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Woody doesn’t like moving boxes, or maybe it’s the tape. Whatever it is, something to do with moving is causing a little anxiety. By which I mean… He decided to demonstrate as I typed that sentence.
I need to do his nails. But I packed the Dremel. God knows where. I pack like I write, in ADHD. I know that about me now, having packed both on and off adderall and I can tell you which boxes are which by whether or not I grouped items like a rational person who’s moved before, or like a toddler. Putting everything that was on the floor in that one corner in one box makes sense actually. It’ll probably be on the floor in another corner. So yes the roomba does go in the box with Woody’s toys and the lamp and the air cleaner. And that way the box isn’t too heavy. Same reason there’s a pillow in the box of shoes. What. I bagged it.
The movers come on Thursday. This is terrific fucking timing because I have an interview at 3:30. But it’s not over zoom and I just have to talk about myself. God knows I love talking about myself. I started this essay talking about my dog, and immediately started talking about myself.
Back to Woody. I don’t know his entire story. I know he was returned to APA four times. And thank fuck it was APA because who knows what would’ve happened at other shelters. But it’s still a shelter. He was in foster care a couple times. He was adopted and returned four times. What I don’t know is why. I know a couple of the reasons that were given because they were given to me in the form of a warning. The problem was, I’d already met him. I’m not an expert in anything, including dogs. But I do know dogs. What I knew about Woody hasn’t changed much since I met him. He’s smarter than I thought at first. A lot smarter. But he’s the same goofy, affable, social dog I met at his foster home.
I think maybe one of the reasons he was returned is someone was moving and couldn’t keep him. I do mean couldn’t. We assume a lot about shelter dogs. Among the assumptions is the dog was abused. Maybe we just like saying the dog was abused like we enjoy saying we rescued them. I don’t mean me. I’m trying to not sound like a dick about it. But it’s true. People like the narrative. For the most part, we just got a cheap dog and didn’t have to deal with a puppy. Yes there are people who get puppies, people who haven’t learned that you don’t get a puppy. Are you serious? Have you met a puppy? Yeah, they’re cute. For a minute. Or when they’re asleep. But the rest of the time—undiapered toddlers with needle teeth on a constant sugar high. They end up in shelters, even when, especially when they came from a shelter. They’ll be adopted out during their teen years, the worst years, to another unsuspecting dimwit and returned again.
Then someone will adopt them at three or four, about the youngest you want to get a dog if you value your furniture, and when the now untrained, unsocialized dog who spent most of his life in a crate or even a week at a noisy shelter acts like an untrained unsocialized dog, they’ll tell you the dog was abused. He’s afraid of men. Loud noises. Fast movements. Dogs. Fireworks. Whatever.
Same applies to the dogs that were turned in because someone moved, lost a job, divorced, broke up, couldn’t find a place that allows dogs, had to move into their car, someone died, someone got sick, the list is endless and the blame lies mostly with a society that offers few safety nets. So we work endless hours while our dogs sit at home in crates and when something goes a little too wrong, we give up the dog. Maybe he’ll have a better life with someone else. And the dog sits in a cage. It fucks some of them up, some more than others.
It doesn’t have to be abuse. A lot of life just kind of sucks. We put people in charge. Seems like what Woody knows is someone started packing boxes. And he went back to a cage. I’m assuming. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t think in a narrative. He associates. Loud booms mean broken windows. Coming inside means a treat. Sitting on his butt with his paws up will get him attention. Balloons, surprise booms. Concrete floors meant the scary place until we went to Home Depot and now it’s the awesome smells and someone in an orange apron probably has treats place.
Woody’s not a clingy dog. He doesn’t hang out on the couch very often. He only follows me to the bathroom if he’s not napping. He’ll put himself to bed in the next room if I’m up past his bedtime, which is always. He’ll get on my bed to get his belly scratched. But once I turn out the reading light, he goes to his own bed. But since the moving boxes showed up, he’s been glued to my side.
Moving boxes, from what I can tell, he’s associated with going to the scary place. Or losing a person. Or maybe he just doesn’t like change. But he slept across my legs last night, I assume to make sure I couldn’t sneak away. He’s not letting me out of his sight. He pulled open the curtains to check on me in the shower tonight, twice.
We’ll go see his new yard tomorrow. He’ll hang out with my cousin’s boyfriend, who he adores while I make a couple runs back and forth. The movers come on Thursday. We’ll find good spots for his beds. We’ll leave and come back a few times. I’ll write in the kitchen and leave the door open so he can lie on the porch and make sure no birds land. And he’ll forget about moving boxes. And this place. And the scary place will fade a little further away. I hope.
I'm glad Woody has you.
I probably should have read this before I did my mascara. You are a wonderful human.