Today is Gordon’s designated birthday – the one used for his official paperwork with the city of Palm Springs (dog license, vaccination record, etc.) and by his vet. It is “designated” because it marks the day, three years ago, that the Friends of the Palm Springs Animal Shelter rescued him from being put down at another shelter after no one claimed or adopted him for a year. They brought him to Palm Springs, paid for a surgery he needed, and I came along two weeks later and sprung him from doggie jail and welcomed him to his forever home with me. It’s an estimate, but he is 8 today. His adoption day, November 11th, will mark our third year together.
Everybody loves their pets, be they dogs, cats, gerbils, birds, bunnies, or something more exotic. And everyone believes theirs is the best dog, cat, gerbil, bird, bunny, or something exotic. I am no different in that regard. But Gordon is the best. And it’s not just me who thinks so: we have a saying around here at Stonewall Gardens – Gordon is not just a good dog, he is the goodest!
My sunshine doesn’t come from the skies, it comes from the love in my dog’s eyes.
Anonymous poet
When I lost Dennis, my Corgi mutt, to old age (he was deaf, blind, and had dementia, so I made the gut-wrenching decision to put him to sleep so he would not suffer anymore), I fell into a very dark and very deep hole of despair and depression. I had adopted him shortly after I moved to the desert; this photo (at left) was taken the day I brought him home. And he was by my side or on my lap for fourteen years.
Adjusting to life with my new wheelchair and walker, writhing in pain on the floor in the middle of the night with a broken hip waiting for the paramedics, lying in bed trying to fall asleep while gasping for air unable to breathe (because, unbeknownst to me, I had blood clots in my lungs), coming home after my first colonoscopy (which you would think a renowned homosexual like me would have enjoyed, but alas, you’re “out” for the whole thing), and even crying my eyes out after some guy I was dating who said it didn’t matter to him that I was in a wheelchair decided that it did matter – through it all, there was Dennis: a constant source of unquestioning and unconditional love, warm, playful affection, and steadfast, loyal companionship.
When he died, and I’m not given to being overly dramatic, I pulled my blinds down and sat alone in my darkened apartment crying for four days. It is not hyperbole to say that more than once I concluded there was no reason to carry on living.
A friend suggested I get another dog. I rejected that idea; I was firmly of the ‘nobody can replace Dennis’ mind frame. But early in the morning of the fourth day after he died, something compelled me to go online looking for dogs waiting to be rescued – ironic, when it was me who needed rescuing. Dennis knew from experience what a needy mess I can be, and I think I had some vague notion in my head that he had handed me off, passed the baton, and all I had to do was find out to whom. Then I saw this picture:
It was instantaneous. I knew at once. The website said his name was Gordon, a blond, short-haired “deer head” Chihuahua mix. As an empirical materialist, it is hard for me to admit that I’ve had these moments in my life, repeatedly, when fate steps in and I’ve been led to my destiny, as if by the subtle manipulations of a benevolent god. Catholics call this ‘divine providence.’ I was raised Catholic and even went to Catholic seminary intending to become a priest, but I left when I was 23 and have not practiced the faith for many years. Still, any number of times (many, too many for me to simply dismiss it as happenstance) I have been “saved” by random circumstances that seem engineered for my benefit. It does make even a jaded atheist like me stop and wonder. And don’t quote me on this but you can take the boy out of the Catholic, but you can never take the Catholic out of the boy.
So Gordon came home with me that day. And not to put too fine a point on it, but he immediately took up a spot next to me in my chair that had been Dennis’ favorite for fourteen years, stretching out along my leg and laying his snout on his front paws just as Dennis always had. When it came time to relieve himself, Gordon walked right out on my patio and under my orange tree to the exact spot where Dennis used to do his business, without any prompting or direction from me. The rational part of me says ‘he probably just smelled the spot used by Dennis and was smart enough to conclude this is where dogs are supposed to go in this place.’ But a part of me believes, and really wants to believe, there is so much more than meets the eye in this world. It’s the part of me that is not so arrogant as to conclude I have it all figured out.
Gordon has a very different personality from Dennis. Life with Dennis was life with Dennis. He was very sure of himself and always let you know he was in charge. Gordon, on the other hand, is just happy to be around you. I joke about how he’s the boss, and our sales and marketing guy (who Gordon adores, btw), when he’s giving tours, shuffles some prospective resident through my apartment and says, “this is Gordon’s apartment, he has a human named Matt, that’s him over there.” But in reality, Gordon is shy, timid, and very undemanding. The polar opposite of Dennis.
