Stories of Chaucer
Dog Lottery
Well, dog, you're five. Happy birthday.
There was a time when I didn't think you'd live much longer than this, because of things I'd heard about giant breed dogs. But it's obvious you're not going anywhere for a while. At five years old, you have the energy and playfulness of a puppy, which is what you're still occasionally mistaken for.
Speaking of which, you were a ridiculous, pain in the ass of a puppy. Adorable, clumsy, hysterical when left alone. You hated to be crated, and you were terrible on a leash. But now that you're all growed up, I can't believe how much I lucked out.
I won the dog lottery.
Let's start with what a pleasure it is to walk you. You trot along beside me, and you only pull when you see a familiar face that you want to greet. The leash hangs slack between us, a wordless agreement to move at a comfortable, companionable pace. People are amazed at how good a walker you are - other dog owners, jealous. Even if you're in a mood to sniff every goddamn tree, you respond to my slightest correction, and settle in by my side, content just to be out and about. At night, when the streets are empty, I unclip you, and we sprint together down the sidewalk, you bursting with energy and joy in the cold night air. But you always stay close, and I never have to worry about you running off, or away. I take you everywhere I possibly can: coffee shops, the cleaner's, the tailor's, the salon, late night pizza runs. I even sneak you into the very edge of Grand Central Market, so I can get juice for our walks.
You're friendly to strangers, stopping cheerfully to say hello when you hear them exclaim over you. You've come to recognize the oohs and ahhs that mean someone wants to pet you. You allow yourself to be stroked, your chin to be lifted, and your gaze to be held, by humans you've never met. You read my energy, and if I'm nervous, so are you - but you never snap or snarl. Most days we can't go a block without at least one person wanting to meet you. You're unfailingly calm with children, even when they grope and pull and scream. You sniff toddlers' and babies' faces with gentle curiosity, to the delight of both them and their mothers.
At home, you're less a pet than a roommate. You keep me company for hours at a stretch, lazing about on your bed or the floor. You've learned to ask permission to be let on the bed: you'll stand beside it and look at me imploringly. Sometimes I'll indulge you, and throw an old sheet on top of my covers, so you can stretch out in luxury.
You're smart. You've learned your schedule, you read my cues - you know how to ask for what you want and need, be it a toy that's rolled under the bed, a trip to the park, a treat, or just a few minutes' worth of caresses. You're completely in tune with my emotions, and it never ceases to amaze me, how much your mood on any given day lines up with my own. If I'm sleepy, you zonk out. If I'm happy, you're playful. If I'm stressed, you pace.
When I'm upset, you're instantly at my side, pawing me, licking my face, whimpering. If I cry, I can't do so for very long - I quickly end up consoling you. But I don't even have to get to that point for you to feel the change in my energy; you reach me before the tears do. You've seen me through the death of two parents, a divorce, three moves, and a handful of breakups. You wait patiently while I travel the world. You never judge a single bad choice I make.
You love your toys, and play with every single one. When friends come over, you systematically present each of your balls, ropes, and stuffed animals to them one at a time, showing off like a child. You're no longer afraid of the toy basket I bought you a few years ago; you plunge your head straight into it and root around to get exactly what you want.
You've learned to talk, small growls and cries and barks and howls that I echo back to you. We converse together in your jowly voice, sometimes throwing our heads back and singing. You ask for meals. You whine for lost toys. You growl playfully for attention.
You've accepted the major changes in your life with grace and even, it seems, gratitude. Suburb to city. House to apartment. Yard to sidewalk. Smaller and smaller abodes each time. And yet you've remained sweet-natured, playful, well-adjusted. You let me know when you need some attention - a few minutes of tug-o-war, or a good long walk and some socialization. You've adjusted to loft life beautifully. You've made friends. You have play dates. You're a recognizable fixture in our neighborhood.
You're never picky. When things are tight and I run out of dog food, you're content with a few eggs, or rice, or whatever I have on hand. You'll eat salad, for god's sake. You love berries and apples, steamed carrots and broccoli. At least a couple times a week, we split a banana during a walk: you eat your half straight from the peel, like me, standing on the corner while we wait for the light.
Your size is never a problem - only a bonus. You're tall enough that in the morning, you can press your face into the bed near mine, wagging your tail when I smile and say good morning. Then, kisses. And yawns - you've learned to yawn loudly because it makes me laugh. Beside me on the sidewalk, I don't even have to stoop to stroke your back or finger your velvety ears. You're a sure, solid weight next to me as we walk. Sometimes when I'm feeling overwhelmed with happiness and optimism, I'll shut my eyes and tilt my head back to feel the sun, the breeze on my face. I keep my eyes closed for a few moments, knowing you'll keep leading us straight.
