My Dog Hates Me: A Tribute to the Pets of the Pandemic
“There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
- Albert Einstein
I have an old dog. A really old dog.
The average canine lifespan is 10-13 years according to PetMD. Considering how dogs have been recognized as man’s best friend since humans domesticated their ancestors at least 15,000 years ago, it seems unjust their lives are so short compared to ours. Dogs provide us with unconditional love. They keep us active. They help us cope with stress and recover from rejection. Some studies suggest canine companionship can help humans live longer. The bond between humans and their canines is so intense, it’s been likened to the love parents feel for their own human children.
Dogs help us feel safe in an unsafe world.
Which makes it exceedingly painful to think about having to say goodbye to them someday. The loss of my childhood dog was so devastating, it was the first time I remember actively embracing denial. I couldn’t bear the thought of experiencing that kind of grief again, so when my family got another dog, I made a point of telling everyone he would live to be 100 years old.
My grandma would tell me it was impossible for dogs to live that long. I’d respond by pointing to the tattered Holy Bible on her coffee table, reminding her she was supposed to believe in miracles.
Spoiler alert: That dog did not live to be 100 years old. Nor have any of the other dogs that have come and gone from my life.
Yet I continue to tell myself the same thing when it comes to the old dog I have now.
My dog is 17. She’s ancient by all standards.
I guess I should say she’s at least 17, since that’s how long I’ve had her. It was the fall of 2008 when I spotted her on my drive home from work. She was trotting along the shoulder of a busy highway, far from any residential areas.
I pulled over, stepped out of my car, and called out to her. Skittish but brave, she wagged her tail and came my way. I put her in the backseat and took her home.
The poor thing was so skinny I could see her ribs. She was infested with fleas and covered in small lacerations. A vet would later tell me they were either bites from other dogs or injuries she’d sustained from trying to escape confinement. Maybe some of both. It was clear she’d been living outside, hadn’t been eating enough, and likely wouldn’t have lived much longer had she continued her trot down the highway in rush hour traffic. She had no collar and wasn’t microchipped. No one seemed to be looking for a dog fitting her description when I called animal control and perused the local ‘lost dog’ postings.
I said I’d keep her till I could find her a home, but I was fooling myself and I knew it.
She’d already found her home.
An awful lot has happened since 2008, and she’s been with me for the entire wild ride. When January of this year found us at the urgent care vet, I was worried it might have been the end of our time together. Thankfully, it wasn’t.
She’s an old dog. I know she won’t be around forever, and I’m more aware of it now that she’s been through a medical crisis. I’m just so incredibly grateful she’s still here with me today.
I often think about an uncle of mine who died the summer before the pandemic began. As he was nearing the end of his battle with cancer, his wife, kids, and siblings sat down with him to hear his wishes for his memorial service. He didn’t want a typical funeral. No preachers, he insisted. He wanted everyone to come over for a pig picking in the backyard. He wanted my cousin’s band to come play songs everyone could sing along and dance to. He wanted everyone to tell funny stories about him so they could laugh and enjoy themselves. The more he talked out loud about his memorial service, the more it sounded like a party. “Hell, this is going to be so much fun, I want to come to it,” he laughed. And in one of the most badass moves ever, his family bailed on planning a memorial service and threw a party for him to celebrate his life while he was still alive.
In that same spirit, I don’t want to wait until Old Dog has passed away to tell her story and celebrate her life.
I want to do it now, while she’s snoozing on the floor next to me, while all the wonderful things I know about this exquisite beast are fresh in my mind and my heart isn’t heavy with grief.
And I want to hear all about your dogs, or your cats, your birds, your horses, your fishes, your reptiles, your rodents, and your every other species of animal you share your life with.
Because if you’re like me, you’re still facing the reality that we’re living through a global pandemic that has upended our lives. You’re still doing everything you can to protect yourself and others from a disabling and deadly virus. You’ve likely been disappointed and abandoned by way too many humans who were supposed to have your back. You probably struggle with feelings of isolation and loneliness.
Our pets have done a lot of heavy lifting when it comes to our mental and emotional health these past five years and we don’t give them enough credit for it.
