A Dog Owner’s Lament: The Crotch Kickoff

Inspired by a true story...

It is a particular feeling, unlike any other.

I was sitting, Cookie curled up on my lap. Her black fur and wet nose rested comfortably against me. Her calm brow eyes matched mine. Then the doorbell rang: DINGG DOOOONG!!!

That was the trigger. I watched Cookie’s hind legs slowly tense, her leg muscles contract, her claws extend. It was a textbook vertical launch, the generated force worthy of NASA’s most powerful spacecraft. The problem was that her trajectory intersected with my launchpad.

And that is how I witnessed the utter obliteration of a certain pair of precious somethings I have long since taken for granted.

The very nature of such a sensation inspires instant empathy in all who witness it. It’s happened to almost all men at least once. The flip from peace to pain is so incredibly jarring, so brutal, so unforgiving; it defies reason. I watched the nails pierce flesh. For a mere moment, I saw the faces of a hundred generations flash before my eyes, only to fade away into the mists of fleeting futures.

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Pain. So much pain. Barking. So loud. It was Cookie’s. Then, white lights were flashing all around me. I couldn’t see it. Everything was too bright. My head hurts. I'm on a table. I have a mask on my face. Beeping machines, distant intercoms. Voices overlapped each other, as blurred as my vision.

“It’s going to be okay, Seymour,” some voice whispered to me. A man with a mask. Glints of silver tools in his hand. “You got this, you got this. Deep breaths. It’ll be over soon.”

“My name,” I muttered, delusional, “isn’t Seymour.”

“Hmm?” said the voice, sounding so distant, as if at the end of a long tunnel, “Haha, no, no. That’s my name...”

I can’t tell whether it’s my vision or his hands that are trembling. “Measure once, cut twice. Measure once, cut twice.” his muttering paused, “Wait, I don’t think that’s right...”

Dear God, I thought, just as my world went black.

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It was a quiet night. The silver moonlight peeked its way through the privacy curtains, casting long shadows, and was accompanied only by the whispers of the wind making its way through the small cracks in the awning windows.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The patient monitor’s sound continued, like a metronome. The room was dark. I could see the shadows of feet moving outside my door and muffled conversations. I sucked in the crisp chill of the air as the occasional pinch of the IV provided a moment of sharp lucidness between the haze of darkness and shock that had consumed me. I had long since been changed into a gown. The soreness in my legs was nothing compared to the anguish in my mind; the shame I have endured. I stared up at the ceiling fan.

Why Cookie....why.

“Urgh,” A painful grunt escapes my lips as her adorable face invades my mind’s eye. I love that sly mutt of mine. Even after everything, she remains an indescribable joy in my life. However, even before this absurd incident, she has also always been a very describable source of headaches and frustration.

How does one miss a white three-by-three-foot square of urine-absorbing material clearly contrasted against the dark wooden planks? I have calculated an accuracy rating of less than 28%. Unacceptable. How? I demonstrate higher accuracy shooting blind in a midnight bathroom visit.

How does one break into the Kirkland dog food bag with mere one-inch teeth, when I struggle even with scissors? Indeed, how does a dog pull open a food-closet door?

How does one curl up in the middle of the bed, forcing me to do geometry to figure out the angle at which I must lay to get the most bed area for myself, and then have the audacity to growl at my slightest movement?

How can she lick me non-stop for thirty minutes, only for her to abruptly retreat at my attempts to give her head a single stroke?

And of course, her legs were formidable. When I first got her, I worried my loft bed would be too high for her to clamper onto. By no means was she scrawny, yet the explosiveness of those limbs was unprecedented—my posterity pouch would know. This was horrific.

My eyes follow the slow, swinging movements of my fan as I wait. When I was younger, I discovered that you could rapidly blink, and it would appear as if the rotation had reversed.

In the blur of pain and dull lighting, I drift in and out of a foggy consciousness. Within the fog, I see a man. He’s giving me a baseball glove. I’m jumping up and down, and I smile on my face. The scene shifts as the room’s shadows move in time with my memories. He’s laughing, holding my shoulder as I wobble on my very first bike. Then, he’s next to me in the passenger's seat, gripping the grab handles even harder than I’m gripping the steering wheel...

I’ve always wanted to be a dad.

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“So...” said the young man with the name badge, Doctor Seymour Payne, “you're going to be all right!”

I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. My eyes were finally adjusted to the light. It was me, my parents, the SpongeBob sticker on the wall, and a young man with a stained doctor's jacket.

“That’s because,” Doctor Payne continued nervously, rubbing his hands together, “...we had to a-amputate the left one!”

