For the Love of Dog!

Dogs play an important role in the lives of my parents. They are valued above all else, including the house, cars, food and well…each other. The current canine residing with my parents is a giant black lab named Sheeba who parades throughout their modest home as though she is queen. Who can blame her? Even I am confused.

So, as my mother entered the hospital to embark upon a routine surgery, preparing for an overnight stay, the first natural question posed by my father was, “How long is this thing going to take? I have to let Sheeba out.”

“Uh…I’m not sure sir,” the anesthesiologist answered. He looked at my mother as if to say, “Is he kidding?”

He wasn’t.

The following morning as I journeyed to the hospital to retrieve my drug-ridden mother from her cramped room, I was already prepared for an earful about my father. The two of them are always at odds over something and situations resulting in stress only add oxygen to the already blazing flame.

“Do you know what your Dad did?” she asked from her hospital bed, angrily grabbing for her back brace.

I did. She had explained in detail throughout the course of three pain-killer induced phone calls the previous evening.

“What did Dad do, Mom?”

She relayed the story again, complaining about how he was never the person to count on in a crisis, how next time, she would certainly have my sister or me take her to the hospital and that the whole situation was just ridiculous. Somewhere in the middle of her rant, however, I noticed her eyes beginning to droop and I seized the opportunity.

“Would you like some coffee Mom?”

“Sure…iced tea. Give me an hour or so, though, I’m tired.”

An hour later I returned with two iced teas. By this time, my father had reappeared and was perched in the wooden, uncomfortable chair that was reserved for guests but designed to expedite visitation periods. He looked up at me asking, “Did you get my message? I wanted coffee.”

I had not. Still, I handed him my iced tea. He deserved it.

After all, Dad IS the man that you need in crises, just not health-related ones. As a teenager, when I wrecked my car, Dad was there. In my first apartment when a fuse blew, Dad drove over in the middle of the night. If a tree needs taken down, a thermostat fixed, a patio installed or a jungle-gym built, Dad is definitely your guy. Hospitals, on the other hand, make him nervous.

Like many people who talk when they’re nervous, he immediately explained how he couldn’t find the right prescriptions, how he had to make obligatory phone calls and that, of course, Sheeba needed walked. After hearing this last statement, I looked over at my mother who, had she not had a recent dose of Percocet, could probably manage a more convincing roll of her eyes.

“That reminds me,” he continued. “I think that the housekeeper forgot to shut the door to the bedroom.”

“Uh, oh,” Mom answered.

My father, sensing my question, explained, “Sheeba got a skunk again. I think she got on the bed.”

“In your bed? Why isn’t she outside?” I asked, completely and utterly disgusted.

“Well, it’s cold out. Also, she doesn’t smell that much anymore,” Dad explained getting a bit defensive.

I imagined Sheeba lying in their four poster bed, eating popcorn and watching Pay-Per-View. In fact, she was probably wearing a tiara and being waited upon by the other dogs from the neighborhood who were attracted by her pungent odor.

Dad continued,” She did have some mud on her paws. I gave her bath, but she really likes to run and it’s muddy out…”

“The dog is FINE!” my mother snapped, visibly irritated.

Soon after, we busted my mother out of the hospital. On the surface, I drove because my car is easier to get in and out of than my father’s SUV. Underneath, I drove to keep her from killing Dad.

As I opened the door to their home, Sheeba came bounding toward her, excitedly wagging her powerful tail and frantically sniffing my mother.

“Hellloooo doggieeee!” my mother cooed. “Hello baby? Did you miss me?”

She stumbled into the kitchen to retrieve a dog biscuit from the enormous glass cookie jar labeled, “Sheeba.” After digging inside, Mom pulled out a biscuit and tossed it into the air. Sheeba gobbled it up hungrily and perked up her ears.

I eyed the dog as if to say, “I know you…I know what you are up to…you DON’T FOOL me!” Then, I commanded, “Sheeba! Get down!”

“She’s okay,” my mother answered, giving me a look. She meandered to the back bedroom with the dog running eagerly behind.

Did Sheeba just flip me off with her tail?

I filled a plastic hospital cup with water and entered the back bedroom. Mom lay horizontally on the bed. Sheeba sat next to her on the floor, licking her fingers. I placed the water on the night table at which time Sheeba began to lick the cup.

“Ewwww! Sheeba! That’s not for you! Stop that!” I shouted.

My mom looked up and said, “Ohhhh…It’s okay, Kristen. My baby doggie is okay.”

“But she was drinking your water, Mom! Gross!”

“That’s okay,” she mumbled. Then, just before she entered a deep, dreamless slumber she shouted down the hallway to my father.

“Aren’t you going to let the dog out?”