Dog Tales

Easter Sunday was our breaking point. 

It had been weeks since the governor issued a stay-at-home order in response to the coronavirus pandemic. The order shut down businesses and put a restriction on nonessential travel. The only certainty was that we were just getting started with this public health crisis. 

And Gus hadn't seen a pair of clippers in well over a month. 

We'll just give him a scissor trim, we thought. We'll start slow because we don't know what we're doing. It'll be fine. 

It was not fine. 

If a grade had to be given for the first at-home grooming session, we would've squeaked out a C-minus (I'm being generous here considering neither of us have too many grooming chops). Anyone who attempted to trim up their pets during that period of quarantine should at least be given a gold star for their effort. Once we finished the deed, we stared at Gus with a mixture of disbelief and restrained concern on our faces.

"He looks like a second grader's drawing of a dog," I said to my wife, holding back laughter and tears. 

Shelbey declined to respond. She instead put her hand to her mouth to block a smile forming, knowing this was both no time to joke and the perfect time to joke. She had been the one who bravely worked the scissors and clippers. Shelbey is what I would call "a dog person." She grew up with countless dogs and knows how to handle them, how to train them, and how to love them. So the butchering she had just gifted Gus was going to be hard for her to accept.

The main issue with Gus's cut, we decided, was his legs. They were much shorter than the rest of his body, giving him the appearance of a cocktail weenie perched atop four toothpicks. As I swept up Gus's hair, I wondered how long it would be until the groomer reopened. At that point, I don't think anyone - Gus included - wanted another at-home haircut. But the shutdown continued past its first deadline. It would be another couple of weeks until Compassionate Groom and Spa opened their doors, and even longer before Gus could get on their schedule. 

Cellphone evidence of the massacre

So once Gus's fur began to reach an uncomfortable length again, we prepared the clippers. 

There was confidence in the air that Sunday. It had been five weeks to the day since the Easter massacre, and Shelbey had been preparing mentally ever since. I was a nonfactor this time around. If there's a grooming equivalent to a barback then that's the role I filled for the second cut - grabbing shampoo and conditioner, laying out towels, sweeping up hair whenever the clippers weren't buzzing. 

The end result this second time was A-plus work. Gus's fur hadn't been this short since he was a pup, and we both couldn't stop saying how much we liked the new look. His ears remained longer, but with the shorter cut around his snout, his eyes became more expressive. The word "cute" was thrown around on a daily basis. 

A few days after the cut I was trying to explain why I liked the shorter style for Gus. Shelbey listened and nodded along before giving her own theory as to why I favored the new look. 

"He looks more like Buster, that's why you like it so much," she said. 

She couldn't have been more right. 

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Buster's origin story is one that has been told over and over again for friends and family, often by my parents since they are the heroes in the story. Why? For the same reason all parents are the heroes in stories about getting the family dog - they are the ones who ultimately make the decision. The persistence of my younger brother also helped sway their thoughts on bringing home a pet. 

Ronnie wore my parents down. In a moment of childish brilliance he wrote what turned out to be the most important note of his young life on a greeting card to my dad. The card was for either Father's Day or his birthday, and the notation inside delivered a sentimental gut punch with few syllables. 

"Dad, I love you even though you won't buy me a dog." 

I think the old man caved within a month. We became a dog family thanks to an inadvertent guilt trip. I don't know if I've ever properly thanked Ronnie, so if you don't mind, I'll take care of that now: well done, Ron. Well done. 

Buster was an all-white Bichon Frise. We went with his breed mainly because I'm allergic to dogs and Bichon's are hypoallergenic. They're also damn cute and severely loyal. 

He was the runt of the litter, and he had a tendency to get right under your feet when you least expected him to be there, resulting in a foot-to-paw collision. Buster also developed a Napoleon complex as a puppy, growling and sneering at dogs that could throw him around like a squeak toy. 

A Buster and Shawn selfie, 2015

Like most dogs, Buster had his quirks. He hated eating food from a bowl. My mom bought a food and water combo dish with bowls that easily detached for the owners to refill them. However, someone didn't set the food bowl evenly one time so when Buster went to eat it shifted into place, making a "clang" noise that scared him. From that point on he would only eat kibble directly off the floor. So some quirks were owner-created. 

Some quirks came preloaded though. He had a fierce case of what's known in the dog lover community as the "zoomies." This is when the dog gets so excited that it runs frantically around, letting off growls that sound more like a biker revving their engine. Often the dog will stop on a dime near a person who is watching the craziness unfold, and if that person encourages the dog to keep going, they will. My phrase to get a few bonus laps out of Buster was "go, Bussie, go." Worked every time.  

Buster was also an anti-social lap dog. He would lay on the couch or in bed with me, but it never seemed like he really wanted to be there. It felt more like a business arrangement than a snuggle session. In his later years, he would really only lay with my mom and when she was ready for bed, so was he. Buster always knew when you were sick, though, and that was really the only time when I got a "okay you can snuggle me if you want" vibe from him. 

