Elizabeth Wrenn - Second Chance

Heloise, for her part, was anxious to meet her new playmate. Either she wasn’t naturally aware of what raised hackles meant, or she was too dumb to care, or she was certain her charm and exuberance would win him over. I suspected the latter. How could she know that Hairy was not only unimpressed by charm and exuberance, but that he actually held those qualities in contempt? But Heloise was more than willing to have a go. If I hadn’t dropped the paper towel and grabbed her with both hands, she would have squirmed out and made a dash for Hairy, who had now upped his warning to hissing and his sirenlike intruder alert, usually reserved for moths and crickets in the house.

‘Okay, guys,’ I said, my voice some weird mix of amusement and dread. ‘Hairy, meet Heloise. Heloise, Hairy.’ I got a firm grip on the puppy and put her in Hairy’s direct line of sight, but held her tightly. He hissed again. Heloise squirmed wildly in an effort to get to him. Bill had said to proceed slowly with the introduction and trust my instincts. My instincts made me fear for Heloise’s safety. I didn’t want her to get a claw in the eye, although I had taken Hairy to the groomer for a nail trim just two days earlier in preparation for our new arrival. But I also wanted Hairy to learn where his escape routes and safe hiding places were. And I wanted him to know he might have to run. I didn’t know if he even knew how to run.

I put Heloise back into my one-armed football hold and carried her across the kitchen. Hairy’s fine white fur was now perpendicular to his body, and he arched menacingly. The arching surprised me. I’d thought his stomach too big to lift. But he was actually kind of graceful in this modern dance of warning. Still fully arched, he pivoted slowly in place as we passed into the living room, a radar tracking the enemy. I slowly lowered Heloise toward the wood floor, still clutching her vibrating torso.

‘Get ready, Hairy!’ I called. Hairy had moved to the middle of the kitchen. His hair was beginning to relax and his back was no longer arched. Oh, dear. I could tell from his superior expression that he assumed I had fulfilled my duty and removed the offensive material from his kitchen. Little did he know that offensive material would be residing with us for over a year.

‘Okay, calmly, dear,’ I told Heloise, for all the good that would do as I let her paws touch the floor. My hands still on her sides, her little legs immediately began churning under her. I held tight. Heloise squirmed and flailed, desperate to be released. Hairy’s fur immediately engorged again. He looked like a furry blowfish. I let go of Heloise very slowly. For a few seconds, her slipping paws against the polished wood floor took her nowhere. Hairy watched her, a look of confused amazement on his face as he viewed her spastic ballet. Then he discerned that Heloise was, in fact, making slow but sure progress toward him. As she hit the tile floor of the kitchen, and traction, Hairy flicked his tail, and in three decidedly graceful moves for a fellow of his girth, jumped from floor to chair, chair to desk, desk to counter. Heloise was still a churning ball of slobber, headed in his general direction, so he continued his upward ascent, now in a not so easy jump and clamber, nails clawing on metal, to the top of the refrigerator.

His sides heaving with the exertion, he assumed a vulture pose, staring down at the yipping and leaping Heloise. Because he’s a Persian, and because Persians have no nose to speak of, Hairy always had a sort of angry, disdainful look, but this was indignation of the highest order. As far as I knew, Hairy had never been on top of the refrigerator in his life. He’d never had to be. He ruled the roost just fine from the floor and furniture.

I did feel kind of sorry for him. There didn’t seem to be anything for it but to let them do their thing. But Hairy hadn’t had that much exercise since … well, ever. He was the most sedentary of cats. Jabba the Hutt comes to mind. But my lack of affection for Hairy didn’t rule out a modicum of compassion for the poor, wheezing cat. His life was now unalterably changed. He and Heloise would have to work it out. Or Hairy would be spending the year atop Mt. Kenmore.

I grabbed Heloise, clipped on her leash, and headed for the backyard, leaving Hairy to recover his pulse and dignity. I slipped on the boots that I’d shed in the mudroom, opened the door, and Heloise immediately forgot about Hairy as she pulled me, lurching down our two back steps, into the backyard.

‘ Oh, how fabulous! ’ she screamed in body language, her ten pounds pulling with the strength of a small tractor. ‘ We have a backyard!! ’ The sun was now shining and much of the snow was melting. From what remained, I cleared an area with my boot, and, nose to the ground, Heloise spent a minute sniffing the wet grass. Finally she squatted, and, as instructed by the manual, at that very moment I began exuberantly giving the command to eliminate. ‘Do your business! Do your business, Heloise! Do your business! Yay! Good girl!’ As she peed, she stared dubiously over her shoulder at the lady cheering her urinary success. When she finished, I began what Bill said was the most effective training device: praising.

‘ Good girl!! What a good girl!! Good girl, Heloise!’ I went on and on as she wagged happily into my arms.

Well! Look at that. She was already on her way to being housebroken. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so hard after all.

EIGHT

It was a short honeymoon. Heloise slept for about an hour, allowing me to make dinner, but then it declined from there. I’d pulled out the old baby gate, so she was confined to the kitchen, but she’d peed on the tile floor not once, not twice, but four times before bedtime. She’d also demonstrated an endless appetite for chewing: fingers, clothing, Lainey’s and my hair, shoelaces, her crate, the desk chair legs, the cat – although he was learning to stay just out of her reach. Neil and the kids had played with Heloise a bit right after dinner, but between my anxiety about how we should play with her, and her propensity to relieve herself at inopportune moments, all three decided she was too much trouble and were downstairs watching TV before her second pee. Finally, at about nine, she collapsed in fatigue, and I’d carried her up to her crate in our bedroom. Then I, too, collapsed into bed.

Now it seemed I’d slept mere moments and she was whining. Again. I hadn’t even gotten back to sleep from the last time she’d woken me. Us. I couldn’t help but wonder if the person who’d made the requirement that the puppies sleep in the bedroom of the raiser was in fact a puppy raiser himself. I fumbled for the small alarm clock by my bed: 1:49. A.M. She hadn’t even made it an hour. She’d woken twice already, once around eleven thirty, and again shortly after one a.m. I’d taken her out to the front lawn, into the cold night, both times. The first time she’d peed; the second she’d just chewed on a stick.

Neil groaned angrily, wrapped the pillow over his head and rolled over. Heloise started barking. I stumbled out of bed, felt my way across our dark bedroom to her crate, making shushing noises. Before I could open the door, Neil sat up in bed. ‘Deena! Shut the damn dog up! I’ve got patients in the morning!’

All I could think was, You sure don’t have patience at night . But I said nothing.

‘Put it in the basement.’

‘I can’t. She’s supposed to be with me.’

‘Then put it in Sam’s room and sleep in there.’

‘Fine,’ I said, kneeling by the crate.

‘Fine,’ he said, then grunted, pulling the covers over his head.

When I opened the door to her crate, Heloise was in my arms in a single leap, all wags and licks, delighted at my touch. But I was aching with fatigue, and her charming ways were losing their appeal as the night wore on.