One Brain

I have a big dilemma. It’s called Kobe and Wally. I say “it” because these two mutts are so inseparable and idiotic, it’s possible they share one brain. I wasn’t thinking straight when I agreed to adopt them five years ago. Nick and Omar were so heart-broken over the death of our previous dog, Clifford, that I wanted desperately to fill the hole in their hearts. I was already looking forward to an empty nest, less responsibility and more peace and quiet and didn’t really want another dog, but how could I say no? I made the kids promise that they would take the dogs with them when they both eventually settled down in their own apartments. Chloe could have Kobe and Omar would take Wally. In reality, what’s happening presently is that Chloe has adopted two rescue kittens and Omar is applying for an apartment that doesn’t allow pets. 

I really don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to take two dogs. I guess I was thinking they would keep one another company and be less trouble. I was so wrong. When we had indicated to Elena, the rescue organization chick that we’d like to adopt the puppy she had sent us to visit, a 6-month-old terrier mix she told us, “This pup has a brother who’s in another foster home.” 

“Ohhh….” Chloe said. 

“Ohhh….” Omar said. “Let’s get them both!” 

I should have known that, when Elena told me we could test drive Wally and Kobe both for a week to see if it worked out, that neither of those dogs would ever leave here. She pulled up to our house and out jumped our puppy (who Chloe had already named Kobe.) He was a social, robust and somewhat handsome black terrier. Behind him skulked his brother, a scrawny, homely, skittish runt of the litter whose hair stuck up in tufts and whose eyes were too close together — Wally. Both dogs sprung up onto the dining room table when I opened the front door. We attributed this to the fact that they had been found abandoned in some stadium parking lot and had obviously never been indoors.

The next morning, they ran directly through the pickets of the front fence and straight out into traffic. For months, multiple times a day, they dug holes around the perimeter of the yard and escaped into the busy street. Kobe fell in the pool several times and couldn’t find his way out. Wally skittered around it, leaping and yelping frantically. I tried to take them to doggie day care but Kobe jumped the fence and Wally grew distressed without him. They pooped and threw up whenever a car ride was necessary. The cacophony of barking when anything moved past our property was nerve-shattering and they didn’t recognize Nick, Omar or me when we came home.

We soon discovered that these two are untrainable. When you try to teach one to sit, the other jumps on his head. When you try to walk them, they get their leashes tangled up and they try to bite one another. Whenever another dog walks by our property, they bark viciously at it and then start fighting one another, excitedly barking, jumping and humping each other. They pee on anything that doesn’t move. I’ve seen Kobe squat to pee, while Wally lifts his leg to pee on his head. One time, Nick was standing at the front gate talking to our neighbor, Karleen and Wally peed on Nick’s leg. It took four years to get them house trained and Kobe will still mark a doorway if you don’t watch him closely. 

It’s clear by now that I’m not a dog person. 

“Leslie hates dogs,” my friend Deb said to her friend Patty a few months back. Patty treats her two dogs like children and on top of that, she rescues any animal that crosses her path. Squirrels, birds, any hurt creature in need of care. 

“Don’t tell Patty I hate dogs!”  I told Deb. “Don’t tell anyone that.” I don’t hate dogs, I just don’t relate to them very well and I especially don’t enjoy unruly or needy dogs. But you can’t say this out loud to animal lovers. People who are dog people think people who aren’t dog people are one step away from Ted Bundy status. Especially here in Los Angeles. I mean, people have started bringing their dogs to Nordstrom Rack in strollers. They bring them along to restaurants. They request to bring them to dinner parties. I saw one little dog on a leash poop in the aisle of Bed, Bath and Beyond. It’s bizarre. 

Where I come from, pets were a dime a dozen and were treated as such. When I was growing up, it was pointless getting attached to an animal. A dog or cat wouldn’t last a year in our house out in the country before getting run over or suffering some worse fate. When Nick was a kid, his dad ran over his cat, then just threw his dead body up on the bank. The cat limped out of the woods and down the bank a few days later, as a cat will. When I tell Nick that you can’t just throw dogs out in the yard and ignore them like you do in the South, he says, “They’re dogs. They’ll be fine.”

For a while, I thought giving away one of the dogs might improve things. Karleen said she’d take Wally. Nick’s sister, Mitzi said we could send one of them to her in North Carolina. I wouldn’t dare post anything about giving them away on our neighborhood social media site for fear of being judged cold-blooded, callous and irresponsible. One Nextdoor post informed me that there is an actual Dog Genocide going on at our shelters as we speak. I would be ripped to shreds in the 147 responses from my neighbors if I tried to rehome one of them.

“But they’re so cute!” My sister, Bridget said. “You can’t give one of them away. They can’t be separated!” someone else said. “You can’t give away my dogs!” Omar said. “I love them.” 

I only wish he loved them enough to take care of them. I don’t have to tell you who makes sure they are fed, who buys their raw diet food and their chew bones, who makes sure they aren’t too cold outside, or too hot, who tries to walk them, who takes them to the groomers, who makes sure they get their shots and their heartworm medications, who washes their dog beds, who asks, five times a week, “Did you fill the dogs’ water bowl?”

I know there’s someone out there who could take care of these dogs better than we do. They might invest the time to train them, to walk them, to pay attention to them. Then I picture Nick rolling around on the ground with them, wrestling with them like a third litter-mate. I picture Omar up in his room with Kobe and Wally tangled up in his nest of sheets and covers and stuffed animals and I am frozen with doubt. I’ll be labelled an absolute monster for the rest of my life if I get rid of them. And everyone is right. They are so cute! Maybe this is another chance to change my attitude? To join my friend Ted in refusing to entertain negative thoughts? To decide to accept that these two boneheads are fixtures in our family?

I was on the phone with Deb the other morning when Omar let the dogs out of his bedroom. Every morning, they come skittering down the stairs as a unit, tongues sticking out and tails wagging in unison like morning is the most wonderful thing that could happen to a creature. 

I went to open the door to let them out, saying in a neutral voice, “Come on, guys, you ready to go outside?”

“I heard you talk nice to those dogs!” Deb yelled.

“Well. Don’t tell anybody,” I said. I guess they’re staying.