Karen Zlotnick
To the Replacement Dog
If you’re reading this, it’s because you have been taken in by The Girl and her mother who are mourning the loss of me. There’s no reason for modesty here; I was an integral part of The Girl’s development and at least partial healing from Her illness. But Her journey is not complete, and you must take over where I’ve left off. I’ll be at peace once this message is delivered.
She might seem older, but The Girl is only fifteen, and since I’ve known Her, She has suffered from a problem with food. Never laugh at this, though at times it will seem ridiculous to you–with your voracious appetite for anything that smells louder than a lemon. Make no mistake: The Girl wants to eat, but She is afflicted with fear. It started years ago with anything that could melt (butter, chocolate, cheese), but it spidered into other areas: sticky foods (honey, barbecue sauce, marshmallows, gum), crunchy foods (which could cause teeth to shatter), and fruits that must be peeled (bananas, kiwis, oranges). While you are outside licking deer scat, She will be fighting the urge to call a glass of water “dinner.”
You are a Newfoundland Dog, same as I was. Our reputation is love. Our character is love. Our bones, our muscles, our jowls are love. The Girl’s mother believes that God might actually exist because the Newfoundland exists. The fact that we suffered trauma in our past lives and were placed in Rescue makes us even godlier in the mother’s eyes. The mother might be right.
However, your past is the past. Perhaps, like I was, you were beaten by an owner for having an accident in the house and thrown into the icy yard for days. Right now, let go of that experience, do what you can to control your bladder, and overcome the impulse to wince when you hear the rustle of a newspaper. Perhaps you were once “corrected” at night in thick silence, dragged by chokehold out the door and into the darkness, an owl in the oak your only witness. Immediately, you must let go of the urge to cower any time you see a flashlight. Perhaps in this despicable circumstance, a bone or two cracked and your young body is already signaling that arthritis will color the years ahead. You have no choice but to work through the pain of it. That’s simply the way it has to be. In your new role, you will experience nothing but safety and love. Your trauma will become inconsequential.
The Girl, She is everything. Silence on thunderous days, mist when the air is dry, a speck of green when the ground has frosted. She will spend hours studying you to understand your preferences: ear rubs that morph into a full face massage; peanut butter off a spoon, not on celery; warm water after meals; a slicker instead of a comb. She will whisper her directions: “Stay here, and I'll be right back,” and “Thank you for letting me know about the delivery, and you can stop barking now.” She will bake what She calls Shareables, a recipe She created with us in mind. It contains some of our favorites: carrots, sweet potatoes, a pinch of parmesan. Sit with her on the living room rug and pretend to watch reruns of New Girl while you nibble on the soggy crackers. Try not to drool on her pajama pants.
In turn, you must study Her–Her moods, Her rage, Her elation–and remind Her that She is the reason you exist, that without Her, it’s possible, you would have grown old under the care of well-intentioned folks who could only afford to make you a bed of shavings in a chain link kennel among other dumped Newfs whose breathsongs mimic sorrowful wails.
Pay attention. The Girl will need you when She gets off the phone with a boy named Dagger. Put your snout under Her elbow when She clutches the hair on either side of Her head. When storms roll in, She might resist taking you for a walk, but it will make Her laugh when you shake off the rainwater and drench Her clothes. On weekends, take in how proud She is to introduce you to young children in strollers, how She says to their parents, “Oh, the friendliest!” Once in a while (because this can get old), if you see She’s a little bored, steal Her yellow baby blanket off Her bed. Don’t ever chew it. Just carry it around the house like you’ve scored a prize. She might look at you sternly, but She won’t mean it.
Understand this: The Girl has a simple and also complicated life. Her father is long dead, and Her mother is lovely but broken. Occasionally, The Girl will be late getting off the bus, and in order to be let outside, you’ll have to nudge Her mother’s hand as it droops off the side of the bed. Her mother will not ever get angry with you for doing this, but you’ll see in her eyes that she is a disappointment to herself. Lean into her legs once you come back inside. She’ll appreciate the gesture.
The mother believes she has nothing else in her life beyond her daughter. (This is a lot of pressure on both of them.) Often when the daughter comes home, the mother will pop out of bed and make it look like she’s been fixing a snack plate for hours. She lives for the look on her daughter’s face when she places one slice of muenster cheese on a lightly toasted English muffin and the timing is so exact that She can eat it before it begins to melt. They joke that the mother can read Her mind.
Sometimes you’ll notice that The Girl is aware of Her mother’s suffering. Her mother will talk aimlessly about getting her act together, about getting a part-time job, about volunteering at a local rescue. The mother will say she is thankful for the money her husband left them, but she feels purposeless. When the mother’s sadness feels suffocating–you’ll know this because The Girl will tug at the skin on Her neck–lie down so that your face rests on The Girl’s feet and your tail is under Her mother’s legs. Simultaneously, they will call you Our Rock. In this moment, it is better to close your eyes with humility than to dance with pride.
If the deer scat makes you vomit, aim for the floor, not the carpet.
The Girl is fragile, a single standing vase in an aftershock. When Her mother gathers enough strength to host a backyard gathering in summer, there’s a risk that the cupcakes’ frosting will begin to liquify in the sun. Though you likely will overheat from this–July in New York is a Newf’s worst month–don’t just walk, run to Her as if both your lives depend on it. Beg to share a cupcake with Her. Spin in circles, whine through the sides of your lips, lift a front paw as Her relatives cheer you on. “Please stop begging,” The Girl will say. But the fact is, everyone will think you’re adorable. When She caves in and kneels down to share Her double vanilla, make sure you only take half. Beam with pride when She stops shaking and licks melted frosting off Her finger.
There will be other occasions when you must insist on sharing the food in front of Her. These are opportunities to model food joy. You see She’s paralyzed by a homemade cinnamon bun? Don’t underestimate the power of a Cupid Shuffle happy dance. The popcorn Her mother wants to share is extra crunchy? Paws to the left, to the left, to the left. Paws to the right, to the right, to the right.
In the wild our ancestor wolves learned to be stoic. Weakness meant being cut out of the pack, left to die on wintry plains. Our reason for stoicism is different, my friend. Her life depends on it. So, for as long as you can, do your best to hide the signs of your own aging. Drink when you’re not thirsty, take your Metacam religiously, greet the neighbor’s puppy with more enthusiasm than you believe you can muster.
When The Girl cries because your hind legs have splayed out for the second time in a day, wag your tail immediately after She gets you on your feet. When She gets up in the middle of the night to make sure you’re still breathing, offer a little snore, especially if you don’t have it in you to move. When the decision is made to say goodbye, lay your giant head in her lap, and with your giant heart, say to Her that this is right, that you know She’s letting you go, not for Her, but for you. Take your last earthly breath knowing you’ve been so well loved.
In the years leading up to that goodbye, take mental notes of the glorious life you have with Her. We Newfs are here for only so long, and the next letter will be yours to write.
Born and raised in New York, Karen Zlotnick lives in the Hudson Valley with her husband and their Newfoundland dog. Some of her work has been featured in Pithead Chapel, Typishly, jmww, Stonecoast Review, and Moon City Review. In addition, one of her stories was nominated for Best Small Fictions.
