wife and the dog on our concrete patio, decorating for Halloween. I stretch synthetic spider web across the porch light as my wife hammers aluminum stakes into the ground that will hold styrofoam tombstones. Our dog is chewing on the arm of a plastic skeleton. I see our neighbor walk by with his wife and daughter. They have a dog with them, the first time I’ve seen such a thing. The dog looks older, a little fat, and isn’t an identifiable breed. I assume it’s a rescue. The family is walking gently with the dog, stopping a handful of times before they even leave my line of sight to give the dog treats and encouragement. The little girl seems happy, though the mother is hesitant when she puts her face near the dog’s mouth. I tell my wife that if we ever get another dog, I want it to be a rescue. She disagrees. She likes the particular breed of our dog. I do too, but I’m not convinced. I had read something recently about the evils of dog breeding, how dogs were selected for arbitrary visual traits that left them genetically malformed and led to health consequences. The article showed pictures of dogs breeds side by side, how they looked decades ago with well-proportioned torsos and functional snouts versus their contemporary degenerated bodies. I told my wife I felt guilty for participating in such a system while stray dogs were euthanized daily, that it felt like a perpetuating an unnatural death machine. She stayed silent and hung a cloth ghost from the branch of a tree that hung over the fence and into our yard. I continue, explaining how the whole notion of dog breeding and pet ownership was a recent invention of the Victorian era, a bizarre hodgepodge of industrialist attitudes toward dominion of nature and economic activity of the bourgeois. The dog stops chewing the plastic skeleton and begins playing with one of his old puppy toys left outside, now sunbleached and frayed from the occasional monsoon, bringing it to my wife in hope of interrupting her decorating. I wonder out loud if we can even claim to give pets a good life, that they may live in miserable boredom, their essence neutered and exposed to human sadness and civilized excess. We force life into this world only to abandon it to suffering, I say. I ask my wife if she is listening to me. She turns around and asks me why I feel compelled to reduce love and purpose to byproducts of market forces. The neighbor family is returning with their dog. The light outside is golden. I apologize to my wife, saying I didn’t mean to disparage the life we were building. Later that night, the dog will have a seizure as we are in bed watching television.
The dog is four years old. I am reading a review of a book that details the criminal trial of a terrorist attack in Paris. According to the reviewer, the author details the witness testimonies from paramedics and survivors, the sound of shattering bone and heat of pressed bodies and sounds of groaning. The author also gives attention to the defendants,
The dog is two years old. I am with my wife and the dog on our concrete patio, decorating for Halloween. I stretch synthetic spider web across the porch light as my wife hammers aluminum stakes into the ground that will hold styrofoam tombstones. Our dog is chewing on the arm of a plastic skeleton. I see our neighbor walk by with his wife and daughter. They have a dog with them, the first time I’ve seen such a thing. The dog looks older, a little fat, and isn’t an identifiable breed. I assume it’s a rescue. The family is walking gently with the dog, stopping a handful of times before they even leave my line of sight to give the dog treats and encouragement. The little girl seems happy, though the mother is hesitant when she puts her face near the dog’s mouth. I tell my wife that if we ever get another dog, I want it to be a rescue. She disagrees. She likes the particular breed of our dog. I do too, but I’m not convinced. I had read something recently about the evils of dog breeding, how dogs were selected for arbitrary visual traits that left them genetically malformed and led to health consequences. The article showed pictures of dogs breeds side by side, how they looked decades ago with well-proportioned torsos and functional snouts versus their contemporary degenerated bodies. I told my wife I felt guilty for participating in such a system while stray dogs were euthanized daily, that it felt like a perpetuating an unnatural death machine. She stayed silent and hung a cloth ghost from the branch of a tree that hung over the fence and into our yard. I continue, explaining how the whole notion of dog breeding and pet ownership was a recent invention of the Victorian era, a bizarre hodgepodge of industrialist attitudes toward dominion of nature and economic activity of the bourgeois. The dog stops chewing the plastic skeleton and begins playing with one of his old puppy toys left outside, now sunbleached and frayed from the occasional monsoon, bringing it to my wife in hope of interrupting her decorating. I wonder out loud if we can even claim to give pets a good life, that they may live in miserable boredom, their essence neutered and exposed to human sadness and civilized excess. We force life into this world only to abandon it to suffering, I say. I ask my wife if she is listening to me. She turns around and asks me why I feel compelled to reduce love and purpose to byproducts of market forces. The neighbor family is returning with their dog. The light outside is golden. I apologize to my wife, saying I didn’t mean to disparage the life we were building. Later that night, the dog will have a seizure as we are in bed watching television.
