It seems appropriate that Mother’s Day coincided with the anniversary of Muriel’s adoption this year, seeing as she’s probably the closest Crankenstein and I will ever get to having a child. One of the first things I learned about her, even before the shelter’s coordinator put me in touch with her foster mom, was that she adores kids and became hysterical when separated from the children of an adopter who quickly surrendered her after realizing he’d made a mistake.
We adopted her with the expectation she’d have human siblings soon enough, and sometimes I worry we’ve failed her by not providing the full family experience. Her life would be richer with children to chase and shepherd and guard, who’d nap with their sticky arms around her and slip her table scraps. Not long after we brought her home, Best Friend joked that soon we’d get a newborn and blame it on the dog: “Muriel needed a baby.” I sheepishly admitted it wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibility.
She’s not open to canine siblings or she’d have one by now, and we kick ourselves almost daily for not adopting the terrier puppy she bunked with in foster care. To the best of our knowledge, Charlie (as she was then known; by now she might be Fluffy or Elsa) was the only dog she’s ever liked. They were the odd girls out in their foster home, outnumbered five to two by the much larger, older and not particularly welcoming dogs who belonged to their temporary moms.
It would’ve cost $700 to adopt them together, plus all the extra veterinary, food and maintenance expenses. That and double the training demands seemed like too much to take on when I was still recovering from my latest clash with Crohn’s and Crankenstein was about to start her first attending job.* In the absence of kids or other pets to distract her, Muriel rarely leaves my side; as I write this she’s asleep beside me, her rump warming my hip.
Crankenstein calls us “a pack of two,” a reference to Carolyn Knapp’s book about the bond she forged with her dog; though Muriel’s also crazy about her other mom, ‘Niles’ greatly limits their relationship. I don’t particularly like being coated in saliva either, or trampled in fits of exuberance, but those are the things a dog must do and who will indulge her if I won’t?
Early tomorrow morning, as I move slowly and cautiously and Muriel, who wants to be obedient but struggles with impulse control, bucks and lunges and excitedly shoves me like Elaine Benes the second I reach for her leash, I will sigh and mutter “Dammit, Sadie,” which is Muriel’s government name.**
Then I’ll imagine a morning when she’s too old or incapacitated to almost knock me over, or that inevitable first morning without her breakfast pleas, when no well-worn leash with a beaten-up clasp hangs near the door. And again I’ll sigh and mutter “Dammit, Sadie,” my eyes maybe a little teary depending on the time of the month. Muriel won’t notice, though. She’ll be shaking with anticipation, poised to dart outside at full speed as soon as the storm door swings open, her eyes already scanning the yard for birds and squirrels and bunnies to chase, my mouth already forming the third “dammit” of the day only five minutes after shuffling downstairs.
Happy Mother’s Day to any mothers who might read this, with hopes that none of your kids peed in your gardens today or attempted to murder squirrels in your presence.
* We would’ve also needed to pad the canine emergency fund we saved (and kept separate from our regular emergency fund) prior to her adoption.
** Since we were her seventh home in seven months, we opted not to change the most recent name she’d been given. My grandmother was pleased we kept it, calling it a nice Jewish name.