The dogs were my only regret. When I ended my marriage, I couldn’t take them with me; it was in their best interest to stay in a familiar home and familiar yard with familiar routines. And besides, it wasn’t just my marriage that I was rejecting, it was all of it — the two-car garage, the privacy fences, the half-finished basement, the whole of surburbia, and, so, yes, the dogs.
And that hurt more than dismantling the marriage, because it kept hurting. At movies, I always cried more at an animal’s death than a human’s, because the animal couldn’t understand. It has no way of knowing what is befalling it or why. I suppose humans don’t either, but we rationalize things, we tell ourselves stories about them. Dogs don’t have stories, I suppose. The dogs couldn’t know why I didn’t live with them anymore. And from the day that I stopped, and every day thereafter, I was heartbroken. I got past the human relationship, but the dogs haunted me. They were mine and I had left them. I was irresponsible. I was cruel.
Nomad was the older of the two dogs. I found him in a circular mailer delivered to the first beige apartment that my husband and I rented, two months after getting married. Partially, I wanted a dog simply because I wanted a dog; mostly, I wanted a dog to lift me out of the depression that had instantly overtaken me post-wedding. I wanted something to care for.
The puppy was an anxious wreck from day one — not a nervous animal in the usual way, but somewhat ill-tempered, overprotective, and set to defensiveness at the slightest provocation. Over the next four years he demonstrated an intolerance for children and small animals, incessant barking, and general disagreeableness with everyone and everything except, well, me. Trainer after trainer was no use; neither were shock collars, citronella collars, loud noises, spray bottles, gentle leaders, clickers, bribery, daycare, exercise, a sister, or any of the myriad other measures I turned to in an effort to make my dog less of a sourpuss and more like a dog.
Despite his difficulty, though, Nomad was mine and I loved him. So when my ex-husband contacted me three weeks ago to announce that he was re-homing Nomad — fed up, finally, with the crankiness — I saw it as an opportunity to get my baby back. Two years post-divorce, I am finally on my feet and living in a space that can accommodate (thought not without difficulty) a dog, and here the universe was sending mine back to me.
Hi, Nomad. Welcome back, sweet boy.