The dog is four years old. I am reading a review of a book that details the criminal trial of a terrorist attack in Paris. According to the reviewer, the author details the witness testimonies from paramedics and survivors, the sound of shattering bone and heat of pressed bodies and sounds of groaning. The author also gives attention to the defendants,
young Syrian immigrants who joined the terrorist organizations that perpetuated the attacks. Looking at the attacks, the young men say, is like only reading the last page of a book. You need to read the full book, such as the crimes France and the Western world has perpetuated against the Middle East, to understand what happened. The reviewer accuses the young man of contextualizing things to the point of nihilism. Contextualizing to the point of nihilism. I stop reading the review and look at my dog, who is loudly drinking water from a ceramic bowl. If the road of context ends in nihilism, I think, how can anyone justify an opposing position? Can life be embraced without willfully ignoring dried coats of blood?
The dog is two years old. He was acting a little strange on our evening walk, and I’m concerned he might be having a seizure soon. I am sitting on the concrete floor back in our garage, watching him walk around the room to vaguely inspect each object. I’m not sure if this is odd behavior on his end, or if I’ve simply never watched him with such intention before. It is strange to observe an animal with focus. Most of their time is spent standing around, doing nothing but staring ahead.
The dog is one year old. I am reading about seizures. I learn they are caused by massive surges of electric pulses in the brain, a flood of signals that in smaller quantities are associated with thought and limb movement. When this electricity runs through my dog’s brain during a seizure, there is more input than output, which is why bodies react by seizing catatonically, violently thrashing, releasing urine, generating foam, collapsing. When there is no direct cause, such as a tumor or liver disorder, the diagnosis is idiopathic epilepsy. I had asked the neurologist if the flea, tick, and heartworm medicine could have caused the seizures, but she only shrugged her shoulders in reply. Whether the medicine was the catalyst or not, the path of treatment would remain the same. Sometimes, I feel ripples of shock running across my skull throughout the day. I’m unsure if this is the result of stress, an idiopathic symptom of a benign condition, or if it is a small gasp of what the dog experiences. I had never before considered the function of electricity in the brain, and I wonder if it is electricity, not blood, that could be considered the stuff of life. The same element that materially defines my consciousness is the one that powers my refrigerator, hospital defibrillators, profit and loss calculation matrixes, television screens, word processors, and sonar. It is the same element that stalks my dog. It transmits information and power. I wonder if electricity is not something more than what we understand, if it is only the pale underside of a dark upturned beast. We have not trained our technologies to measure the as yet unknown parameters revealed in substation explosions and sensory blackouts.
The dog is one year old. I am reading a forum for epileptic dog owners. I am familiarizing myself with the different medicine names, homeopathic remedies, symptoms of decline, and qualities of life. There are photos of multicolored pills arranged by the dosage, handfuls of pharmacology that sometimes only keep seizures at bay for a week. There are more photos of dogs on the beach, in the backyard, in the car, on the bed, or sitting at the table behind a lit birthday cake, the photos varying in composition and quality, all ostensibly normal but haunted by a fatalistic specter. There are optimistic posts about hope after a diagnosis or about the brief moments of calm between seizures. Then there are posts where the owner is grimly aware of what is happening but cannot find the language to speak it plainly next to
The dog is two years old. He was acting a little strange on our evening walk, and I’m concerned he might be having a seizure soon. I am sitting on the concrete floor back in our garage, watching him walk around the room to vaguely inspect each object. I’m not sure if this is odd behavior on his end, or if I’ve simply never watched him with such intention before. It is strange to observe an animal with focus. Most of their time is spent standing around, doing nothing but staring ahead.
