Lucky

,                                                                     Photo cred: me for once

Like all good humans, I've had many pets. My history with them, though, is uneven at best. I probably got this trait from my mother, whose dogs didn't fare well under her callous, watchful eye and stone-cold heart-rock.

Blinky was first. His head moved and his tail wagged. He barked and walked a short distance. But when I pulled him down the sidewalk by his leash, showing him off, he often tipped over. He didn't mind being dragged on his side for blocks at at time, but the dealbreaker was that his batteries never lasted more than a couple weeks. Defective and disappointing. I grieved for a day then demanded a real dog, like a normal seven-year-old girl. 

My mother said no. She would be the only one in the family with a dog of her own, (no) thank you very much. 

So naturally, the minute I moved out from under her roof and into a two-bedroom, pet-friendly apartment, I got my own damn dog, (yes) thank you very much. The dog would even have her own room!

Her name was Daisy. Granted, I couldn't take care of myself, let alone an animal. But I didn't know that at the time and neither did Daisy. 

I did all the performative, good-dog-owner things. I even put pee pads in her bedroom. She didn't get the memo and relieved herself in all the other rooms. Day and night. 

For solace and support, I turned to my best friends: benzos. I had no shortage of prescription drugs, thanks to my easily-manipulated Dr. Kirkland. I own my choices but still wonder in hindsight if he knew exactly what he was doing.

Yet the drugs, over time, failed to quell my anxiety. I decided I needed a distraction. I applied and was accepted to grad school in journalism at USC. Miracles happen. Being in active addiction, it turns out, didn't prevent me from doing well in my classes. I got Bs, but did so looking pretty cute in my shirt-dresses sans bra. 'Twas the epoch. For those playing along at home, that's a B in school and an A in sartorial sexy, which is an A in my book! 

I stayed busy for a couple years, floating, doing, avoiding. Meanwhile, Daisy wasn't thriving. I didn't have time to walk her and was wracked with guilt which made me take more benzos. As graduation approached and the pressure to line up a job mounted, I coped by employing myriad life skills in my toolkit. Just kidding. I took more benzos.   

Now remember, I was the girl who was not allowed in the kitchen to make a fucking peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich. So when the time came to get on a plane to a very important (life or death, clearly) job interview for an on-camera journalism job, I missed the flight. I had taken an unprecedented number of pills the night before, nailing my life-dismount and self-sabotage skills, courtesy of Dr. Kirkland (and me).

Goodbye, Barbara Walters. Hello, Amy Winehouse. 

My promising career in journalism evaporated that day. I chose the path of least persistence. My parents looked the other way, continuing to send me money so long as I didn't disrupt their curated lives with inconvenient drama.

I stayed in that apartment, curtains drawn, lights mostly off, with my not-housebroken dog for years. My primary exercise was lifting a hand to my mouth to take pills. I watched day-time TV. Years later, Daisy became blind, fell off a sidewalk and died ten feet from me. It wasn't my fault but I sure thought it was. I sobbed as I scooped her up, but this was LA so no one broke stride as they walked on by. 
​  
I stayed Amy Winehouse for many years.  I wasn’t dead but I wanted to be...albeit not until I got to my ideal weight of 120 pounds. I was always very practical. 

Flash forward many decades. I had tried pets again—Cookie, Mollie, Bruno, how I loved thee—all perfectly imperfect. As I approached my 80th birthday, though, I wanted a special dog with no batteries or puppy challenges.

Sober and tapping into my heretofore untapped perfectionism, I perused 400 doggie magazines. When I saw THE ONE, his eyes bore directly into my soul. "Howie" was speaking to me, right off the page. Bow wow,  Ruff, ruff. How much? I contacted the owner posthaste. 

The owner was adamant that Howie was not the right dog for me.

I rebelled. 

"I’m never wrong about anything, especially animals! I want Howie!" Was my voice elevated and slightly panicked? Sure. Did he acquiesce, sensing my desperation. Absolutely. But not in the way I expected. 

"I have a better match for you. I'm certain of it. He's a flawless specimen: a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel." 

"I doubt it."

"Trust me," he said, smugly. 

He texted a photo. As a good Jew, I never surrender. But surrender I did. I melted. I named him Lucky. He would be my perfect dog, my sentient companion.

To this day, his snoring soothes me.

Perfection is overrated. Lucky finally taught me an invaluable lesson, allowing me to love my sad-ass, flawed self...because he sure does. And that's enough for me. At last.