Case in point. Doggie breakfast. Every morning, I head off to our dining room for one of our delicious, made-to-order breakfasts. Our kitchen offers eggs, any style, bacon and/or sausage (links or patties), white or wheat toast, muffins and bagels, pancakes or French Toast, a selection of juices, fresh made coffee or tea, hot cocoa, cereal (oatmeal, Cream of Wheat, Raisin Bran, or Cheerios) and fruit cups; they’ll even do you an omelet if you ask for one. These days, I’ve been ordering pancakes with a side of bacon, and there is a nasty rumor going around that my pancakes are fluffier than everybody else’s because I’ve lived here for so long; it is not true – but throw a bunch of old queens together first thing in the morning before they’ve had a cup of coffee and they’ll find something to bitch about. I digress.
When I return to my apartment, it is time for doggie breakfast. Sometimes, I’ll fire up my Keurig and make myself another cup of coffee and check CNN.com for the latest headlines while drinking it. If this was the case, Dennis would go sit by his bowl and start barking loudly, as if to say, “look hooman, you really only have one job and you’re failing at it miserably.” Gordon, by comparison, does register a look of disappointment at the delay on his face, but curls up next to me in a shaft of sunlight radiating through the window as I peruse my laptop.
Once the food is in the bowl, their unique personalities really stand out. Dennis would dive in, often eating some before I’d finished spooning it out of the can. With Gordon, it is a highly choreographed dance. Once the food has been dispensed into the bowl, he’ll walk up to it and sit; he then looks up at me and will not commence eating it until given a go-ahead signal by me (which can be a non-verbal nod of my head or a verbal “good boy”). He takes two or three bites. He then goes out through the open door to my patio and lifts his leg. On his return, we do the whole sit, stare, proceed routine again. He takes two or three more bites. He then goes back outside, this time to poop, and we do the whole sit, stare, proceed routine once more when he’s back. He eats as much as he wants, rarely finishing the amount of food I’ve put out, then quietly retires to his doggie bed for a nap. Dennis would attack the food with gusto, licking the empty bowl clean with such force I was afraid he was getting ceramic in his diet! And when he was done, he’d look up at me with a scowling face that said, “is that all there is?…got any more?”
The 19th century German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer spent the last 27 years of his life living alone with a succession of poodles. It is said he preferred their company over human companionship. I can relate. But one must draw the line somewhere, as the story is also told of how he pushed his neighbor down a flight of stairs because she annoyed him. You know who is never irritating or bothersome? Gordon. The goodest boy.
A dog is for life – having one in mine is a blessing. I do not like, and I never use, the phrase “dog owner,” because that does not describe the relationship I have with my dog. I “own” the laptop I am writing this on, but I feel no responsibility for or toward it. I do not own Gordon, I am his guardian; it is my responsibility, my happy responsibility, to look after him, to make sure he is safe, to be concerned about his health, to make appointments for baths and pedicures, to put out doggie breakfast every morning, because he is too busy putting me first and seeing to my needs to have much time for such practical but important matters as tending to his own needs.
It is said that a dog is the only being on earth that loves you more than he loves himself. I believe that to be true, because I have been fortunate to experience it, first from Dennis and now from Gordon. Since my life took an unexpected turn in its 40th year, I have had one or the other of them by my side every day, but for four awful days in November three years ago. They steady me, restrain me if I’m being impulsive or reckless, root me on if I’m feeling inadequate or defeated, bring me back to the present moment with their daily lessons in compassion and kindness when I get caught up in past resentments or fearful of imagined “what ifs?” that might manifest in the future. Dennis was the yin to Gordon’s yang, but they are both my teachers.
As I come to a close, Gordon is asleep in his favorite spot, wedged between my left leg and the armrest of my recliner. It is actually yesterday when you read this tomorrow; I broke with my usual practice of writing in the early morning hours because I felt like I needed to spend a little more time on this post to do right by Gordon, who will never read it. He is a wonder dog but has yet to master literacy. As I’ve been writing, he has been snoring away and occasionally lets out a contented sigh that tells me he is happy and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be and nothing else he’d rather be doing. Sat here writing, especially next to and about him, the same is true of me: there is nowhere else I’d rather be and nothing else I’d rather be doing. Happy birthday lil’ buddy.