The dog is one year old. I am reading about seizures. I learn they are caused by massive surges of electric pulses in the brain, a flood of signals that in smaller quantities are associated with thought and limb movement. When this electricity runs through my dog’s brain during a seizure, there is more input than output, which is why bodies react by seizing catatonically, violently thrashing, releasing urine, generating foam, collapsing. When there is no direct cause, such as a tumor or liver disorder, the diagnosis is idiopathic epilepsy. I had asked the neurologist if the flea, tick, and heartworm medicine could have caused the seizures, but she only shrugged her shoulders in reply. Whether the medicine was the catalyst or not, the path of treatment would remain the same. Sometimes, I feel ripples of shock running across my skull throughout the day. I’m unsure if this is the result of stress, an idiopathic symptom of a benign condition, or if it is a small gasp of what the dog experiences. I had never before considered the function of electricity in the brain, and I wonder if it is electricity, not blood, that could be considered the stuff of life. The same element that materially defines my consciousness is the one that powers my refrigerator, hospital defibrillators, profit and loss calculation matrixes, television screens, word processors, and sonar. It is the same element that stalks my dog. It transmits information and power. I wonder if electricity is not something more than what we understand, if it is only the pale underside of a dark upturned beast. We have not trained our technologies to measure the as yet unknown parameters revealed in substation explosions and sensory blackouts.
The dog is one year old. I am reading a forum for epileptic dog owners. I am familiarizing myself with the different medicine names, homeopathic remedies, symptoms of decline, and qualities of life. There are photos of multicolored pills arranged by the dosage, handfuls of pharmacology that sometimes only keep seizures at bay for a week. There are more photos of dogs on the beach, in the backyard, in the car, on the bed, or sitting at the table behind a lit birthday cake, the photos varying in composition and quality, all ostensibly normal but haunted by a fatalistic specter. There are optimistic posts about hope after a diagnosis or about the brief moments of calm between seizures. Then there are posts where the owner is grimly aware of what is happening but cannot find the language to speak it plainly next to
elegiac posts where the language has been found. It is hard for me to determine which type of post is more pathetic. The pendulum inside me swings from sorrow to anger. Someone asks if anyone remembers the last full night of sleep they had before the diagnosis, someone else replies that soundproof earplugs have helped them ignore the worrisome twitches and rearrangements from their dog at night. I draft a comment asking them if it wouldn’t just be better for their dog to die, but I delete it. I feel my face go red. Then, I see a post from a user that matches my wife’s name. It is asking for recommendations on CBD oils, as its said they can help regulate brain activity. It is a short question, but it is written in her voice. I read the various recommendations people give. My wife has enthusiastically responded to each one with profuse thanks and follow-up questions when warranted. Everyone wishes her luck. Later that day, over dinner, she tells me she spent the day researching and found a expensive, boutique brand that has good results in epileptic dogs. I feign surprise and joy, as if an oil is all we needed.
The dog is three years old. I just got back from a jog outside. I am lying on the cold concrete and the dog comes up to lick my face. He likes the salt from my sweat and licks far beyond the point he usually stops. I’ve heard stories where dogs eat their owners after the owner dies of a heart attack or stroke. The thought of my dog eating me doesn’t bother me or make me suspicious of him. I am finally beginning to understand the conversation my wife and I had years ago where she said the best way to die is being eaten by a jaguar.
The dog is two years old. My wife and are back home across country for a funeral, an uncle who died suddenly from an aneurysm. The dog is at a daycare center, a first for us. Throughout the trip, my wife has consistently checked the webcams on the daycare’s website, pixelated videos of the large open playroom. The floor is the same as the epoxied concrete of our converted garage, the only piece of play equipment a large red plastic staircase in the middle of the room. Our dog is guarded, preferring to hold a position on the staircase and bark whenever another dog approaches him. After the funeral, we head to my aunt’s backyard for drinks and commiserating. My wife and I both get drunk from canned seltzers. My cousin gives a small speech, saying his father was not perfect and had his troubles but was ultimately the most human person he’s ever known. I find that poignant and drink some more. My cousin continues speaking, venturing into personal anecdotes that I only half understand and my aunt shifts uncomfortably. When he’s finished, my wife checks the dog daycare webcams, but our dog is missing. I slur my words when I tell her he’s probably just taking a little break after barking at another dog too aggressively. She isn’t satisfied with this reasoning, and, maybe because she’s drunk, calls the daycare for a status update. Our dog has had an incident, they say. Something about shaking. My wife starts crying. I take her under my arm and lead her away from the crowd. It might give the wrong impression if we were seen crying about something else at a funeral. I have the same hollow wish inside me I assume my aunt and cousin must have inside them.
