The GrandPuppy
“The Dandie Dinmont is a gorgeous-looking and very affectionate terrier,” Karen Lipschitz shared with Morris, her husband, her online research on mid-sized dogs. “Their enormous black eyes marvellously stand out against the background of their brownish coats. Originally from Scotland, the breed is named after a character in one of Walter Scott’s novels.”
“But what do we need a dog for?” Morris bluntly challenged his wife. “We live on the eighth floor of a condo building, and a puppy will beg for food whenever we are having a meal. It’ll whine and whimper when it wants to sit on the sofa, beside us. Frankly, I really don’t want to wake up hours before dawn, just to take a pup out for a pee!”
“I’ll take care of the little one day and night,” Karen retorted. “All I’m asking you to do is to look after the pooch on Tuesday afternoon, when I have my art history lectures. Other than that, I’ll be glad to take our pet out, I’ll feed it, play with it, drive it to the vet – everything, in short! You won’t have to move a finger. You darn well know why I crave a grandpuppy!”
Indeed he knew. Marvin and Chester, their thirty-something sons, were unmarried, and their parents’ chances of ever holding a grandchild in their arms were nil. Marvin was gay and like his life partner he was a library assistant earning a few dollars above minimum wage; he had no intention of ever adopting a child.
And Chester? His chances of ever adopting a child were even slimmer than his brother’s. The Lipschitzs’ younger son had studied six years at York University, but had no bachelor of arts degree under his belt. And the only thing he had to show for was Down The Drain, a slim, self-published volume of poetry his family and friends deemed incomprehensible. Chester eked out a very modest living as a cashier in a health food store. His parents didn’t feel he was established enough to be a father and the head of a small family. Karen and Morris heaved melancholy sighs as they admitted to having no nakhes foon kinder – no satisfaction derived from watching their sons succeed as doctors, physicists, or professors, who beget children as accomplished as their parents.
On the Internet Karen found out that Gwen Stewart, one of the few breeders of Dandies in Ontario, lived on a farm, near Guelph. “Dandies are a rare breed,” Gwen told Karen over the phone, “and I won’t sell you a puppy unless I meet, in person, with you, your husband, and your children.”
“Yes, Mrs. Stewart,” Karen self-effacingly replied. “My husband and I will be glad to have an interview with you. But our children are in their thirties, and no longer live with us.”
A long silence followed, as Gwen seemed to be pondering what she’d just heard. “Have you ever owned a dog before,” she asked. “No,” Karen replied, her voice apologetic and unassertive. “But,” she raised her voice, “I’ve plenty of free time on my hands and tons of love in my heart.”
The women agreed to meet in a week. Karen was so excited that for days she spoke only about owning a beautiful Dandie and loving it unconditionally. “I want a female,” she declared. “I’ve had enough males in my life: you Morris, Marvin, and Chester. Now I’ll have the little girl I’ve wanted ever since I attended kindergarten.”
On the day the Lipschitzs drove to Guelph, Karen insisted that Morris wear his best casual shirt, pants, and shoes. “We must look relaxed, vigorous, forward-looking, and empathetic,” Karen declared. “And to compensate for never owning a dog before, we must radiate a caring and loving attitude. And,” she paused deliberately, “don’t let me do all the talking, Morris! Speak up! Show enthusiasm! Prove to Gwen Stewart that you too are just dying to own a Dandie and take loving care of her.”
It took a lot of driving in the countryside until the prospective owners of a Dandie found Gwen’s farm house. Karen rang the bell, and instructed Morris to pull his pants up, so as to camouflage his sizeable beer belly. When the door opened, a tall, slim woman with short black hair introduced herself as Gwen Stewart, then asked her intimidated visitors to step inside her home. Morris suspected Gwen was intensely scrutinizing her elderly guests, her gaze as piercing as if she were a psychiatrist assessing whether he and his wife were sane and competent individuals.
