Love and Marriage
Veterinary Style
I graduated from university on Friday, married on Saturday, and began a challenging career on Monday. Both sets of parents thought us crazy and had been dead set against it. But we were young and impulsive and believed in true love.
In our race to the altar, we neglected to discuss the important matters of starting a life together — where would we live? How many children? Hockey or skiing? The only thing I knew for sure was that, when we got a dog, it had to be a black Labrador retriever.
We both grew up in unhappy homes and somehow survived our fractured childhoods. I had cats who comforted me in the darkest times, whereas my husband found solace in the company of the labs his father kept for hunting. He was adamant that no other breed would do.
Murphy, our first dog came closest. He was an impressive ninety pounds of athleticism with a lustrous black coat and some retriever in his lineage.
He was the last patient of my first heady week as a veterinarian. He had cut his paw in the park and stitches where required. Intoxicated by the success of my first unsupervised surgery I brought him back to his owner and enthusiastically commented, “What a gorgeous dog you have!” To my surprise, Mr. Dolan immediately responded, “Want him?”
His wife, heavily pregnant, harboured a deep resentment of the bond between man and dog. She had given Mr. Dolan until the end of the week to find a new home for Murphy.
Being a newlywed, pleasing my husband was still important, and just like that, Mr. Dolan’s search was over.
Murphy would retrieve a ball until he dropped from exhaustion, obsessive-compulsive behavior which I have to admit I found somewhat annoying. He could sniff out garbage at one hundred paces and would quickly ingest anything in his path. Needless to say, large piles of vomit would later be found on the only decent carpet in the house.
God help any middle-aged man of Mediterranean descent, wearing a hat who crossed our property line. By the time he succumbed to old age, Murphy had bitten no less than twelve times. He had escaped the sure fate of “bad dogs” only due to my husband's, and later my children’s, pleas and insistence that he hadn’t meant it.
He was not the Labrador my husband had hoped for, but he loved him nonetheless.
Time passed and our family grew, three children in quick succession. My husband began to distance himself from the chaos of our household, spending long hours at his office. A betrayal of sorts, I thought.
At least, that was my reasoning when I brought Biscuit, our whippet, home. No discussion. No warning. Her sleek body and general indifference were the antithesis of a lab, but to a cat lover like myself, she was perfect.
Murphy was ageing but still a force to be reckoned with. Eerily, Biscuit soon began to take on some of his characteristics. She became an inventive and tenacious hunter of garbage. There was no can she could not crack.
She insisted on sleeping in bed between me and my husband and refused to be displaced. Even our son, as a toddler, knew better than to try and move her for fear of being bitten. Many mornings we woke to find Biscuit, fast asleep, head firmly planted on the pillow, and our little boy sleeping curled at the foot of the bed.
Biscuit was bred to run. She would burst out of an open door as if a starter pistol had just been fired and go at top speed, no direction in mind until she dropped. I spent many hours driving the neighbourhood anxiously looking for my dog and, as my children became more independent, any errant preteen who had lost track of time and missed the dinner bell.
All my husband’s attempts to teach her to retrieve failed, but it was impossible not to stand in awe as she ran circuits in the park. He never developed a deep bond with this aloof creature, but I know he came to appreciate her as his dependable and indefatigable jogging partner.
It was no secret that the bulk of the pet care came under my domain. With four kids, two dogs, an embarrassing number of cats, and a full-time job, another dog was the last thing we needed. But when my father-in-law passed away, making my husband suddenly an adult orphan, I naturally thought a puppy would be the perfect thing to lift his spirits. I had developed a real affection for all the toy breeds in my practice — all the doggy qualities in a manageable package.
Besides, our older children were starting to go off to university and I worried that our fourth, and much younger daughter, would be lonely.
So, along came Trix — the only dog we [truthfully, I] chose — all the others have chosen me. She was a Pomeranian/poodle cross who grew to eight pounds. She was at least black. I think Tom secretly admired her swimming skills but refused to take her leash when we walked the dogs and pretended he didn’t know her if she started “yapping” in public.
Taco, our chihuahua, came next. By now, Tom was on to me! Chubby, middle-aged, and virtually toothless, Taco had been abandoned at the clinic. He waited patiently outside the exam room and followed at my heels wherever I went. He integrated easily into our home, and the three other dogs accepted him without question.
Taco loved boats and was a decent swimmer in a pinch, but it was his loyalty that made him irresistible. A favourite among the teenagers, there was nothing more poignant than watching a gangly, awkward boy cuddle this little dog. When he sat on your lap, you felt like you were the best person in the world! Only Tom was immune to his charms; his raspy bark drove him crazy.
Besides the dogs, there was an endless flow of cats, often pregnant, and abandoned kittens needing to be hand-fed. Each of my four children got a pocket pet for their ninth birthday — whether they wanted one or not. It was the perfect age to learn responsibility. People moved and needed homes for cockatiels and budgies. The fish from our pond had to be wintered in the house and I had an inexplicable fascination with turtles.
My appetite was insatiable but this was, after all, my chosen path — to surround myself with innocent creatures needing my care. Yet, as the years passed, I began to see my husband’s silent acceptance of our growing menagerie as a sort of apathy. Maybe all I wanted was for him to take a stand, and say “Enough!”
One by one our children left home for school and then to pursue careers. The fish tanks and pocket pets were long gone, and the cat population had dwindled by natural attrition. Taco and Trix had settled comfortably into our middle age and were low-maintenance companions. I had learned to shop for two, and without the frenetic demands of a young family, we had time to pursue other passions.
My husband approached an important birthday. A time to reflect and celebrate, but disturbing nonetheless. No one likes to get old.
With much forethought (not one of my better qualities) I planned a special day — just the two of us.
We drove out of the city. An urban chef, turned country squire, had opened a restaurant in his renovated barn.
The meal was wonderful. Without the distraction of children we talked about ourselves, our accomplishments and plans for the future, how we saw ourselves as individuals, and within our relationship, how, by some miracle, we had emerged at the other end, our marriage still intact.
My husband, sated and slightly inebriated, did not argue when I took the wheel for the return trip. He did not comment as I exited the long farm driveway and turned in the opposite direction to home.
We trolled the country roads admiring the fall colors and perfect rolls of harvested hay. Finally, I pulled to the roadside.
He laughed and said he’d waited for me to admit we were lost. I merely smiled and pointed to the next driveway.
There was a typical red mailbox mounted on a post, the family name stencilled on the side. Next to it was a large piece of plywood, crudely painted with the words — Lab pups for sale.
Two hours later, Tom pulled into our driveway and put the car in park. He turned and kissed me. He smiled and thanked me for a wonderful birthday. I looked down at my hands, resting in my lap.
The only thing they were holding was the warm hand of my true love.