The dog is three years old. My wife is holding him on the ground. The seizure is lasting longer than usual. I am sitting next to them, gently hushing the dog like he is a crying baby. He starts to pant with his tongue out and his eyes dart around, the telltale signs he is emerging from the ictal phase. A minute later, he tries to leave my wife’s lap and stumbles around the room, tripping and limping as he regains his footing. My wife runs to the
The dog is three years old. I just got back from a jog outside. I am lying on the cold concrete and the dog comes up to lick my face. He likes the salt from my sweat and licks far beyond the point he usually stops. I’ve heard stories where dogs eat their owners after the owner dies of a heart attack or stroke. The thought of my dog eating me doesn’t bother me or make me suspicious of him. I am finally beginning to understand the conversation my wife and I had years ago where she said the best way to die is being eaten by a jaguar.
The dog is two years old. My wife and are back home across country for a funeral, an uncle who died suddenly from an aneurysm. The dog is at a daycare center, a first for us. Throughout the trip, my wife has consistently checked the webcams on the daycare’s website, pixelated videos of the large open playroom. The floor is the same as the epoxied concrete of our converted garage, the only piece of play equipment a large red plastic staircase in the middle of the room. Our dog is guarded, preferring to hold a position on the staircase and bark whenever another dog approaches him. After the funeral, we head to my aunt’s backyard for drinks and commiserating. My wife and I both get drunk from canned seltzers. My cousin gives a small speech, saying his father was not perfect and had his troubles but was ultimately the most human person he’s ever known. I find that poignant and drink some more. My cousin continues speaking, venturing into personal anecdotes that I only half understand and my aunt shifts uncomfortably. When he’s finished, my wife checks the dog daycare webcams, but our dog is missing. I slur my words when I tell her he’s probably just taking a little break after barking at another dog too aggressively. She isn’t satisfied with this reasoning, and, maybe because she’s drunk, calls the daycare for a status update. Our dog has had an incident, they say. Something about shaking. My wife starts crying. I take her under my arm and lead her away from the crowd. It might give the wrong impression if we were seen crying about something else at a funeral. I have the same hollow wish inside me I assume my aunt and cousin must have inside them.
The dog is three years old. My wife is holding him on the ground. The seizure is lasting longer than usual. I am sitting next to them, gently hushing the dog like he is a crying baby. He starts to pant with his tongue out and his eyes dart around, the telltale signs he is emerging from the ictal phase. A minute later, he tries to leave my wife’s lap and stumbles around the room, tripping and limping as he regains his footing. My wife runs to the
bathroom. The dog stoops to his water bowl and falls on his stomach. He slowly lifts himself on shaky legs. As hard as it is to watch the events unfold as they happen, the dread is even worse—the future will bring even greater pains, even worse seizures. The future will bring death. When I watch my wife’s face go red and tears roll down her cheeks, I am only looking at an embryo. She comes out of the bathroom and quietly tells me this was the first time the dog urinated during a seizure, a suggestion of development.
The dog is three years old. He is beautiful. The three of us are huddled on the bed, watching clips of the famous dog show. The dogs on display are well-poised and well-groomed, but we agree that our dog would easily win the show if it were based on looks alone. His posture, coat, and features are immaculate. Unfortunately, he was not raised to be a show dog. He would not sit still for the judges as they inspected his quarters, would rather play than trot. Some of the dogs look artificial. The spectacle of the pageant is alien. There are hundreds of people in the stands, there are senseless rules to abide by, large stadium lights illuminate the field. The dog contestants look rather blank. It is the most important day of their owners lives, but for the dog it is only a ripple in a stream. They did not ask for this.They do not ask for anything, only to be fed. I love them!, I say aloud.