Even before the door closed behind the aspiring owners of a Dandie, they heard dogs barking upstairs. “It’s our Dandies,” Gwen unapologetically explained. “I’ll bring them down later on.” Gwen and her guests savoured cups of tea and homemade scones that made Karen think of an English, mid-afternoon garden party going on. In a motherly but resolute voice Gwen said she was looking for a good home for a young female Dandie, then asked about her guests’ background. “I’m a retired teacher of English,” Karen announced, “one reason why a breed named after a character in a novel has, in my eyes, a lot of appeal.”
“And I worked as an engineer for forty years,” Morris introduced himself. “Now that I’ve retired, I have time to do volunteer work and take care of my collection of stamps. Collecting stamps has been my hobby since grade-school years.” Smiling, he sat up, pleased with his participation in the conversation.
Gwen eyed Morris at length, evidently estimating his capacity to care for one of her darlings. She then turned to Karen. “Raising a Dandie in a condo, on the eighth floor, is difficult. It’s much easier when you own a house with a backyard, and the pup isn’t the first dog you’ve ever owned.”
Karen explained, in detail, how a Dandie would be her grandpuppy, since her sons were unlikely to have children in the years ahead. “We’re elderly Jews, and holding a grandchild in our arms would have meant a lot to us.”
Morris was quite surprised at his wife revealing so much about herself and her family to a total stranger. Was that the fabled solidarity of women that led his wife to open up and reveal more, much more, than was necessary, he wondered. “Is Karen soliciting sympathy from a stranger?” he worried.
Gwen took a bite from her scone, then laid it to rest on a dainty white plate. “I’m bringing down my treasures,” she declared in a matter-of-fact voice as she stood up and walked out of the room. Soon Karen and Morris heard dogs barking and barrelling down the wooden stairs. Two adult dogs and a puppy rushed into the living room, romping this way and that, their heads held high, as they sniffed and sniffed, apparently to estimate the strangers’ strengths and limitations.
“This one is Dazzle, a Dandie, and my husband’s dog,” Gwen said as she pointed at the largest dog in the room. “And this one,” her finger pointed out, “is Scarlet, my own Dandie. We have temporarily called the lovely pup Pinkie. But you can have her,” Gwen announced. “I’ve come to the conclusion that Karen will take very good care of a Dandie.”
“And how much is your price for it?” asked Morris. He could feel Karen’s eyes boring holes in his heart and chest because of the mercenary question he’d just asked.
“Two thousand dollars,” Gwen replied unflappably. “She comes with a certificate of pedigree.”
“Two thousand dollars?” Morris raised his voice. Two thousand?
Looking dignified, Gwen stood up. “I’ll leave the two of you alone, to talk things over.” She eyed Morris as she declared, “I don’t ever bargain about my Dandies!”
“Why did you create a scene?” Karen asked her husband once they were by themselves. “You embarrassed me!”
“Two thousand dollars,” Morris confronted his wife. “Martin Glatt, my old friend, paid six hundred and fifty bucks for a four-months old, white Lab! We live on fixed income, Karen! Owning a Dandie is way beyond our means!”
“And I’m telling you we’re lucky that Gwen approved of us as owners of her puppy,” Karen fired back. “As for its price, you always whine, ‘We can’t afford! We can’t afford! We can’t afford!’ whenever I buy anything that costs more than twenty dollars. We live off two good pensions plus government allowances, Morris! We certainly can afford a Dandie!” After a brief silence Karen forcefully announced, “I’m determined to own and raise a Dandie. And I already have a name for her: Molly, like the character in Joyce’s Ulysses, an inspiring name for a pedigreed pooch. And if we buy a puppy, I won’t be buying any new clothes or shoes for two years, and I’ll be reading only books I’ve borrowed from the public library. Relax, Morris, we won’t starve! Owning and raising a Dandie is an investment in our happiness. She’ll bring us a lot of nakhess, a lot of personal satisfaction.”
“Two thousand dollars,” Morris moaned, as if a boulder were crushing his chest and throat.
Karen called Gwen back into the room. Puckering his lips, Morris mentioned out loud each word and number in the cheque he was writing, to vent his dissatisfaction with the exorbitant price of a Dandie.
