The End of an Emma Era

When I first met Emma, she was just a puppy. Only a couple of months old, she sat out in front of Petco like all the other second-hand puppies with the ARK waiting for people to fall in love with them. I hadn’t been looking for a dog, but I innately love dogs so I felt obliged to look and maybe impart some affection to some of the ones who would spend most of their lives waiting (as though my head scratches and neck massages would drastically change their outlook on life).

She was sweet and cute and looked just like a black Lab puppy should save for her sock-like white feet. I rubbed her head and she didn’t seem particularly impressed by it. All the other dogs were spasmodically anticipating affection, but Emma seemed indifferent to me. I liked this.

Growing up with dogs, I had always planned on getting one. They were a natural part of my every day environment and being a bachelor, I needed a canine companion. They idea of a stoic yet loyal dog was something I wanted very much and with purebred prices being so high, rescuing a Labbish puppy seemed to be both charitable and economical.

And so began my life with Emma.

From the get go, I realize that the timing of my adoption was less than ideal. I had no fenced in yard for her to run around in and a large part of my day was consumed by classes and work. But impetuous as my decision was, I did love her.

My love was tested though, early and often. It seems that my canine model came with a hair-trigger bladder.

Returning from school? Pee. Returning from work? Pee. Returning from the mailbox? Pee. Speaking in a high-pitched voice? Pee.

As you can tell, most of my last two years of college is remembered through a urine-tinted haze. We tried breaking the habit, but it was hard-wired into her brain. Some dogs shake or play dead. Mine peed in basically every conceivable situation.

Once I moved to a place with a backyard, I thought her issues would improve. The backyard had several trees and was elevated with a clear view of the street running through our neighborhood, so she could keep tabs on the inner workings of our neighborhood.

But things got worse.

You know how cats will kill things and then present them to you? While I guess no one can be absolutely sure as to why they do it, we can agree that it evidences some kind of relationship with you and the cat. Maybe they are threatening you, maybe they are trying to teach you, or maybe they hope their kill impresses you.

Regardless, their presentation of a dead animal acknowledges that you exist as a relational entity to them. I never felt that dynamic with Emma. It was more like I was a conduit of food and water. Nothing more, nothing less.

The peeing never really went away, but it was soon rendered trivial with the behavior that was evolving. Watching Emma was like watching Toy Story’s Sid hone his sociopathy on helpless toys. I realize that puppies are inherently destructive, but this was something different. It was methodical and cold-blooded.

Along the way, I realized that my hopes for a rugged and tall Lab was to be a dream deferred. Emma remained small in height, but she grew significantly thick in the britches. For the life of Ashley and I, we couldn’t figure out why. We were feeding her the same amount of food we always had. Her exercise level didn’t dramatically increase. If anything it increased. Why was she getting so fat?

A casual walk into the depths of the backyard answered the riddle. It seemed that Emma was supplementing her dog food diet with frequent indulgences of high fat woodland critter options like squirrel and rat. I left the backyard feeling guilty that local wildlife was unaware that I was harboring a natural born killer.

But she didn’t limit her destruction to the backyard. On a night when I felt compelled to bring her inside to avoid the cold, she returned the favor by eating the kitchen floor. Not chewing part of or nibbling on. Eating the whole, frappin floor so much so that I had a completely new layer of previously forgotten linoleum throughout the entirety of the room.

In time, after couches, jackets, tables, and other assorted household items were destroyed, Emma and I reached an uneasy alliance. She would live freely outside and in return, I would provide her with food and a place to sleep.

I’m not happy that it got to that point. But her nature as Destructo seemed so inarguable that it was easier to facilitate than to rehabilitate.

I felt as helpless as Michael Myers’ mother.

This standoff worked for a while. Sure, some birds and neighborhood cats were collateral damage, but we had settled into an understood rhythm. Her domain was  the backyard. Ours was everything else. It was our version of Twilight’s werewolf/vampire truce except much less retarded and nobody sparkled in the sunlight.

For a while, everyone obeyed the truce and everyone got along.

But then Rowe happened.

It’s a funny thing to watch your affinity for your pets change once you have a child. It’s not that you love them less; you just gain a different perspective in how you relate with them. The love for your child is so profound and throttling that it starkly defines the terms of every other relationship you have.

Ashley and I both knew that Rowe’s first day home was the beginning of the end for Emma, but I had a hard time coming to grips with the necessary transition. For me, I felt like I owed her something. I personified some kind of relationship between the two of us where she was more like a problem child than a wayward animal.

But regardless of what she was owed, the reality was that she was like an inebriated Kanye West at an awards show. She was unpredictable — and that’s a terrifying possibility when your child’s vulnerability hangs in the balance.

Our other dog, Ajax, went outside today after Emma was gone and expectantly awaited her to come play with him. He waited for a while before coming back inside. I swear the look on his face said, “I know what you did.”

I couldn’t help but think that maybe he did know.

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