You delight onlookers with your sweet, puppyish face and goofy gait. When I used to get lonely late at night, I'd walk you by the bars and nightclubs, just to have some social interaction. You've made me friends. You're an excellent wingman, too.
You never complain when I have to leave you for several hours at a time, or if I spend the night away. You never have accidents, even those times where emergencies have kept me from you for half a day.
You're a riot. You'll lick a cut lemon and huge, foamy bubbles will froth from your lips. Sometimes you fart when you're play-bowing, and the noise will startle you. You run and slide down the hallway, slipping clumsily around corners. Your huge, post-meal burps are a viral YouTube video waiting to happen. I'm pretty sure I gave you a contact high a few months ago: you spent five minutes sniffing in bizarre circles and tracking invisible prey around a tree and into the air. You once stole a slice of pizza from a kid in a stroller.
We've perfected our relationship. You know when you can get away with pushing my buttons, and when I need you to be more independent. We understand one another's needs, and we meet them as best we can. And you forgive me every time I fuck up.
We have our own language. I have so many silly, secret, special phrases and pet names for you that no one else gets to hear. I grab you and nom-nom-nom on your head, your cheeks, your ears. You wag and smile. Sometimes when I've been at my desk for a long time, you'll come to me and paw my arm. Come sit with me. And I do. I sit cross-legged in front of you and stroke your front legs, kneading the calluses on your elbows and cooing at you. Every part of your anatomy has a special, silly name. I baby you completely, and you are a little bit spoiled - but everyone comments on how well-behaved you are, nevertheless.
Look, we both know this letter is for me, not you, but whatever. You're incredible, and a birthday card is the least you deserve for all the love and laughs you've given me this half decade.
I love you, dog.
Only Tuesday
I walked him early this morning. Figured it would be his usual quick trip around the corner, but when we got back to the building he looked up at me, then down the street. Let's go to the library.
Sidewalk commuters smile at him over their Starbucks cups; a few comment on his size, or ask his breed. Eight years of this and I never get sick of it. Him neither.
The library grounds are more marshy than usual, unkempt and overgrown. Not so great for my shoes, but Chaucer is in heaven. Wet, green smells everywhere. His paw pads sink slightly into the soil and he pushes his muzzle deep into bushes shining with dew.
I groom him, long slow strokes of the wire brush, lightly so it doesn't burn his skin. Then the rubber spike brush on his belly and legs. "What level of handsome are we going for today?" He glances at me, panting happily. "Level ten? Are you sure? Oh man Chaucy, I don't know if the world can handle it. It's only Tuesday." No one can hear what I'm saying, but every so often I notice someone watching us from a car window, as they wait for the light to turn. If I'm a crazy person for talking to my dog, it's the kind of crazy I'll always be. "When people start spontaneously combusting because of your handsomeness, that's on you. Ok buddy?" His furry chest heaves under the brush. Good. Keep that big heart strong.
When I'm done he noses at the bag I carry, the one with his brushes and travel bowl and tennis ball. This is rare. Wanting to play is rare these days, so I quickly pull out a red and blue ball and throw it across the grass. As he bounds after it I watch his hips and legs, looking for signs of pain. Sometimes he favors his left leg, and every so often he has trouble standing up. Not today, though. We are in full puppy form today.
On the way out a man in a faded black sweatshirt, plaid dress pants, and no shoes stops us. "That a mastiff?" Sure is, I tell him. "How old?" Chaucer ambles by him unbothered, concentrating on something in the grass.
"He's eight," I say, hearing the subtext in my voice. Old.
"They don't live long, you know." I'm used to this, and don't take offense.
"I know."
"How's his hips?"
"Pretty good," I nod.
"Well, he's beautiful."
"Thanks."
On a bench near the exit a homeless man sleeps. A sign set down on the path beside him says Spare Some Change. The cursive letters are painted in thick black strokes, and he's filled in the loops with red accents. Chaucer, ahead of me on the walkway, steps around the sign lightly.
Back at home I wipe his paws with a warm washcloth, rubbing one toe at a time while he lays on his side. White tile is unforgiving, and if we don't take a minute to clean him off after each walk the floors are a wreck almost immediately. Sometimes it's a pain, especially when I'm in a hurry. But mostly I don't mind. Him neither, I think.