I was under the impression that all dogs licked your face when we got Buster. That was not something that was in his contract apparently, because Buster never did it. I loved Buster no matter what, but pre-teen Shawn never forgot about all of the missed dog kisses of his youth. 

When Shelbey and I went to look at puppies at a dog shop in Palmyra, we didn't know what to expect. I had been to the shop once when I was in high school, and I had remembered that you were allowed to play with the puppies. So six days after buying our first home I texted Shelbey to see if she wanted to meet there after work. It was roughly a 45-minute drive in rush hour traffic for her, but like I mentioned earlier - Shelbey's a dog person. So she made the trip. 

We stood behind a fence and looked at all of the puppies, some in cages, some running around. There was a Lhasa Apso, Bichon mix in the center of it all that never seemed to take its eyes off of us. 

"Can we see Wiggles?" I asked. 

The pet shop owner showed us to the play area for prospective customers and explained a few rules to us. Then he brought over Wiggles, who, he explained, earned his name because whenever he gets attention from someone he shakes his butt uncontrollably. Wiggles did not disappoint. 

He pranced around the play pen, running after toys and climbing all over us. Wiggles had that Bichon look, which I was use to, but he also had beautiful brown spots on his body and the tips of his ears were black (must've been from the Lhasa Apso half since Bichon's are generally stark white). Wiggles also gave tons of kisses, which I think was the selling point for me. 

We played with another puppy but all I kept thinking about was what if another couple walked in and decided to buy Wiggles. I asked to see Wiggles again and once he was back in the play pen I made sure that we would never part ways. 

It was surreal bringing him home. Another Bichon had found its way into a Christ household. We renamed his zoomies "barkour" because of his tendency to incorporate the couch into his racing path. We bought him piles of toys and treats and encouraged him to sleep in bed with us. It felt like we were truly starting our family, and Wiggles had secured a spot within the new unit thanks in no small part to his willingness to lick a stranger's face. 

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I love to hear how people come up with dog names. 

A few weeks into the Covid-19 shutdown, Shelbey and I were walking Gus around our neighborhood when we noticed a white fluffball of a dog strolling, off-leash, in a front lawn. No fence. He looked like he actually owned the house and was getting ready to do some yardwork. As we got closer to the dog it became clear that there was no invisible fence either as he trotted over to greet Gus. 

The cotton ball's owner joined shortly after, telling us that the dog's name was Bingo. We made small talk about the dogs and remarked how much Bingo's name fit him. The owner then told us that his wife had brought the dog home when he was a puppy to surprise their kids. While everyone basked in the excitement of the new dog, the wife asked the family what they wanted to name the new addition. 

"You should just name him Bingo since you're at bingo every night," the oldest son said.

It could be just that easy. Shelbey and I wrote out a list of possible names before we even knew what type of dog we wanted. Some favorites were Moose and Archie and Murphy. We both knew that we needed to meet the dog first before we could match it with a name. 

Gus is a Gus. He just is. Believe it or not we didn't keep his given moniker of Wiggles. That was a little too fifth grade for us. Plus, with a name like Gus, I would be able to call him Augustus or Gustavo whenever I pleased. What's the point of having a dog if you can't call it by multiple names?

Growing up, my best friend's mom, Mrs. Dean, was the one who shed some light on the multiple name phenomenon for dogs. The Deans had this beagle mix named Babs, but Mrs. Dean would call her Lady or Ladybird or Birdie. Eventually they also brought home a beefy Bichon named Rocky who she liked to call Peter or Petey. I caught on to this and loved the idea of just calling a dog whatever (some of Gus's bonus names include: Gus Gus, Gussie Boy, Noodle, Noodle Muffin, Noodle Pie, and The Artist Formerly Known as Wiggles).

My brothers and I actually settled on Buster's name because of the Deans. Right around the time that we got Buster, Babs had already been around for a few years. We arrived at Buster mainly because of Tiny Toons Adventures - the two main characters on that show were Buster and Babs. It's not the most interesting backstory, but it's a backstory nonetheless. We were much younger then, and we sure did like cartoons. 

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I took a few days off from work when Gus got neutered. One perk of being self-employed is having some flexibility when it comes to pet care. I also wanted to stay home with him partially because I felt guilty - being a fellow male made me sympathetic to what all was about to happen. 

Gus barely recognized me following the surgery. Still groggy from the anesthesia and post-op pain medication, Gus was in what I like to call "the sweet spot" (not the medical term for it but I think you get it). He whined the whole car ride home, his grumbles and howls amplified by the plastic cone over his head. 

