The Pits, or, What I Took On for Lent

Many of my friends know my feelings about Lent, but I'll give a Reader's Digest version here: I think at best Lent is a period of reflection, of meditation, a six-week study of whither and whence we go on our spiritual journey, etc. At worst it is an opportunity for people so disposed to indulge in a medieval celebration of the horror of Jesus' trials in the desert (a little irony for me there), and to take ghoulish delight in anticipation of the gore of his execution. Plenty of otherwise sensible and even fun-loving Episcopalians indulge in the mass clinical depression and self-abnegation of this season, and lacerate themselves with self-loathing and the denial of something that at other times of the year gives them great pleasure. I think that's not at all what Christ had in mind, and therefore some years ago I announced that I would be giving up Lent for Lent forever, and I've not once been sorry for it. Times are tough enough on this plane of existence without deliberately adding to it, just because the episcopate thinks I need a little discipline. Maybe I do, and maybe I don't, but I'm not the sort of person that indulges in mass ANYTHING, and I will never again be part of a mob of breast-beaters.

As clear as I have been in this manifesto, a couple of times I've been caught up short, finding that the universe has given me a Lenten Discipline after all. This year the assignment is to endure the fostering of a very large puppy (well over one hundred pounds), oversee the wholesale destruction of most of our backyard, and to keep at it until I've learned some lesson, the full nature of which has not yet been revealed to me.

There I was last Ash Wednesday, tootling up the main drag of my town, heading home from a trip to Santa Fe for swimming and errands, a normal Wednesday for me. Coming right at me on Hoochaneetsa Boulevard (said main drag, whose Indian name means "Main Drag") was a really big black dog; he did not veer from a collision course with my car, and he seemed large enough to do as much damage to the car as would a small deer, so I stopped. We almost never see unleashed dogs in this town, and when we do, we either notify their exasperated owners so they'll come and get them, or we recognize that they've been dumped and Take Steps. I Took Steps, and have had daily reasons to regret it ever since.

I gave him some water (which he desperately needed), loaded him into the back of the car, dragged him into my back yard, came into the house, and contemplated the Next Steps. I started with the logical moves, which was to call Mary and tell her the news of our latest burden, then call around to connect with the guy whose shelter in Placitas is no-kill, and who has never turned down a dog.

Days passed (and porch swing cushions were shredded) and the Placitas guy had to make Bozo (we'd first called the dog Jughead because that's what he was, but I thought it might fulfill itself to ever greater disaster) the first dog he'd had to decline to take. No room, he said, and neighborhood complaints, he said. He was sorry, he said. Fine, said we.

Frantic phone calls ensued, as we connected with all manner of people in the animal rescue biz -- and a big biz it is. We heard horror stories, most horrifying of which is the one about the Colorado laws which make it possible for the gendarmerie to go into people's homes and kill their dogs for no reason other than they have been found guilty of having pit bull lineage, or even just guilty of being brindle colored. Pit bulls can be brindle, and so can boxers, and greyhounds, and Great Danes, and English bulldogs, and... well you get the picture. These niceties apparently don't matter to the Colorado enforcement community. Bozo probably has some pit in him -- he's big enough, and has some brindle markings -- but he's mostly Lab, with the signifying meatheaddedness of that breed. Anyway, we couldn't take him to Colorado, which is apparently where most New Mexico dogs go to be adopted; it seems that, aside from the pit bull hysteria, Colorado has other laws and provisions for NOT killing unwanted animals, and incentives for people who might adopt them. I don't understand Colorado; John Denver has been dead a long time; I will NEVER live there.

Colorado has a gun thing, too, but I'll save that for another post.

Then our friend Sally offered to help. Sally has a lot of animals that she's adopted -- she's a bigger pushover even than I -- and she agreed to take Bozo to the regular Saturday adoption fair in Albuquerque. This event is sponsored by PACA (People Against Cruelty to Animals, I think). On Bozo's first Saturday PACA got to know him, tested his temperament (happy, curious, willing, anxious to please and, God knows, enthusiastic), and took him under their wing. They got him neutered (Sally says "tutored" because she doesn't want to upset the dogs -- THAT'S how Sally is), rabies-immunized and ID-chipped. They put him up on their website and then they sent him back to his foster home: our house. Gggggghhhhh.

