Big Dog

The first time my husband, Demetri, and I almost got divorced was before we were married. We were registering for wedding gifts at Bed Bath & Beyond, and my darling, almost-husband decided that we needed a bed skirt. Badly. And I decided we did not. I gently and ever-so-diplomatically stated my preference. (Actually, I think I may have said, “I will not marry you if you register for that piece of unnecessary crap.” Semantics.) After a brief physical struggle over the bar code scanner, we are now the proud owners of a taupe bed skirt. 

The second time we almost got divorced was over getting a dog. Well, not over getting a dog, but more like over which dog to get. Demetri grew up with Hank, a (mostly) well-behaved golden retriever who did adorable things like wander down to the small-town post office and climb in other people’s cars through rolled down windows hoping for a ride. I, on the other hand, grew up with a Shih Tzu named Feathers (yes, I did pick the name, thankyouverymuch!), a lap dog who looked like a mini-Ewok. Right there we had a problem. Demetri wanted a big dog, and I wanted a dog the size of a big dog’s head. He constantly told me how great Hank was and how getting a big dog would bring back wonderful childhood memories for him and how he wanted to share that amazing experience with me, his loving, Cameron Diaz look-alike wife. As with the bed skirt, we are now the proud owners of Gilmore, a big dog.

Gilmore took a while to find. A dog is not like a bed skirt — not just any one will do.* We looked for him in fancy pet stores, not-so-fancy shelters, and Internet rescue organizations. Enter problem number two: My husband is picky (damn picky!) when choosing a pet. One dog would be too hairy, the next not hairy enough. Too spotted. Too plain. Not enthusiastic enough in his petfinder.com picture. Too drooly. Too barky. Too thin. And my personal favorite (and often heard), “Nope.” Just plain “nope.” Even for a man of few words, this seemed to be an incomplete explanation. After I politely told Demetri that if he didn’t further explain we would have to have a long and sappy conversation about our feelings, he caved. He expanded on the original “nope” with, “That dog just doesn’t have it,” that magical, unspoken quality that instantly bonds pets and owners.

We finally found Gilmore via an ad in the paper for “Yellow Lab/Golden Retriever mixes.” When we went to have a look, a lady with spiky hair and lots of turquoise jewelry pushed us into a small, fenced area filled with hay and several 7-month-old pups. There were big paws and wagging tails everywhere. They flailed, they licked, they clamored all over us. I freaked out. These were not puppies you could hold in your hand. These were puppies that you had to sling over your shoulder all-the-while cursing the fact that you haven’t spent enough time at the gym. The good news was they would only gain about 10 more pounds** and they were “guaranteed to be good in the car,” just like Hank was.

My husband got down with each pup, looked deeply in each one’s eyes, and whispered in their ears secret dog whisperer whispers. He quickly passed on the first three dogs with “nope,” but the fourth dog, well, Demetri gazed at him, and the dog gazed back. It fidgeted a little and then settled up against Demetri’s side. “This is our dog,” he declared. “He’s doing the leaning thing. All good dogs do the leaning thing. Hank did it.” I acquiesced because this dog didn’t scare me with his clamoring. I kind of liked his yellow, velvety, floppy ears and his brown eyes that seemed happy and wise all at once. That was it. The future big dog was ours.

As we headed home with Gilmore, I drove. Very carefully. I had precious canine cargo after all (in addition to my hunky husband, of course). Demetri sat in the back seat, facing backwards so he could pet and comfort Gilmore, who was in the hatchback. Gilmore threw up. Twice. Demetri then stated, “Um, I forgot that I get car sick if I face backwards. Are there any trash bags up front?” So that pretty much covers the ride home. And any ride we have taken with Gilmore since.

When we got home, we put the pooch in the kitchen (I read it was good to confine new pets in smallish spaces so they don’t get overwhelmed). He was tentative. He sniffed around, looked at his reflection in the stove door, and licked my knee. And yes, I felt a bit smug that he licked me first. Then he found his bone. Gilmore plopped down on the kitchen floor — legs askew — and began to chew. We watched him for more than an hour, totally fascinated by everything he did. “Look! He scratched his ear!” “Look! He thumped his tail!” “Look! He (insert anything)! He is a genius dog!” Later that night, Gilmore chewed a huge hole in the bed skirt, further cementing his genius status. To me, at least. Then, the next night when he knocked my lasagna off the counter and chowed down, it was a done deal. I’m not known for my culinary prowess, but if my lasagna was good enough for Gilmore, well, we would get along just fine.

After that, the dog was mine. He likes my husband okay, but he really loves (only) me.*** Sure, I could tell you about all the Marley and Me stuff with Gilmore ... about how when I got really sick, he observed my tears, struggles, and triumphs with equal acceptance … about how he amazingly never once left me alone while I watched Bring It On or Pride and Prejudice for the millionth time. (That’s loyalty!) But ever since Gilmore joined our family, Demetri and I have had significantly fewer arguments. Why? The only reason I can figure is because in a divorce, only one person gets to keep the dog!

* Demetri wants me to tell you that not just any bed skirt will do. But he does concede that picking a bed skirt is not like picking a dog.
** For the record, Big Dog gained 35 pounds after we got him.
*** My husband may have a slightly different perspective on this.