It’s time we change that, so here’s my tribute to Old Dog.
Old Dog came into my life at a weird time.
Everything kind of fell apart all at once.
I’d been working in a federal grant-funded role that ended, and had known from the beginning there was a possibility the funding wouldn’t be renewed. That didn’t make it any easier to face unemployment during a severe economic recession. On top of my flailing career, my kid had just started school in another state but wasn’t doing well with the transition. My dysfunctional marriage was nearing its end. My spouse at the time would lovebomb me one minute, threaten to leave me the next, then threaten my life the next. Against my better judgment, I stayed for another couple of years and tried to make things work. Instead, they were deteriorating at a scary pace.
One evening I found myself home alone and started packing a bag. While doing so, I discovered spy cameras all over my house and a weapon I never knew my spouse at the time had acquired.
I realized I was living with a stranger and it scared the shit out of me. I fled to the home of friends who had offered me a safe place to crash. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t bring Old Dog with me; my friends had their own dog that didn’t get along with other animals and would have eaten Old Dog for brunch. My immediate concern had been for my own life, but I couldn’t sleep that night knowing I’d left her behind. The following day, I scrambled to come up with a more solid plan, but kept falling flat. I had nowhere else to go, no family in the area, no job prospects. I finally swallowed my pride and called my mother and stepfather. They told me to go get Old Dog and come home.
So I did. As soon as I could I returned to my house when I knew my spouse at the time would be at work, grabbed a few more of my belongings, put Old Dog in the backseat, and drove away like a bat out of hell.
There are few things more humiliating and soul-crushing than having to move back in with your parents on the verge of your 40s, but I was grateful for their support. Old Dog settled in just fine, befriending my mother’s dogs and tagging along with my stepfather on boating and fishing trips. I finally got a job offer with a company in the town I’d just left, so Old Dog stayed with my parents while I returned to start my new job and get settled in the cheapest rental I could find.
It wasn’t long after that when someone set the bushes around my new place on fire in the middle of the night. Thankfully the fire department arrived quickly and extinguished the flames before they moved indoors. I wasn’t harmed, but with fresh new fears for my safety, my landlord let me out of the lease. I went back to crashing on sofas of friends and coworkers until I could save up for another place of my own.
“Seems like you’ve hit rock bottom,” people would say when they would hear about my series of misfortunate events. “The good news is, there’s nowhere to go from here but up!”
Surprise, you silly fucks.
Next, I was rear-ended in traffic by an uninsured motorist, leaving my car totaled. My own insurance picked up the tab, took my car, then jacked up my rate to nearly double what it was before the accident when my policy was up for renewal the following month. While the insurance payout had left me with just enough to put a down payment on a new vehicle, my lawyer informed me that any new property I acquired before the divorce was finalized would be considered marital property. My spouse at the time – who was admittingly making the process as slow and painful as possible for me – would be entitled to half of it.
Fuck that.
Life was kicking me in the teeth and I was spiraling into a depression so deep I could barely function. I missed my independence and my security. I missed my kid. I missed my home.
And I missed my dog.
Without knowing what else to do, I resigned from my job and went back to stay at my mother and stepfather’s house. I waited for my divorce to be finalized before attempting to find another job and a place to live. It seemed like the safest and most logical thing to do at the time.
Sadly, it took much, much longer than I’d anticipated.
I lived in a holding pattern like that for well over a year. It was hard. I needed help and would have welcomed counseling, medication, anything that might have made a difference. The desire for help didn’t count as currency though, and without an income and health insurance, I didn’t have the means to do much for myself.
There were days when I could do nothing but cry.
There were days when I was too overwhelmed to get out of bed.
There were days when I was suicidal.
And on those days, my mom would knock on my bedroom door and tell me my dog needed to go out for a walk. Whether I felt like it or not, she was my responsibility and I had to take care of her.
Those walks were tough at first.
They got easier.
Then I started looking forward to them.
I started walking Old Dog for longer periods. Then I found new trails and parks for us to visit. We made friends at the doggy park. My weight stabilized after having gone up and down like a roller coaster over the previous year. I was sleeping soundly at night.
Old Dog likely played a big part in saving my life back then.