My Dog’s Heart
The first time Terence, Chaucer and I went for an Epic Walk together, I was less than impressed by his performance. Terence's, I mean. He walked too slow, for one thing, ambling and distracted by the sights. He didn't hold the leash correctly when I passed it off. And worst of all, he complained about a bit of drool Chaucer got on his pants. You do not complain about Chaucer drool when you are trying to impress Ellie, oh no you do not.
Terence had gone on short walks with us together before that, but this was his first Epic Walk. EW's are serious business around here. Up through the financial district, a fetch session at the John Ferraro Building, then down through the park to socialize in the dog play area before heading home. Sometimes we add in stops at Walt Disney Hall or the pool at Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. All of it sacred space for Chaucer and I, a long-established, much treasured path we've perfected in our years downtown - years during which Chaucer saw me through a divorce, the deaths of both parents, a handful of breakups (romantic or otherwise), a broken foot, dry socket, and a host of depressive episodes. The least I can do for him is give him a nice, long, stimulating and tiring walk, whenever I have the time. Hence were born Epic Walks - my dogspeak thank you for seven years of constant companionship.
Then Terence came along and screwed everything up by making us both fall in love with him.
Chaucer didn't make it easy, in the beginning. Doleful stares from the side of the bed, inches from our faces. His expression clear: I don't know about you, buddy. I don't know about you at all. It can't have been easy to break into the space between me and my dog, I know that. It is very, very narrow, that space. Even on my worst days, when I'm at my lowest and most withdrawn, I still have endless cuddles and kisses and affection for Chaucer - and he is the only creature on this planet who can make that claim. I love my dog with a fierceness that is knowable only to those who have experienced grief. One part terror of losing yet another thing. One part knowing that loss is inevitable. All parts soaking up each minute with him gratefully. So, so gratefully.
But in spite of how intimidating my attachment to Chaucer may have been, Terence opened his heart to him - all 130lbs of him. He came to know and accept Chaucer's quirks and challenges, and to even find the humor and joy in them. He learned Chaucer's schedule, got familiar with his needs, and started helping me with the daily chores of dog ownership. He was endlessly patient with me as I insisted on the particular, precise ways in which things needed to be done for Chaucer, because I am a pain in the ass but also because I want my dog to have stability and routine, so he feels relaxed and comfortable. Slowly Terence took on a greater role in Chaucer's care until one day I realized that he's got it. I never have to worry when I'm not around. My dog will always be fed, walked, safe, and loved. For his part, Chaucer fell as fast as I did. He grew to trust the man in our life, who was gentle and calm and never raised his voice. Add in tug-o-war and treats, affection and attention...and Chaucer's trust soon turned into love.
None of this was expected. I've always firmly believed: my dog, my responsibility. I'd come to accept that messy Mastiffs are not for everyone. And I honestly would have been happy had Terence just tolerated the very big place that Chaucer takes up in my home and in my heart. The fact that the two of them have moved far past friendship is a thing I never would have dreamed of.
We have our own secret language, the three of us. Silly voices that no outsider will ever hear. Inside jokes and memes and made-up songs and references some of which are a year deep. All the things we express to one another wordlessly. Cuddling in a heap on the floor, on the bed, weekend mornings or movie nights. Our hands touching as we stroke his broad, soft back. It's hard for me to use the f-word, so much invisible and implied weight attached to it. But when we're all laying together like that, it feels more like an f-word than I've felt in a long, long time.
Loving Chaucer is loving me by extension. And every bit of love that Terence pours onto my dog I feel my heart swell with twice as much to give him in return. The kindness with which he treats Chaucer - and the bond that the two of them have formed - have secured Terence a place in my heart more sure and meaningful than any vow I could utter. I used to say that the way to my heart was through my funny bone. And it was, back in the day. But that was before Chaucer padded into my life. Now I know without a doubt that the way to my heart is through my dog's heart.
---
Recently, Epic Walks had to come to an end. Chaucer just isn't up to the hills anymore. It broke my heart to have to give up our beloved path, through the quiet and stillness of the banking towers. But we readjusted and struck a new course through the middle of town instead. Then, a few days ago, Terence had a thought: what if we bypass the hills and take elevators up through the lower levels of the US Bank Building instead? I wasn't sure if we could get high enough, but Terence assured me we could. So we tried it. And yep, we can. We can get back to the same area we used to - wide open sidewalks and grassy areas for roaming; no steep hills to challenge Chaucer's aging hips.
Terence saved Epic Walks. And in doing so, he gave something back to me the value of which I don't know how to make him understand. Except by maybe writing this post.
The Clouds Themselves
The 24-hour Korean spa that I visit a few days after my dog dies--my eyes puffy from lack of sleep, my shoulders sore from body-racking sobs--requires nudity.