Once inside the Lipschitz’s home, Molly went in and out of all rooms and washrooms, all the while sniffing and sniffing nervously. “She’s used to playing in a large backyard and feels hemmed-in in our condo.” Karen summed up Molly’s condition confidently, as if she’d for decades owned dog after dog. “Eventually Molly will get used to living in a condo,” commented Morris, who preferred simple, plain, and easy solutions to all problems, however complex or subtle.
Karen took Molly out to pee every two hours, but in a few days yellow little puddles glistened on the floors of their living room and kitchen. To cope with the challenge, Karen began taking her Dandie outdoors every hour and a half. As the pup was incontinent to urine — Karen’s words — she set the alarm clock for two a.m. and nightly carried Molly out of their condo building, to prevent discouraging accidents.
“You’re not training the dog,” Morris commented irritably. “Molly is shaping your behaviour. You capitulate to her demands and allow her to be the master you obey and follow. These days your life revolves around Molly’s bladder!”
“I resent your referring to Molly as ‘the dog,’” Karen asserted. “Molly is a member of our family! In her enormous black eyes I read the beauty of sadness, and the sadness of beauty! But you Morris seem determined to turn her into a mechanical, lifeless piece of machinery.”
“But we can’t go on living like that,” Morris talked back angrily. “Molly keeps chewing and chewing at our rugs, and you and I live like temporary guests in our own home. Our floors are bare, and everywhere I look I see dog toys. And you Karen feel too tired to make the beef and mushrooms stew I like so much. Our life these days revolves on Molly’s incontinence — a new word in my vocabulary!” “In a month or two Molly will stop peeing indoors,” Karen confidently prophesied. “And if you’re not satisfied with my cooking, why don’t you prepare our meals? Your sacred collection of stamps will survive, intact, even if you spend a few hours each day cooking and cleaning the kitchen.”
“But what about intimacy, Karen?” He now turned to his wife gently. “These days you look so tired that I don’t dare to approach you. I miss the warmth and the closeness we’ve experienced for decades.”
Karen lifted her chin. “I knew that sooner or later sex would be an issue! What do you expect me to do, uh? Do it right now, with clothes on and standing up, to save time? Let’s have it, then! Your whining is something I can’t take!” “I object to ‘whining,’” Morris erupted. “You treat me like a dog, while Molly is the recipient of your unlimited affection. No room for me. Newspapers, magazines, and books are strewn everywhere I look, and in the kitchen plates, pots, and pans are crowding the sink and counters.”
Karen waved her forefinger at her husband. “You want our condo to look as neat and tidy as an art gallery! But I’m not your mother, and it’s unfair to expect our home to be clean and tidy when I’m so busy with Molly. Gwen said that puppies grow fast, their bladders get bigger, and in a few months their incontinence is under control.”
“I’ve this obnoxious creature up to here!” Morris commented as he forcefully slid his extended forefinger across his throat, as if he were slashing it with a knife.
On Tuesdays afternoon Morris grudgingly looked after Molly. As his wife had stipulated, he took out what she called “the little one” to pee every hour and a half. It felt like an interminable task for Molly to walk along the corridor, from the door to their apartment all the way to the elevator. She objected to the walking and, instead, she vigorously scratched her back on the corridor’s carpeted floor, as if to obtain relief from a tormenting itch.
Morris experienced a lot of difficulties leading the pooch by its leash because it was exceedingly stubborn: she dug in her heels and refused to take a single step forward. He begged, he pulled the leash hard, he even held toys slathered with cheddar cheese inches away from Molly’s nose — all to no avail. No matter how hard Morris tried, what he called “the pest” wouldn’t walk down the corridor to the elevator’s door. More humiliated than angry, a disgruntled Morris one day picked Molly up from the floor and carried her all the way out to their street’s sidewalk. Nothing happened outdoors either. The pup, as unpredictable as always, insisted on peeing only on her terms, and Morris grumbled that Molly was driving him mad.
And while Molly seemed to deliberate whether to pee or not to pee, Morris encountered other dogs on a leash, strolling beside their owners. These obedient pets approached Molly and sniffed at her mouth and genitals. Molly, however, behaved fearfully and reciprocated other dogs’ friendliness only when Morris used brutal force to get her to sniff and play with other pooches.