She gave me a reason to get up each morning, to keep going, to keep trying. It didn’t fix all of my problems, but it helped me hold onto my sanity while stuck in that holding pattern.
One day, I got a call for a job interview. I wasn’t familiar with the organization. It was in a distant town, far enough away from my ex-spouse that I could envision myself living there safely. I’d never even applied for a job with that company, but someone who’d been following me on LinkedIn liked the content I shared in blogs and posts. They saw that I was open for work and sent me a job description for a position they had open. I drove up to their office and sat for an interview.
They called with an offer the next day.
You know how I mentioned that everything in my life had fallen apart all at once?
All at once, everything came back together.
The job was a good fit. I started right before Christmas break and moved into a nice, pet-friendly apartment. Old Dog came to live with me. I met and began dating someone amazing, who loved Old Dog every bit as much as I did. My job was travel-heavy, but I never had to worry about a dogsitter. My partner would drop me off at the airport, then take Old Dog home and watch her until I returned. I remember getting text messages with pictures of their adventures while away and how it would overwhelm me with joy and gratitude. I never had to worry about her.
In the new year, we moved in together. For the first time in my adult life, I had a partner who treated me with love, kindness, and respect. I came home every day to someone who was happy to see me, who was always in my corner, who made our home a sanctuary from the world rather than a battleground.
After all I’d lost, I’d gained so much more. I had a family again.
I’d never been happier.
Six months into my first year at work, my boss told me I was doing such a bang-up job, he wanted to move me to our Midwest location. He thought I’d be happier, being closer to my work and not having to travel so much. He mentioned how I would come out on top financially since it would mean a bump in pay on top of relocating to a community with a significantly lower cost of living.
My partner had children from a previous marriage, a dream job that had been hard to secure, and a deep love for the town where we lived. I knew that if I left for the Midwest, I’d have to go alone. The thought of trying to maintain the relationship long-distance was depressing. The thought of breaking up and going our separate ways was even more devastating. But having lived through the loss of employment, having fled – twice – from homes where my safety was in jeopardy, and having had to depend on my parents for much longer than I would have liked, I had to at least consider the opportunity. The more I thought about it, the more the dollar signs were adding up in my head. The thought of achieving some degree of financial security again was very, very appealing.
I was torn. I suffered through a few sleepless nights over it. I didn’t know what to do. I was down to the wire and had to give my boss an answer the next day. That evening when I arrived home from work, I sat on the sofa, my heart racing, on the verge of tears.
Then my partner walked through the door with takeout from my favorite restaurant, and Old Dog on a leash, sporting a new bandana. We sat on the sofa together and ate dinner. I watched my partner sneak bites of food to Old Dog, who’d wag her tail with gratitude. She settled between us and fell asleep, her head on my partner’s lap.
I remember stealing glances of her in her blissful slumber. She was happy. She was loved.
She was safe.
And so was I.
All the money in the world couldn’t replace what I had within my reach.
Old Dog made the decision easy.
“Thank you for the amazing opportunity,” I told my boss the following day, “but I have to decline it. I’m already where I belong.”
The following January, we had an ice storm that shut down much of the state, forcing us to cancel the small wedding we’d planned. But after finding a minister within walking distance, we stood outside in the snow and got married anyway. Our neighbors were our witnesses. My kid had flown in from out of state the week before and joined us. My partner’s kids joined by FaceTime.
And Old Dog was our ring bearer. We joked about how we were tying the knot so she didn’t have to be ashamed of her parents living in sin any longer. The minister wasn’t amused, but Old Dog put a smile on his face when she laid down between us and yawned loudly during our vows.
By the time Old Dog was 9-ish years old, we noticed white hairs sprouting from her muzzle and saw that she was slowing down quite a bit. We felt sure a companion would help keep her active, so we adopted a tiny, anxious terrier puppy and introduced the two.
Old Dog didn’t know what to think about Young Dog at first. They sniffed each other, then retreated to separate corners. We sat on the floor, hoping to engage the two a little more. I made the mistake of putting Young Dog on my lap and started petting her.