Time passed, another Saturday at the adoption clinic came and went, Bozo got the rest of his immunizations, the canvas backing of the porch swing was eaten, as was a garbage bag of recyclable plastics in the garage, as were two leashes that we didn't get off of him in short order. We asked our friend Carol, a dog-trainer just as fond of the beasts as Sally but who takes a harder line (she used to train horses), to help us get Bozo under control. It seemed laughable at the time, but with her steady advice and assistance, the aid of a prong collar (which I used to think were cruel, but now know were designed specifically for meathead dogs, and besides, Cesar Millan uses them on HIS meathead dogs), we got Bozo to walk on lead, sit when not walking on lead, and be crated when we would be away from the house or when we just couldn't take it anymore.

We're thinking now, after the loss of two lawn chairs, two bird feeders, part of the deck railing, and the steady nibbling-away of the bird bath (our dining room looks like the guest parlor of a crack house; it's where we've been storing the detritus of the Reign of Bozo) that this might very well go on until Easter. And we'll learn the hard way -- does anybody learn anything the easy way? -- whatever lessons Bozo has for us. In time for our Paschal Rebirth, we'll re-learn the usual things we learn from dogs, most importantly No Grudges. I have been at times so angry, so frustrated, so baffled by this enormous dog that I've hauled off and smacked him. I haven't hit a dog in years, but I remember every time I did so, just as I remember every time I hit one of my kids, and each memory makes my stomach lurch, and I want to cry all over again. Bozo has never, NEVER, held that against me, thank God. He is happy to see me whenever I show up; he thrills to my presence, he craves my pats and is delighted to retrieve a ball or a Kong or whatever I want to throw for him, over and over and over again. When he's tired (or more likely, when I am), he loves to sit between my feet, lean back on me and gaze at the sunset along with me, panting and occasionally swinging his 50-pound head around to look at me adoringly. (Remember how, when you'd be tying a toddler's shoes while he sat on your lap, he'd throw his head back and catch the bridge of your nose with it? And how you'd see stars for a while? It's like that to be adored by Bozo.)

Another lesson I've identified so far: A happy demeanor can make everything right, and eases the process of forgiveness, no matter what the circumstance. One of my mother's favorite pieces of advice was to eschew (she used words like that) the German solution, i.e., "The situation is serious but not critical," in favor of the Viennese solution, "The situation is critical but it's not at all serious." It's saved me a number of times when I have the wit to remember it, but it's REALLY saved Bozo's life. He looks at me with his shit-eating grin, and I can just cool off and forgive him. The stuff that he has eaten or destroyed is just stuff, and its value does not even approach that of the presence of a cheerful dog. In fact, the presence of a cheerful dog makes it a little easier to forgive myself -- and it's high time I did so.

This is not to say that Bozo can live here forever -- he can't. He's too big, he's simply too damned much for a couple of nice ladies of a certain age to handle, and our resident dogs have just about had it with him. (Grreta has put him on the ground a couple of times just by the force of her alpha-ness, and Gabi screams "Rape!" whenever she's within 5 feet of Bozo's boundless joi de vivre.) I know, in that way that we KNOW things, that Bozo will find his perfect home, and in perfect time; having him here may not be a completely pleasant experience, but I also KNOW that it is serving some important purpose. It is, as I say, teaching us something we needed to learn (or remember), and it's civilizing Bozo; we've explained to him that if he doesn't become civilized, he will die, and he understands that. He wants to know if being civilized means he has to stop being funny and silly, and we reply that we really, REALLY hope not. It's what we hope for ourselves as well.

Lent doesn't civilize us, no matter what the church says. Love civilizes us, and makes plenty of room for joy. As my small friend Jack says, "Only teachers and clowns know everything," and Bozo is both.