Though Morris had never heard of the word “libertarian” and was entirely unaware of the debate about free will versus determinism – he did ascribe unlimited free will to Molly. He didn’t view what he called “Karen’s dog,” as a creature governed, at least in part, by innate instincts and brain mechanisms. Oh no, he was convinced that his wife’ darling acted premeditatedly, so as to humiliate and exhaust him. By acting rebelliously, Molly was out to drive Morris mad and keep Karen to herself only.
The pooch, in Morris’ eyes, was mean, conniving, and manipulative. He regarded her as an evil to be rid of as soon as his wife realized how inalterable were Molly’s schemes and machinations. One reason Morris resented Molly immensely was that Karen, now at the end of her rope, seemed exhausted the whole day; she slept poorly, and looked tired and stressed out. He ascribed the continual messes in the kitchen and the living room to Karen’s over-involvement with a mulishly stubborn creature.
One Tuesday afternoon, as Morris took Molly out, he became emotionally engrossed in a dealer’s offer to pay twenty thousand dollars for his entire stamp collection, as is. The deal was not only lucrative; it also validated Morris’ philatelic skills and talents. But as a delighted Morris pondered the merits of the offer, he noticed that he’d let go of Molly’s leash. Where was Molly, he panicked as he peered all around anxiously.
In a brief while he caught sight of the little devil trotting down the sidewalk, dragging the leather leash along the grey pavement. “Molly!” he cried out imploringly and ran along the sidewalk, fearing that Karen would feel devastated if anything bad ever happened to the puppy his wife unconditionally adored. Soon Molly came to a halt, then turned right ad crossed the street. Morris heard wheels screech as a white truck came to an abrupt stop. Molly continued her stroll, flouting the commotion she was creating. The truck driver, however, stuck his head out of the truck’s window and hollered at Morris, “What’s the matter with you, old man? Are you trying to get your dog killed?”
Morris ignored the truck driver and crossed the street. Loudly calling, “Molly! Molly!” he hurried after the unruly little demon. A young man on the sidewalk realized the danger Molly was in, so he ran after the puppy and vigorously stepped on its leash. A panting Morris thanked the young man profusely, then picked up the leash lying on the ground. He lifted the insouciant pooch up and held her in his arms, looking this way and that before crossing the street. He resolved never to tell Karen about the incident, fearing she would be horribly upset if he admitted to letting go of Molly for a brief moment or two. One evening Karen was sitting on the floor a few steps from the sofa where her husband was seated and reading Time magazine. She held Molly in her lap and smoothed her fur with a brush, then combed her with an aluminium comb. Though Gwen had recommended to brush and comb the puppy’s coat twice a week, Karen did it every night, to enjoy her puppy’s surrender to the brush, comb, and owner. Molly kept her eyes closed, as if to intensify the pleasure she was experiencing. Karen whispered in her dog’s ear, but loud enough for Morris to hear, “You’re my Scottish princess, and I love you dearly! Grandpa Morris slaps or kicks you whenever you nip people, but he too loves you, his own way. Once you stop biting people, he’ll become your loving grandpa and shower affection on you.”
Once, as Karen was brushing the pup’s paws, she bent her head down, to tell her beloved pet a secret: “Starting tomorrow, before we go on a stroll, granny will apply a special cream to your feet.” She then whispered into Molly’s ear, “We girls need creams and lotions, don’t we? They make our skins grow moist and soft, and we feel pleased with the way our lives are unfolding.”
Morris lowered his magazine and cried out loud, “You’re infatuated with the dog, Karen. Your mad love isn’t good for you or for Molly. And what will happen to you if Molly becomes ill?”
“What’s the problem?” Karen scooped up Molly in her arms and kept the puppy’s head close to her heart. “If Molly is sick I’ll drive her to the vet!”
“I’m worried about you, Karen,” Morris commented. “The dog is just fine. But you need to relax, woman, otherwise the stress you’re under will make you ill. You and I need to get away and spend a week in a spa.”
