Doggaroo

Chekhov is probably approaching Columbia right now, in the backseat of Rachel's car on the way to her parents' house. I had to give him away because not only would it be more difficult to find a place in New York or elsewhere if I had a dog, it would make the moving process more difficult as well. Her parents have a bigger house, a yard, another dog to play with, and empty nest syndrome, making them the perfect adoptive parents, especially since I've been friends with her for years and I'd be able to visit him whenever I'm in St. Louis.

I've had him for over two years. I got him from a frat that was having a puppy-a-thon when one of their dogs had her litter, and bought him for twenty dollars on the most uncharacteristic impulse of my life. Not only was I not a dog person, but I had to ask one of my friends to hold him in my car on the way to Wal-Mart that afternoon when I went in to puzzle out exactly what the hell a puppy needed. I had to go back to the store twice.

I'm glad I got him when he was that young. I like starting things from the beginning.

During his rearing, I lost over seven pairs of shoes, tens of CDs (some of which belonged to other people), at least five books (two of which were library books, and one of which was entitled "How to Train Your Dog"), countless waterbottles, my couch, three or four stuffed animals, a stick of deodorant, and piles of paper--among other forgotten items--to his developing jaws. I learned to let go of things. I also learned to put them in places he couldn't reach. Sometimes that didn't work.

Chekhov took after me in odd, uncanny ways, perhaps because I found myself resembling my mother in other, humbling ways. He enjoys eating apples, vegetables, bread, and grass. One time I came home and found he had eaten half a can of icing, his snout still in the container and his paws and fur all sticky. He hid under the bed for several hours after that. He doesn't slobber or lick excessively, but I trained him to give kisses: two small licks on the hand, more if I have something he wants. He only does it to me. He howls when fire engine sirens are sounding and when I'm playing opera music. He has more nicknames than I can count, consisting mostly of combinations of Chekhov, Bear, Stinky, Chunky, Muppet, and Roo. He is the most extreme balance of happy, goofy, protective, loving, and tolerant that ever kicked its leg when you scratched its stomach. I don't think I'd be the person today if I hadn't gotten him, and I don't know what life will be like without. Less happy, I imagine.

It's too fucking quiet in here.