I know this going in. I've read the reviews, I understand the etiquette. Still, it takes a few laps around the labyrinthian locker room to work up enough nerve to shed the uniform issued to me upon check-in: mustard yellow t-shirt, baggy khaki shorts, brown rubber flip flops so thin my ankle bones crackle on the hardwood floor. I'm pretty sure the ensemble is purposefully designed to be as ugly as possible, so patrons will want to leave sooner.
A wall of paneled glass, closed off with curtains except for double doors on which are etched the rules, leads into the main spa area. Jacuzzi. Cold-water dipping pool. Sauna and steam room. These facilities are bookended by a series of standard showers on one side, and on the other, three rows of some other kind of bathing stalls that I don't quite understand. Short, tiled booths with detachable shower hoses and plastic stools for sitting. Something ritualistic and exotic about them intimidates me, makes me feel like a prudish outsider. As I walk past these washing stations with averted eyes, I expect to catch glimpses of grey hair, loose skin. Instead they are occupied by lithe young bodies and heads full of sleek black hair.
It's 1:00 am on a Saturday morning, and there are easily three or four dozen other women here. We're all naked. We're not all Korean.
He isn't with me here. There's no reason he ever would be in a place like this, so it's easier to forget him for a few minutes. Heartbreak doesn't exactly leave, but it abates, lessens to a dull throb. I press my shoulders hard against the dry wooden beams of the sauna. Sink my fingers as deeply as I can into warmed-up muscles. Breathe in, then out. Life goes on. You've been here before. There's no holding onto anything, or anyone.
A heavily-accented woman's voice pierces my thoughts and I realize I'm being summoned. The numbers she's calling out match the ones on the plastic, waterproof bracelet around my wrist. The bracelet serves as identification, and also syncs with the locker I've been assigned.
"Seven forty-tooo? Seven forty-tooooo?"
I emerge from the sauna with my hand raised, feeling sheepish and extraordinarily exposed. "Here! I'm here." Glances shoot my way which feel disdainful, though I'm probably imagining that.
The woman who leads me to the separate area where services such as massages, facials, and other treatments are administered is not naked. She is in fact wearing lingerie, or some approximation of it. Tiny black tap pants. A lacy black triangle bra. She's sixty if she's a day.
With a few impatient gestures I am directed to lay facedown on a vinyl massage table sheathed in clear plastic. My skin, hot from the sauna, sticks awkwardly to the plastic as I try to shift into a more comfortable, more dignified position. But I'll understand soon enough the reason for this prophylactic measure: the entire treatment area is tiled, with drains underneath each low-walled cubicle. When things get messy (which they will; I've opted for an oil-based massage), guests can simply be hosed off like elephants at the zoo. After a massage the acrobatics and detached intimacy of which confirm all my presuppositions, bucketfuls of warm water are dumped over me, washing away the oil, and with it the last of my worries. Or such is the idea. Alas.
Alas.
I don't linger long after the massage. One more quick round of the sauna and steam room, then I walk to the wall where I've stashed my t-shirt and shorts in a plastic bin At this point I'm no longer fazed by my own nudity. I don't face the wall as I dress. The place seems to have cleared out anyway. It's time to go home. There is no more putting it off. I remind myself that it will hurt a tiny little bit less every day, until it becomes bearable. But already my throat is thickening and my fingertips tingling. I think of his face and the pain makes me gasp.
Outfitted once more in my own clothes, I trudge up the stairs to turn in my wristband and check out. The cold night air is bracing and black and joyless. I have a twenty minute walk ahead of me. My hair is wet and tangled, but I don't much care.
As I round the side of the building, I hear male voices and laughter issue from somewhere along the curbside, where every inch of precious Koreatown parking has been utilized. It's dark though, so I don't see the source until I'm directly next to it: two men sitting in the front seat of a beat-up mid-90s Nissan, the windows rolled down and passenger-side door swung wide open. The engine is off, as are the car's lights. I'm almost past the vehicle when one of them calls out.
"Hey, how's it going? How was the spa?"
Out of surprise more than friendliness, I stop, bending over to better see the strangers while still maintaining my distance. The faces that peer back at me are grinning and guileless. Both thirty-ish. One fair, one dark. Casually dressed. Well-groomed. Neither particularly bad-looking.
"Great," I reply. "First time. Place is a trip."
"Isn't it, though? Did you check out the rooftop?"
"No. I didn't even realize there was one."
"Oh yeah, and it's awesome. Co-ed floor is crazy, too."
"Co-ed floor? I didn't even know about the co-ed floor." Hearing this news, I feel I've failed somehow.