I’d never pegged Old Dog for the jealous type, but when she saw me fawning over her new sibling, it broke something inside her. I’m not kidding when I say it pissed her off to an unprecedented degree. She and Young Dog quickly became best friends and remain inseparable, but ironically enough, she’s never forgiven me for the offense of bringing another dog home.
“She hates me,” I’d lament, each time I’d reach out to pet her and she’d recoil in disgust.
“She doesn’t hate you,” my spouse would defend me.
But years later, Old Dog would still turn her head away from me when I’d try to pet her. Then she graduated to diving in front of me each time I’d get up out of bed in the morning, causing me to trip and fall so many times I’ve lost count.
“Okay, maybe she does hate you,” my spouse finally relented. “Actually, I think she might be trying to kill you.”
I tried for the longest time to earn her forgiveness. I spent time one-on-one with her, fed her gourmet dog treats, and took her to her favorite dog parks, where she’d run up to strangers and wag her tail while they petted her, then return to my side and snub me when I’d try to touch her.
Asshole.
She’d set some boundaries and let me know she wouldn’t tolerate me crossing them, so I had to adapt to loving her from a distance.
Then the Covid pandemic began. My spouse and I managed to dodge it until the fall of 2022. I was stuck in bed for the better part of two weeks, coughing, wheezing, tossing and turning in feverish fits, battling dizziness when I’d attempt to stand.
Old Dog stayed at the foot of the bed, watching me like a hawk.
“See, she does love you,” my spouse would say.
“Actually, I think she’s just waiting to see if I’m going to die, so she can be the first to celebrate,” I’d respond.
All kidding aside, she did keep vigil by our bed through the worst of my Covid infection.
As well as in the days, weeks, and months following, when it became clear that I had Long Covid and was spending more time in bed, knocked out from the various symptoms I was plagued with.
When my job called for a return to in-person meetings, retreats, and travel last summer, I knew it would just be a matter of time before I was reinfected if I’d stayed employed.
“We can’t let that happen,” my spouse said. “Just resign and focus on your writing. I believe in it, and I believe in you. We’ll make it work.”
So I did. I’ve spent the past year focusing on improving my baseline and preserving my energy to write. I’m grateful to report that I’ve managed to avoid a repeat infection. I have no illusions about how fortunate I am to have had this option. I can’t envision any other job, any other person, any other living situation which would have enabled me to stay safe. My spouse is the reason why I’ve made it this far, and why I have any hopes that I can persist in this manner, one day at a time.
And Old Dog is a big part of the reason why I chose all those years ago to remain where I am and build a life with my spouse.
Once again, she probably had a hand – er, a paw – in saving my life.
Thus, it pains me to think about how much exposure Old Dog must have gotten to the virus. To this day, veterinarians maintain that dogs, cats, and other household pets don’t get Covid, but we Covid-informed folks know better. It’s quite possible Covid was what led to the onset of her vestibular disease, a neurological condition that manifested in an acute episode 7 months ago and scared the shit out of us. One minute she was fine, the next she was having a seizure on the floor. Once it was over, she was left unable to walk or stand. She couldn’t control her bladder. Her eyes were rolling back and forth wildly in their sockets and her head was tilted sharply to one side, seemingly frozen in place.
My spouse and I carried her to the urgent care vet, where they made a diagnosis of idiopathic vestibular disease.
“What causes it?” We asked.
The vet shrugged. “No one knows.”
“What’s the outlook?” We asked. “Will she recover from this? If so, how long will it take?”
“Don’t know.”
“What can you do to treat the condition?”
“Nothing,” said the vet. “I can prescribe a couple of meds to treat the symptoms, but other than that, you just have to wait and see if she bounces back.”
Well, fuck me with a cactus. The vet’s lack of answers and nonchalance about our dog’s suffering was pretty much the same runaround we get from the healthcare system over Long Covid. It’s a wonder we weren’t told that it’s just anxiety and to make sure she gets more exercise.
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. A study completed at Konkuk University in South Korea demonstrates evidence that “SARS-CoV-2 infection can damage the brain as well as the lungs in dogs at early and later stages of infection, suggesting a high potential for a long-lasting COVID-19–like syndrome to develop in affected dogs.”
So Old Dog might very well have Long Covid, just like me.
