Diesel

Diesel

No, can’t do it.

Do not hold English bulldog puppy foisted upon me by the clerk.

I am here to buy dog food. I already have two dogs.

He smells sweet. Look at his plump paws. His eyes look human. He is looking into my eyes.

He likes me. I am falling for him. He nestles into my neck.

He goes dead weight in my arms. He feels childlike.

Clerk says I can have puppy for $3200.

I can’t. Just can’t.

Must get back to work.

Next day. I remember his smell.

I remember his eyes. I remember his comfort in my arms.

Beg co-worker to go to the store with me. She goes.

I hold him. Same clerk eyes me. I am falling. Falling.

Clerk says $3200 and he goes home with you.

We have two Australian Shepherds at home. I can’t do this.

Don’t know anything about bulldogs.

Three dogs are a crowd. Can’t do it.

Puppy and I look into each other’s eyes.

Need reason. I am falling.

$2000, I whisper.

Eager clerk hears faint offer. Trots off.

Kiss puppy’s head. Hold his paws.

Smile at co-worker. She smiles back.

Puppy relaxes and drifts to sleep.

He’s yours, says clerk.

I purchase a living, breathing puppy on AMEX.

Promise to pick puppy up after work.

Co-worker thinks I am crazy. Says something encouraging instead.

I call young sons. Say nothing of new puppy.

Call elderly dad who lives with us. Say nothing of new puppy.

Think of Aussies. Imagine them talking behind my back.

New puppy sleeps beside me on way home. I carry him into the family.

All are stunned. Aussies sniff him and head through dog door.

Sons look happy. Dad looks disgusted.

I am overwhelmed. Probably should not have done it.

Puppy sleeps in other room. Whimpers. Whimpers. Cries. Howls. Cries.

I sleep on floor next to his kennel.

Diesel. We named him Diesel. I whisper his name.

He falls asleep. I fall asleep.

On the floor. Uncomfortable. Content.

Days turn into months. Aussies bond together against him.

Diesel ignores them. Sons love Diesel.

Dad shares cookies with Diesel. I remain overwhelmed.

Three dogs form a crowd.

Diesel. Dear Diesel. I love him.

We “fix” Diesel. He still loves me. Tolerates sons. Tolerates Dad.

Loves Dad’s cookies.

Ignores Aussies. Aussies stay clear.

Diesel morphs. Diesel now hates the outside. Tiptoes through grass like he is sweeping for mines.

Growls at the doorbell. Growls at passerby’s.

Brother visits. Diesel leaps at brother. Diesel rips dress shirt sleeve from brother’s arm.

Blood forms where sleeve used to be. Brother leaves.

Diesel bites hand of guest. Leaves an indentation. No blood.

Guest, dear friend, leaves. Does not return.

Diesel and dad seem more alike. Growling. Angry at world. Sharing cookies and grimaces.

Diesel and dad sleep next to each other on dad’s recliner.

Diesel loves me. I love Diesel.

Diesel loves Dad. Dad calls him bad names in an affectionate way.

Build fortresses in home to keep Diesel from Aussies.

Build fortresses to keep Diesel from biting at sons as they leave for school.

Put pee pads everywhere as Diesel eschews house rules. Chews everything else. Ruins cabinets.

Change all routines. Work to contain Diesel. Work to find rare trainer. Find trainer.

Hire Donna the trainer. Donna the trainer takes control. Donna says let him go.

I say he will bite you. She says no he will not.

I say he will. She says release him. Her voice commands it.

I release him. He bites Donna the trainer.

She never returns. She never mails the special collar I paid to try.

Brother says write the Dog Whisperer. I say I will.

Dad’s taxi lift to dialysis clinic arrives. Driver asks to use bathroom.

Forget Diesel is corralled in bathroom. Driver opens door.

Diesel springs for driver’s groin. I thrust arm in front of driver.

Diesel clamps down on my forearm. Driver pees pants and flees.

Comes halfway back for dad.

My arm swells and bleeds.

Weeks become months. Months become years. Diesel is the same.

We have all changed. I am neurotic.

Learn ways to scurry outdoor with Diesel snarling.

Diesel throws himself at door. Hates anyone leaving.

I meet a fine man. Days pass. Months pass. He and I are a couple living apart.

Man is afraid of Diesel. Diesel despises man. Man and Diesel stay far apart.

Man has nightmares about Diesel.

Dad’s health falters more. Diesel eats more cookies. Dad’s hand is on Diesel’s head. Dad’s oxygen tube stays safe from Diesel.

Diesel bites son’s arm as son heads to school. Son bandages it. Like nothing happened.

We carry wounds in silence.

I sleep on Dad’s rejected hospital bed. Diesel sleeps next to me. Dad sleeps next to us on his recliner.

Diesel’s face is turning gray. Diesel has allergies.

Diesel eats venison. No.

Diesel eats duck. No.

Diesel eats salmon. No.

Diesel eats vegan. No.

Diesel eats…kangaroo.

Kangaroo. It works.

Diesel’s medical bills top Dad’s. Diesel gets allergy shots.

Diesel sleeps more. Dad does, too.

Go for newspaper in driveway.

It is 5:00 a.m.

Diesel makes it out of door.

I see neighbor in the darkness. So does Diesel.

Diesel charges toward neighbor.

Neighbor knows this threat.

Stomp your foot and yell go, I implore.

Neighbor does this.

I catch Diesel.

Carry 70-pound, roiling Diesel inside.

Neighbor does not need coffee that morning.

I fear police visit.

Days pass. Months pass. Dad passes.

Diesel keeps his paw on me.

Diesel sleeps next to me.

Diesel nuzzles me when I sob.

Diesel is my best friend.

Diesel hates everyone.

Except for me. Except for my sons.

Days pass. Months pass. Diesel is failing.

Diesel sleeps all the time.

Diesel is dying.

Diesel suffers.

We take Diesel to vet.

Son and I weep over him.

Kind soul administers the gentle but final shot.

Diesel is gone. Son and I share cast of his paw and clipped fur.

Hearts are broken. Diesel, loved, hated.

I loved him. He loved me.

He is gone. Never forgotten.