"Yeah, but you have to wear the uniform."
"Ah, okay," I say, as if consoled. I'm about to dismiss myself and press on when the two introduce themselves. Brian and Zack. We wave polite hellos in the moonlight.
"You seem nice. Do you want to smoke a joint with us, before we go in?"
There is no reason to say yes to this absurd invitation. Two strange men sitting in a beat-up car, in the middle of the night, on the fringes of Macarthur Park - a place I don't want to be even in daylight. But the thought of the alternative - that is, returning home and facing a fresh round of the shattering grief that awaits me there - eclipses my better judgment. And anyway, nothing about these guys reads predatory. My gut says go for it.
And so with a shrug at how fucking weird and wonderful the universe can be, I accept.
The three of us walk around to the front of the building, ambling and talking for another half block until we reach some stone benches underneath a tree. We're on Wilshire Boulevard, a busy thoroughfare. There's still a decent amount of traffic, even at this hour. I'm not concerned, though. I'm too busy trying to wrap my brain around the information I've just received: Brian and Zack are youth pastors.
At first I don't believe them. I accuse them of trolling me. But the pair is sincere. They've got stories. They've been doing it a long time. They've been friends a long time, too. They're aware of how odd a light their current behavior casts them in, and try to explain themselves more. I probe, genuinely fascinated. The more I learn, the more I suspect that neither is a true believer. It seems to be something they fell into by way of a charismatic church leader. The word "cult" floats through my brain, but I stay diplomatically silent. They've got weed, after all.
I'm not a pot smoker. It's just not my drug. It makes me dopey and slow and paranoid, and doesn't work well with my body chemistry. Leaves me feeling blah.
But blah is better than broken, so I take all three hits that are offered to me before thanking my benefactors profusely, and saying goodnight.
Okay. Well.
The walk home is both interminable and fleeting. Once there I cast about for something to put my attention on. Can't read. Can't write. Want to talk to someone, but it's 2 am. There's always a chance my best friend awake; he keeps crazy hours. I re-read our last few exchanges. Zero in on the message I sent a few hours after night it happened. Thursday, February 9th, at 3:02 am, when I found out that the news had been shared. My boyfriend had thoughtfully told my best friend, so I wouldn't have to say the words myself.
I'm sorry. I didn't know he was going to tell you.
Anyway.
It was bloat. The surgery would have been $6-8k. And he was 10. And I hadn't told you but he slipped really bad about a week ago and had been limping way worse than ever.
I'm sorry you found out this way.
He loved you so much.
I don't know what else to say right now.
It's never been so quiet.
---
The night my dog died, the streets of Los Angeles were thick with fog.
LA is never foggy. The coast, sure. But never the city. In fact I'd never seen anything like it. I noticed it when I got off work: hazy streetlights and a slickness in the air. By the time Timo came over to hang out, you couldn't see twenty yards in front of you. Everything was shrouded, romantic and dramatic and mysterious. Sounds disappeared in the night.
Maybe Chaucer felt the strangeness. Maybe it tickled his senses, delighting him into being especially playful. Trotting more quickly down the dark alley beside my building, his passageway out for a walk. I don't know. Timo doesn't know, either. Both of us took him out that night, in pretty quick succession, because he hadn't gone potty after we fed him. Perhaps he was more keyed up, thanks to the weird weather, or because Timo was there.
He adored Timo.
There is no knowing exactly how or when it happened. If he jumped, or if he drank water too quickly. But it became clear pretty quickly that something was wrong. Retching. Heaving. He wouldn't settle. Wouldn't lay down. My increasing nervousness turning to panic, turning to dread in the backseat of the Uber we called when the 24-hour emergency vet said to bring him immediately.
I knew, of course. Not that it was bloat specifically but that something was very, very wrong. I just knew. And I held my sweet pup in the back of that car and stroked his shaking body, and just let silent tears pour down my face. And Timo reached back and squeezed my knee and I felt nothing, because the most beautiful part of me was dying, and I knew it.
---
It was foggy the night my best friend left the world.
Fog that wrapped itself around our car as we sped down the freeway, hiding everything from me except his perfect, sweet face. Fog that hugged the animal hospital like soft cotton, muffling cries that tore through me like fire. Fog that gently closed us in, just the two of us, him breathing heavy with sedation, strapped in a tragicomic display of last-moment silliness to a gurney, looking like some kind of spa guest in his white towel, in the room they gave us for our goodbye.
Of course it would be that way. The fog. Because how else would he get into dog heaven?
The clouds themselves had to come down to carry him up.
