It's been a few days since I've put up a post about Grr, so I figure it's OK to do so again. After a few successive posts about him some time ago (last week? It all runs together now.), Jason suggested that I just go ahead and rename this blog: "One Grr-ateful Year." Clever, that one.
So anyway, previously on "One Grr-ateful Year," Sam and I had gone ahead and committed a grave sin in the doggy-training bible: we relented to Grr's crying and just let him sleep in the bed with us. Since then, no more crying, certainly no more crate-rattling, and we've even noticed a decreased need to get up in the middle of the night. All he wanted was to sleep with his pack; it's kind of sweet if you think about it.
It actually seems like he has become a different pup altogether, and it seems to have happened quite suddenly. I'm not sure if it is directly related to sleeping with us, but the timing of it is certainly correlated. He sleeps through the night now, and no longer has accidents in the house. And the creme de la creme: he pees and poops outside (not the garage, but outside), albeit with hesitation. But he does it. No more puppy pads for him.
So it seems that I was right all along--he would eventually grow to become the dog that I want. And while he is certainly making awesome progress in doing so, this isn't really about him.
When things were bad, Sam and I had a serious conversation, one of those rare exchanges between us where we put all joking and flippancy aside, and really listened. Of all the days he decided to read the blog (which is next to never), he picked this one, which subsequently freaked him out. And of course, Sam is very much male when it comes to problem resolution, so he was far less interested in hearing about my feelings than he was in finding a solution.
So he proposed (with enough bravado as I walked through the door that I think I heard a trumpet fanfare) that we would give him back post haste. There was little fear between us that he would linger at the pound for long because, well, seriously, who can resist those satellite-dishes he uses for ears?
I certainly couldn't, but I couldn't give him back. The decision would have haunted me forever, and I knew that Sam and I would not find our way out of it. Though we could return to our lives pre-Grr, we would not be the same two people; we would always be a couple who tried and failed to own a pet, to learn how to grow outside of ourselves. But even more than that, I couldn't imagine the house without the jingling of Grr's dog tags, the annoying way he would follow us around the house. Who would play with all of his toys? And what if he thought of us, wondered what he ever did that made us disappear?
I couldn't bear that.
But then he changed, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. He had somehow transformed overnight into a more-or-less well-behaved pup and learned how to adapt to living in a big city amongst its associated sights, sounds, and smells.
The other day, he and I walked three long South of Market blocks to get to the park he usually gets chauffeured to. Sam was working later than usual, I left work earlier than usual, so what better day could there be for Grr and I to embark on this little adventure? He struggled valiantly. I could see it in his eyes. He was reluctant, scared, constantly fighting the urge to turn back and go home. But he did it. I didn't even have to help him much. He made it to the park in spite of rushing cars and hissing busses, with his tail tucked tight and galloping at an urgent pace.
At the park, he found his friends--the little shiba inu who enjoys chasing him in short spurts and a little chihuahua mix that plays rougher. As minutes passed, Grr's tail lifted higher and higher, a testament to his bravery. It was like the raising of the victory flag at Iwo Jima, and he was my little Marine.
But again, this isn't about him; I keep forgetting. This is about me (isn't everything?).
I have learned much about myself in the last six weeks--some good, some less so, but the most important lesson has been that I might have the capacity to love after all, even when it is difficult and inconvenient.
There was some doubt.
Of course, I still have my moments, and Grr has his: the way he applies all four claws to the concrete when he does not want to continue walking, his obsession with our dirty clothes, why he insists on sleeping perpendicular to our parallel bodies in bed, thus giving me and Sam only a sliver of the bed to ourselves, one whole dog-length apart.
Last night as I prepared to take a shower, I left my dirty clothes on the floor of the bathroom. As I lathered up, I saw, through the translucent shower curtain, Grr practically tiptoe across the tile, grab my socks in his mouth, and saunter out the door. A few minutes later, he returned for my underwear, then my T-shirt.
After drying off, I went in search of my laundry and found them strewn about in the closet. Grr stared at me, frozen, with a sock dangling off of his left canine, as if stillness would make him invisible.
What a fool, I thought, as I wrestled the sock from his mouth. I knew that he knew that he should not be playing with our clothes, but he willfully defies us around every corner. And then it hit me: would I be happier with a perfect dog, one just short of behaving like a service pet? I didn't know, but as I gathered the rest of my dirty clothes while Grr circled around me nipping at any exposed fabric he could reach, I didn't even know if I would be interested in finding out.
Grr is our dog. There could be no other, whether he fetches us our slippers or chews up our shoes. I wouldn't want any other.
I think I have grown. And I do have the capacity for love.
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