“And where would we leave Molly?”
“In a kennel, of course!” He sounded triumphant, as if he’d just won a debate with his wife. “She’ll be alright in an animal hospital. It’s you, Molly, who needs a break from the incorrigible carpet wetter.” “You have no right to call Molly names,” Karen angrily yelled. “Your ‘carpet wetter’ phrase hurt my feelings! Okay, okay! She’s not housebroken yet! But instead of acting so high-mindedly, why don’t you have a good time playing with her? She needs two grandparents, not only one.”
Morris picked up his magazine, he leaned his back against the sofa, and pretended to be reading. He resented what he called, “the madness unfolding right before my eyes.”
At dinnertime one evening, Morris noticed that his wife’s nose was red and swollen. “Molly nipped me when I was playing with her,” she conceded sheepishly.
“Nipped?” shouted Morris. “It was an attack! She bit you ferociously! Your dog is very disturbed!” “Molly is perfectly alright,” Karen retorted. “It was my fault that she got a little excited.”
“A little excited?” Morris cried out. “She mauled you! She bit me once, but I slapped her quite hard, something you never do, and she never bit me again. She’s sick, your puppy,” Morris blurted out, “and a vet would testify that she’s is dangerous, and unlikely to change her ways.”
“You hate Molly,” Karen blared out. “Just because my nose is a little red you’ve used horrendous words to refer to my darling.” “Cut out your massive denial, woman! That critter is mad! The way she’s acting we may have to euthanize her!”
“Kill her? You, Morris, are the crazy one! And I’m not sending her to the gas chambers. Only a Nazi would think of that!”
“We don’t necessarily have to put her to sleep. Let’s return Molly to Gwen. She’s a professional breeder and knows how to deal with dysfunctional puppies.”
“Over my dead body!” Karen shrieked. “I’m not sending my darling to any treatment facility anywhere in the world. I’ll see her through this minor crisis.”
“Minor crisis?” Morris cocked his head. “Molly is a danger to you, to me, to humanity!” “Just give her time to recover, and I’ll calm her down,” Karen proposed. You have nothing to fear when you take her out to pee. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.”
“Mean, you said? Your dog bites viciously, she doesn’t play with other dogs, she chews at her front paws, she — ”
“That’s enough!” Karen shrieked. “You talk as if Molly were your worst enemy. I won’t have it!” She smoothed her temple with her fingers. “You,” she pointed a finger at her husband, “you’re the one that must control himself.” “If your deranged pup ever bites me again I’ll kick her more than once.” “She’s a lovely girl, Morris. You may not like her, but there is nothing nasty or dangerous about Molly.”
One Tuesday Morris took Molly to pee an hour and a half after a previous outing.
While outdoors Morris allowed Molly to sniff at the ground, and she playfully chewed at fallen leaves and twigs. He waited, in suspense, for the pet to do what he expected of her, but his prayers came to nothing. After deliberating briefly he lifted Molly off the ground and carried her all the way to the elevator inside their apartment building.
Once inside the living room Morris felt sleepy and decided to take a nap. He undressed, lay in bed and covered himself with the duvet he nightly shared with his wife. He patiently waited to fall asleep, but sleep seemed to be boycotting him. He rolled out of bed, intent on making a cup of fresh, hot tea to calm himself down. He blamed Molly for his agitation and decided to tell his wife that since he profoundly resented her so-called princess, he would no longer be looking after her on Tuesdays. “Let Karen take care of her own problems,” he angrily told himself, then decided he would no longer be looking after Molly on Tuesdays.
A stench, however, assaulted Morris’s nostrils. He strode over to Molly, who was in the living room, peacefully resting on her belly and chin. About a foot from her, on an area rug, he noticed three little turds and a wet stain. Molly was calmly staring at Morris, as if what his wife called “an accident,” had never happened.
Rage came over Morris. “A monster,” he blurted out, “a teaser, and Satan in disguise!” And the longer he looked at Molly, the more entitled to his rage he felt. How dared that abominable, diminutive monster look so pleased with herself, so peaceful and smug?