The whining continued at home. It was early afternoon and Shelbey wouldn't be home for another couple of hours. During that time I was constantly consulting Google about what normal behavior looked like for dogs after surgery. I was a kid when Buster lost his nuts, and I hadn't been too eager to learn about post-op recovery then. I did remember that Buster hated the plastic cone, but that was not the case with Gus. Sometimes nowadays if that cone is out, Gus will stick his head in as if he were trying to relive recovery. So strange. 

Once Shelbey arrived home, Gus started to settle down. I think it had less to do with the matriarch being around and more to do with the second dose of pain meds. By the time Shelbey and I were ready for bed, Gus couldn't get comfortable on the floor. He would lay in one spot for two minutes then pop up and pace around before laying back down for another two minutes. Thankfully, one final Google revealed that his behavior wasn't related to pain levels. He was dealing with some lingering disorientation from the anesthesia.

I told Shelbey to go to bed since she had to wake up for work the next day. I put some blankets on the floor and joined Gus on his level. He settled in eventually and the two of us slept peacefully through the night, me probably more peaceful than him considering my manhood was still intact. It was the first time I felt truly connected to my new life - sleeping on the floor of my new house with my new puppy.  

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There's a lyric in the Dawes song "A Little Bit of Everything" that cuts me down every time I hear it. Frontman Taylor Goldsmith sings about a man who is getting ready to jump off a bridge (it sounds dark, but go with me on this). A police officer shows up and asks the troubled man why he's about to end his own life. The man responds with a litany of reasons - there wasn't just one devastating event but rather a lifetime of small tragedies. 

It's the news at six o'clock
It's the death of my first dog

Buster lived to be 15 years old (105 in dog years). By the end, he was pretty senile. His vision was rapidly deteriorating and he slept most of the day. There was a faint spark of life, but it faded daily. 

I wasn't living at my childhood home when Buster died. I had moved in with Shelbey on the West Shore, roughly 25 minutes from my parents. I saw Buster a lot less, but it was comforting to know he was still around. 

The front door to my parents' house had blown open while no one was home. Buster took that opportunity to take one last unattended stroll through the neighborhood. He would not be returning. I drove over after work that day to help my folks look for Buster. He had been out for hours and the January cold was setting in. We weren't able to find him that night. 

Ronnie called me the following day to let me know he and my mom had found Buster's body. He had wandered near the woods a street behind my parents' road. Ronnie said he was curled up under a bush and that he looked peaceful. We both began to sob on the phone. 

That night Shelbey and I went for a walk and talked about everything going on in our lives at that point. I had just started my painting business and was worried about getting customers. We were also 11 months away from getting married which meant a chunk of every paycheck went towards vendors and the venue. 

And Buster had just died. 

A rare snuggle session, 2012

Buster's death marked the end of my childhood. He had been there through all of it - the awkwardness of grade school, high school house parties, college breaks. He was my coworker when I moved back in with my parents after college and worked remotely for a music website. Buster would sleep while I wrote short posts about dating rumors between Justin Bieber and Kendall Jenner or how The Rock performed a Taylor Swift song on Lip Sync Battle. 

And he even got to meet my future wife when we first started to date. 

A little more than two years after Buster's death, Shelbey and I welcomed Gus into our new home. During the time between dogs I had gotten married to the love of my life, cultivated a solid customer base for my business, and bought a house. 

Gus officially welcomed me to adulthood. I now had something that relied on me for walks, water, food and, of course, love. And I was ready for it all, thanks to Buster. 

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I'm a morning person, always have been. So when it came time to devise a walk schedule for Buster when he was a puppy, I was assigned to the pre-school walk. Ronnie would take care of Buster after school, and Shane, the night owl, would walk him before bed. 

Buster typically preferred to go to the end of the driveway and turn left down Yellowstone Drive. We would walk past a few houses, turn around, and walk back. Nothing too special or lengthy. It was just enough time for Buster to smell some flowers and do his business. 

I did some of my best thinking during those walks. I used it to plan out my day, sing a favorite song, and think about girls. If there was a problem to stress over, I did it while walking Buster. If there was a dilemma to figure out, I laid out my options during the jaunt. Then I would get back to the house ready to take on the day. 

Gus brought so many wonderful things into our household during his first year with us. Most importantly, he has resurrected the morning walk. We head out the front door and turn right. He waddles down the pavement while I hum a tune that's been stuck in my head. Some days I think about an upcoming painting job or bills that need paid. Other days I just enjoy the calming embrace of morning and the patter of Gus's paws on the sidewalk. 

There's more to worry about nowadays during my walks with Gus - more responsibilities and obligations. Things that can be classified as "adult problems." But for those couple of minutes in the morning there's a feeling of freedom that surrounds me. 

I feel like a boy walking his dog some days. I may be on a different street and the issues may seem a little more daunting, but I've done it all before with another Bichon. Amidst the chaos of young adulthood, the mission with Gus in the morning is clear - just walk. So I try to keep it as simple as possible, remembering that it's always okay to smile while you're carrying shit.