My spouse and I had our work cut out for us as we attempted to rehabilitate Old Dog at home. We took to the internet to watch videos about physical therapy for vestibular disease. We found helpful tips for feeding a dog who won’t eat and followed guidance on modifications to the home environment to keep her safe. We were encouraged by the personal stories of others whose dogs recovered from vestibular disease and regained their pre-episode quality of life. We were hoping for a miracle, and were grateful to learn that a full recovery was possible.
The first couple of weeks of Old Dog’s recovery were rough. She lost a lot of weight as she wasn’t eating on her own and the best we could do was spoon-feed her baby food and mushy Vienna sausages several times a day. She’d wake up in the middle of the night and go stumbling around, slinging drool and piss all over the walls and floors, so we humans took turns keeping vigil beside her through the night. We put her in diapers, which made it easier for us to keep our apartment clean, but likely caused the urinary tract infection that left her peeing blood everywhere. Another trip to the urgent care vet and several hundred dollars later, she was on antibiotics and back to meandering around bare-assed at home.
By the third week, her infection had healed and her bladder control had returned. She was walking more steadily. Her eyes were still zooming back and forth, but the pace seemed to have slowed a bit. It would have been an asset at a ping pong tournament, but at home, it still impaired her vision and movement enough that she required a lot of hands-on support from us. We still worried about what her quality of life would be like, even with the improvements we were seeing. She still didn’t seem like herself. She hadn’t barked in weeks. Hadn’t wagged her tail. Hadn’t tried to trip me.
She was even letting me pet her without recoiling in disgust.
“Oh my God,” I told my spouse. “This is bad.”
Week four rolled around and her head tilt had subsided a bit. She was eating on her own and had put some weight back on. Although she was walking almost normally, we were still babying her. Young Dog seemed upset we were giving her preferential treatment and threatened to report us to the government for practicing D.E.I. in our home, so we relaxed our hovering a bit. We gave Old Dog a little more space, a little more autonomy. We allowed her back up on the sofa, where she could see people, dogs, and wildlife walking past our apartment. When a squirrel scurried past the window, she went apeshit and barked for what seemed like an eternity.
It was music to our ears.
We saw even more improvements by week five. By week six, she was fully independent again, and almost completely back to her normal self.
I tried to pet her one day and she drew her head back as if I’d tried to slap her.
“She’s cured!” I shouted. “It’s a miracle!”
Five months later, things are very much back to the ordinary in our home. Old Dog is the same old dog she’s always been. There’s still a tiny trace of tilt left to her head, so slight it’s barely noticeable.
I make it a point to notice it. I’m grateful for the reminder of what she survived and overcame. I’m grateful for the memory of the sorrow we felt, that we might have to say goodbye to her. And I’m filled with gratitude for the joy that followed with each little sign she was improving.
She moves a tiny bit slower these days. Just a little.
And sometimes she seems a little forgetful. I don’t know if it’s related to the vestibular disease, or if it’s canine dementia taking hold, or if it’s just how she’s supposed to be at this moment in time.
I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. Quite the opposite. Sometimes she approaches me like she used to when she was younger, looking up at me with her big, sweet puppy eyes, and she lets me pet her.
And sometimes, like today, she gallops toward me, wags her tail, jumps up and down on her front paws like she wants my attention. I bend down and reach out to pet her. But instead of letting me, she whips around and gallops down the hallway.
SIKE!
My old dog doesn’t hate me. She loves me in her own weird little way. I know because when I look back on my life before I found her, and think of everything that happened in the aftermath, I recognize our paths were meant to cross. I see how we chose each other.
And how we’ve saved each other, again and again and again.
The balance might be tilted in my favor, I fear. I’m deeply in her debt.
I watch her fall into a peaceful slumber on the floor next to me. Seconds later, she farts herself awake with a jolt. She looks at me, as if I owe her an explanation.
“Nasty bitch,” I tell her. “I love you.”
She groans and lowers her head back to the floor. Seconds later, she’s snoring again.
I tell myself she’s going to live to be 100 years old. Who knows? She's made it this far. Maybe she will.
She makes me believe the impossible is possible.
She makes me believe in miracles.
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