The dog is three years old. My special line of credit for animal medical expenses has been maxed out. I do not know what we will do in event of another emergency, another procedure. I research how much euthanasia costs. There are clinics that will do it for cheap or even free, but the services that add a touch of care are rather expensive. It is not cheap for a vet to come to your house and put the dog to sleep in the comfort of their known surroundings with the people they love. I then run some numbers on how long it would take me to get out of debt at my current payment schedule and salary while accounting for reasonable increases in living expenses like rent and groceries. I stop before finishing.
The dog is four years old. A war is going on. I read about women that are starving, or children whose teeth are blown through the back of their heads by cluster bombs. When a war is not going on, I read about wild animals drowning on land due to unprecedented hurricanes, or men who spend their short lives extracting minerals like lithium or copper from toxic crevices in the earth. Do refugees have epileptic dogs? Do prisoners of war try to enjoy every small moment while they can, unsure of when it all will be taken away? Would grieving parents feel bad for me like I feel bad for them?
The dog is five years old. His seizures have gotten exponentially worse and more frequent. He is undergoing a second MRI to see if there is another cause. My wife elected to stay at the vet during the procedure. I am taking some time to myself and hiking in the mountains outside town. A wildfire ran through here recently. Amongst the rocks are endless black batches of charred ground and fallen cacti. The trees are dead, signed branches lying like soldiers at the base of their trunks. They say a destruction this total has never visited the area. I live in a world of effects without causes.
The dog is two years old. I am walking across the room and take a detour to visit him on the couch. I take his head in my hands and hold us face up to mine. We lock eyes and I press my forehead against his. I close my eyes and transmit beams of healing love from my brain into his. I have never done such a thing with my wife, my mother, father, brother, or any friends. I am not sure if I lack the bond, courage, and vulnerability with them, or if the dog and I have something special.
***
The dog is three years old. He is beautiful. The three of us are huddled on the bed, watching clips of the famous dog show. The dogs on display are well-poised and well-groomed, but we agree that our dog would easily win the show if it were based on looks alone. His posture, coat, and features are immaculate. Unfortunately, he was not raised to be a show dog. He would not sit still for the judges as they inspected his quarters, would rather play than trot. Some of the dogs look artificial. The spectacle of the pageant is alien. There are hundreds of people in the stands, there are senseless rules to abide by, large stadium lights illuminate the field. The dog contestants look rather blank. It is the most important day of their owners lives, but for the dog it is only a ripple in a stream. They did not ask for this.They do not ask for anything, only to be fed. I love them!, I say aloud.
The dog is three years old. My special line of credit for animal medical expenses has been maxed out. I do not know what we will do in event of another emergency, another procedure. I research how much euthanasia costs. There are clinics that will do it for cheap or even free, but the services that add a touch of care are rather expensive. It is not cheap for a vet to come to your house and put the dog to sleep in the comfort of their known surroundings with the people they love. I then run some numbers on how long it would take me to get out of debt at my current payment schedule and salary while accounting for reasonable increases in living expenses like rent and groceries. I stop before finishing.
The dog is four years old. A war is going on. I read about women that are starving, or children whose teeth are blown through the back of their heads by cluster bombs. When a war is not going on, I read about wild animals drowning on land due to unprecedented hurricanes, or men who spend their short lives extracting minerals like lithium or copper from toxic crevices in the earth. Do refugees have epileptic dogs? Do prisoners of war try to enjoy every small moment while they can, unsure of when it all will be taken away? Would grieving parents feel bad for me like I feel bad for them?
The dog is five years old. His seizures have gotten exponentially worse and more frequent. He is undergoing a second MRI to see if there is another cause. My wife elected to stay at the vet during the procedure. I am taking some time to myself and hiking in the mountains outside town. A wildfire ran through here recently. Amongst the rocks are endless black batches of charred ground and fallen cacti. The trees are dead, signed branches lying like soldiers at the base of their trunks. They say a destruction this total has never visited the area. I live in a world of effects without causes.
The dog is two years old. I am walking across the room and take a detour to visit him on the couch. I take his head in my hands and hold us face up to mine. We lock eyes and I press my forehead against his. I close my eyes and transmit beams of healing love from my brain into his. I have never done such a thing with my wife, my mother, father, brother, or any friends. I am not sure if I lack the bond, courage, and vulnerability with them, or if the dog and I have something special.