-Wut?

My heart skipped a beat. The silence was almost palpable. Dad blinked slowly, as if he was rebooting. My mom’s hand tensed in mine; I haven’t seen her look at another human being that way since dad accidentally called her ‘Linda’ during their vow renewal.

“S-so basically,” Doctor Payne began with an almost pitifully plastered smile, “due to the dual nature of both bludgeoning and puncture damage, we performed emergency orchiopexy.” He held his breath.

We stared at him.

“Um, basically we went in, did a little detangling, a little stitching, and a little ‘please don’t explode on me’ praying!” Doctor Payne said with a forced chuckle.

Is this what people mean when they talk about the decline of medical care?

Doctor Payne's gaze rapidly bounced between three of us, finally settling on me. He seemed to mistakenly interpret our continued silence as a prompt to continue explaining.

“Uh, you can think of it as your righty being a veteran of a very personal war!”

He grabbed a vivid diagram that we absolutely did not need to see, “Here’s a diagram,” he said, unfolding a laminated chart with alarming enthusiasm. “This is your lefty before. This is your lefty after. And this—” he pointed to a cartoon explosion graphic, “is what we narrowly avoided.” This continued for another five minutes, which, as far as I’m concerned, was six minutes too long.

“The bottom line is that you will recover, but you will have some p-performance issues...” he paused, face scrunched in concentration. I could practically hear his two brain cells earnestly rubbing together to try and form a spark.

“Think of your righty as a retired athlete,” he started carefully, “They can still play the sport, but they won’t be winning the championship any time soon.” He smiled encouragingly, “So you may never win the MVP, but can still land an honorable mention!”

I winced. My mom's eye began to twitch. My dad looked like he was trying to astral project outside the room.

“A-and, on the bright side, you’ll never have to worry about chafing!”

Dear God, I thought.

He takes a deep breath and looks square in the eyes, attempting another reassuring smile, “Regardless, if you need anything, or have any questions, here’s my card. Please, don’t hesitate to call.”

I would be outraged; I should be outraged. However, Payne was shockingly like Cookie: too pitiful and (dare I say) innocent to remain furious at for long.

I try and return his smile, “Thanks.” In the background, I could hear my parents begin to talk, their voices shaking. I simply looked up and stared at the ceiling fan, wondering if I could blink fast enough to reverse time.

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I’m discharged and disgraced. The evening sun paints the parking lot a dark, sad red. With the help of my dad, I made it to the car. Then, from the car to the door. From the door to my bedroom. And finally, I dive into the warm, memory foam embrace of my bed. The moonlight casts the room in a serene glow.

My heartbeat reverberates in my pillow. Steady and exhausted. But it isn’t long before it’s joined by another sound. A small scratching sound followed by a whimper right outside my door.

For a mere moment, a wave of intense irritation passes through me. But it’s quickly followed by shame and resignation.

Sigh

I get up and trudge my feet across the carpet, past my discarded clothes, and crack open the door. Cookie is there, sitting. Her brown eyes meet mine, full of adoration. Her head slightly cocks to the side as her pointy ears flop. There’s something on the back of her head; it’s.... a sticky note?

I’m very sorry! I have cut my nails, cleaned up all my poop, and

fed myself dinner, so you don’t have to worry!

-Love Cookie!

I let out a lifeless laugh, “Thanks, dad.”

I swing the door fully open, and Cookie bounds inside and onto the bed. She pushes up the blanket and scrambles under it. I watch her mounded form scurry its way to the center of the bed. She spins once, then twice, twisting the blankets before settling down with a big huff.

Sigh

Her head pops out of the side, and the light casts a perfect shadow along her face, as if she were peeking out from under the moonlight instead.

I climb into bed beside her. I don’t hesitate to push her to the edge of the bed with my torso. She doesn’t growl. I suppose even dogs can demonstrate occasional insightfulness. More so than Doctor Payne, anyway.

I rub my finger along her forehead, scratching down to her nose. I’m filled with sudden warmth. Against the shadowed ceiling, I see a vision of myself hugging a baby Cookie three winters ago when she was shivering. She tried to make her way under my shirt at the time and was small enough to succeed. The scene shifts. I’m sneaking her extra food after she was scolded by mom. Then, I’m sneaking her medicine in some peanut butter and whispering reassurances during a thunderstorm. Fatherhood...maybe that’s all it ever really takes.

A small smile grows on my face.

I stare up at my ceiling fan. Disciple is part of it, too, I muse. I contemplate pushing Cookie out of bed entirely, just for the night, but....

I just don’t have the heart, or the spine. Or the...well, you know.