He walked over to Molly and furiously kicked her. The puppy rolled over, then yelped in pain and desperation. Soon she sounded like a meowing cat, and that impersonation somehow infuriated Morris to no end. He bent down, and with two hands grabbed the neck of the animal he hated passionately. Panting, Morris strangled the animal he wanted out of his life. Her black eyes stared at him impassively, as if she somehow had accepted her fate. Molly soon stopped breathing, and turned into a lifeless carcass.
Heart thumping, Morris realized he’d killed the puppy his wife loved deeply. “In God’s name,” he cried out loudly, “what have I done? And how will Karen react?” He feared she would weep uncontrollably, then hate him and what he’d done. How could he possibly explain to his wife that he’d killed what she adored? To calm down, he laid the still lukewarm corpse on its oval bed, her head leaning against its rim, as if Molly were asleep.
With paper towels and vinegar he cleaned and dried up the little rug Molly had stained. Out of habit he turned on the television, but his mind was blank, and he couldn’t follow what the characters on screen were saying. A short while later he tried to read the newspaper, but it felt like the printed words were dancing provocatively and separating him from the text. “Am I going mad,” he fearfully asked himself.
By now Morris was convinced that the late Molly was outright disturbed; his wife’s infatuation with her pooch, had always struck him as an immense exaggeration of sorts. That he, his wife, and the puppy might have been crazy, each in his or her own way, discouraged Morris to no end.
Thinking about Molly and his wife made him very fearful. He hated tears and emotional scenes and dreaded that there would be endless turmoil and recriminations that he’d have to live with for many month, perhaps indefinitely.
He experienced some relief when he sat, eyes closed, in his favourite armchair in the living room, and breathed slowly, very slowly, and through the nose. To his chagrin he heard the front door being unlocked and Karen twitter, “Molly! Molly! Where are you, princess? Granny is back from her lecture.”
Seconds later, a howl pierced Morris ears. “Molly, my love, what happened?” A silence followed, then Karen exploded, “Morris! Where are you, you bastard?”
He stepped into the living room, where his wife was sitting on the floor, holding dead Molly as if she were a live infant. Tears were streaming down her wrinkled cheeks but Karen seemed indifferent to them. “Morris,” she looked up at her husband, “what happened?” As he said nothing, she lovingly laid Molly’s corpse on her little bed. Then she shouted, “Morris! What have you done? Why did you murder my lovely girl?”
He drew closer. “Why don’t you stand up? We can talk.”
“Talk?” she shrieked. “What’s there to talk about now that you destroyed what I loved with all my heart?”
He showed both palms to wife. “I didn’t mean to. She peed, there was pooh on the floor. I got very upset and didn’t know what came over me. I — ” “You murdered my grandpuppy!” Karen lifted Molly’s corpse and pressed it against her chest. “You Sadist! Nazi! Murderer! In cold blood you destroyed what I loved to no end!”
Morris had no idea how to appease his wife. How could he possibly explain what he’d done? Perhaps Karen was right: he’d acted madly. And how could he, now a bundle of worries and regrets, comfort his wife after he’d killed what she’d loved no less than her sons?
A while later Karen drove the dead puppy to the vet’s office and asked him to arrange a burial for Molly. “No,” she declared, “I’m too upset to take part in a funeral.” She went home and despite Morris’ protestations she packed a suitcase, and then took a cab to a nearby hotel. She ignored his phone calls. The next day the lawyer representing Karen called Morris to tell him that his wife had decided to end their marriage. Desperate for Karen’s company, feeling dreadfully lonesome and abandoned, Morris left message after message at her hotel, begging her to meet with him. She didn’t respond, Karen, and days later he received a letter from her attorney informing Morris that he was to communicate with his client in writing only, through the lawyer’ office.
Morris now hated Molly more than ever. Even from its grave the little fiend was in control of Karen’s life and his too! And whenever he thought of how he’d killed Molly, he felt sorry for his wife, but experienced mild remorse for what he’d done. Though relieved that Molly no longer was part of his life, he furiously resented the puppy for putting an end to a lukewarm, loveless, mostly shallow but tolerable marriage.
