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by Zaphra Reskakis

But Baby wasn't just a dog. He was some dog. We adopted Baby when his previous parents divorced and nobody wanted  custody of the silver gray, miniature, one-year-old poodle. Since my children, Lisa and George, were nine and ten, this fluffy dust ball was the new baby of the family. He was cute, smart, noisy, and adorable. We renamed him Baby. 

A few years ago Lisa and I were looking at some pictures and there was a picture of the late, Baby, who by then had been in doggy heaven for about twenty years. I said," Wasn't he adorable? Such a sweet dog. How loving he was, always licking my face and kissing me?"

Lisa looked at me and said, "He was a little monster. He was always nipping and biting me and my friends." 

"Lisa, what are you talking about? I never saw him do that. I only remember one time when he nipped at one of your friends because he did not like velvet and she was wearing a velvet dress."

"Mom, he always nipped at me, but he would do it when you weren't watching. He would even stand in front of you, look straight at me and curl 
his lip in that awful noiseless snarl but if you were facing him he would 
smile."

"You never told me he did that. Why didn't you say something when he did 
that?"

"Mom, I was terrified of him. I was afraid if I told you, he would get even with me." At that we both burst out laughing. 

When I asked George if Baby bit him or his friends George said, " Of course not. He knew we'd kick his butt if he did."

The kids adored him, petted him, played with him, and fed him but after the first few months nobody wanted to walk him. It became my job and Baby became my dog. Although we were told he was toilet trained, Baby regressed when he became our dog. Housebreaking that dog became onerous. I would walk him for hours and he would do nothing but smell the grass and enjoy the walk. As soon as we came home from the walk, and especially when Baby was mad or jealous of my children, he peed on the two brass coffee tables that sat in front of the couch. Apparently the tables looked like fire hydrants to him. The combination of brass and urine resulted in green corrosive crud on the bases. 

I was forever scrubbing the tables, but they soon became fodder for the junkyard. After anointing the brass table bases, he would run into my bedroom, jump on my husband's side of the bed and poop on the pillow. He did not like the fact that I slept with my husband instead of him. In fact when 
my husband left me, Baby was delighted to sleep on that side of the bed every night.

The dog was finally housebroken, but not before I received many bloody scratches. The vet had said I should go out with the dog. He said I should bring a doggy candy and an infant glycerine suppository with me. I was instructed to shove the suppository into the dog's rectum as soon as we went out and reward him with the candy when he pooped. 

I guess if someone were shoving something up my butt I wouldn't like it either but I don't think I would bite him as Baby did me. Strangers, who did not know what I was doing and even friends who were aware of what I was doing glowered at me. I was so nervous about performing this ritual that I must admit that I might have mixed up the relative positions of the suppository and the doggy candy more than once. We would return from our walk, me bloody and exasperated and Baby proud and victorious. 

One day I took him out for a walk and lo and behold without any props he did what he had to do and that was that. When my husband was contemplating a divorce and decided to move in with his girlfriend, both my mother and mother-in -law agreed, something they rarely did. They said that I should poison Baby. They intoned that because he was a divorced dog, he had brought the evil spirits in charge of divorce into our home. As irrational as my thinking was in those troubled days I strenuously declined and further warned them against getting a "doggie hit man" or a potion from the Greek dispenser of "warding off the evil spirits potions." 

My mother was always angry with Baby, probably because she was sure the divorce was the dog's fault. When she came over to my house there would be a stare-down between them. The dog would finally slink away while my mother held her ground and cursed in Greek. 

One day my mother had come to watch the children. I do not know what really happened, since both parties are no longer with us, but when I came home Baby would not come out from under the bed. At first, I thought it might be that his arthritis was bothering him. I realized after two days of not coming out to eat or drink (although I suspect he may have slunk out for water after I fell asleep) that there was something seriously wrong. 

Each time I tried to get him out, he snarled at me, and he almost frothed at the mouth. And his eyes were red with anger. I called the vet who said to bring the dog in. Several of my friends, garbed and gloved, were able to drag Baby out from under the bed, into the car, and over to the vet's. 

When I told my mother that the vet said the dog was traumatized, she admitted that she had gently shooed the dog under the bed with a broom. The veterinarian gave me Valium for the dog. I was tempted to take it instead. I gave Baby the Valium and tried to feed and walk this zonked out animal. It was like dragging a limp, gray mop, through the streets, on a red leash. Again I was getting funny looks from strangers and friends alike. 

After one day I decided this was insane and called the vet. I facetiously said," Maybe the dog needs a psychiatrist and I need the Valium?" When the vet replied, "You're probably right. I have a very good one, and he only charges seventy-five dollars an hour," I decided I better change vets. I did not have to take Baby to a new vet because the next day, just like that, Baby was his delightful self again. He must have realized my mom and dad were moving back to Greece in two weeks. 

One night after midnight, ten years later, I was sleeping and woke up when I heard strange, gurgling sounds. I jumped as did Lisa who was at home the night that Baby started gasping for air. I had just taken Baby to the vet, I don't know if the vet missed it or if it was sudden, but by the time Lisa drove us to the Animal Hospital in Manhattan, Baby was in congestive heart failure. The doctor on call said that Baby would have to be put into a CCU cage. The cost was five hundred dollars a night and they required a three-day deposit. The money was refundable if the dog no longer required that care. 

Lisa, who loved Baby and probably forgot that he bit her when she was little, blubbered, "Doctor please do everything you can for Baby."

As I wrote the check, I looked at the doctor, shook my head from side to side, and mouthed, "DNR, do not resuscitate."

Lisa and I cried as we both kissed Baby. I silently said, "Goodbye, Baby." 

Lisa and I went home at three AM. The doctor called at 7:30 to tell us that Baby had passed away at four AM. We consoled ourselves with the thought that Baby had lived a long and happy life, and after twenty-five years, we still remember him fondly

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