Drinking from the Trough Read online

  My rejection was a year-long reprieve: I’d be able to teach school without struggling to keep up with pre-med science classes. I’d have more time to exercise and to ride horses. I’d have time to enjoy my first year of marriage—Earl and I had been married for only a month when my rejection letter arrived. I’d reapply for admission the following year, but in the meantime . . .

  In the meantime, Earl and I decided to get a puppy.

  This wasn’t an impulsive decision. We’d always known that we wanted a dog; it was just a matter of timing.

  And now, we had the gift of time, thanks to the vet school rejecting my application for admission.

  We even had a name picked out. We both loved Hawaii. We’d honeymooned there and, all told, spent eleven vacations in the islands. I joked that Earl worked so hard that the only way to make him relax and not think about work was to get him off the continent—hence, vacations in Hawaii.

  Kelly is one of my favorite names, so we chose a Hawaiian name that reflected that: Kelani, Keli for short.

  The timing was right for another reason too. Earl’s job included tending the greyhounds at the racetrack most nights, leaving me home alone. I enjoyed being outside at night, and I wanted the company and protection a dog would afford.

  We had a name, and we had the time. What kind of dog should we get?

  Maybe a Siberian husky? My sister, Natalie, had owned several, and they were a lot of fun. Huskies are beautiful, athletic, friendly, silly, outgoing, enthusiastic, loving, and happy to meet people. They don’t bark much, if at all; they sing. (There are some fine examples of singing huskies online, like “Husky Dogs Singing Gwen Stefani” on YouTube.)

  They’re also stubborn, hardheaded, and furious diggers. They’ll excavate an entire yard unless they have a specific area where they’re allowed to dig, such as their dog pen. Huskies will take advantage of any opportunity to escape and run—and they run fast.

  So they’re not for everyone, but Earl and I felt confident we were up to the challenges. In December, we heard about a reputable breeder named Donna and contacted her.

  Time was on our side again: we wanted a female puppy, and Keli was the only female in a litter of five that had been born just a few weeks earlier, in November.

  As Earl and I chatted with Donna, a curious five-week-old puppy trotted into the room, investigating these newcomers.

  Earl and I were astonished—and smitten. Keli was a strikingly gorgeous black-and-white pup. Her mask (the amount and pattern of white on the forehead) was a cloverleaf, my favorite pattern. She had one blue eye and one brown eye with a spot of blue in it called a “marble eye.” Odd-eyed huskies can be show dogs—the eye color is simply a normal variation for huskies, not a sign of a mixed breed—but either way, it was fine; we weren’t interested in dog shows. Besides, between our horse, Marcie, and this pup, they had one pair of brown eyes and one pair of blue, so everything matched up just fine.

  I scooped her up from the floor and promptly got a face washing and a strong whiff of puppy breath. Yish! I am always surprised by how many people love to sniff puppy breath. I’m not one of them!

  Keli was too young to bring home yet, so after Earl gave her a physical exam and pronounced her healthy, we gave Donna—who promised to begin calling our puppy Keli—a deposit and headed home.

  I wanted Keli to stay with her mother until she was seven weeks old so she’d be properly socialized with other dogs and people. That gave us two weeks to prepare ourselves and puppy-proof the house.

  Huskies shed nonstop, so we focused on our kitchen and family room, the two rooms Keli would have access to. We picked up anything she’d be able to reach and get into her mouth. Shoes went into the closet; coats, onto the coat rack; miscellaneous clutter, where it belonged. Our family room had never been so tidy!

  We put up baby gates in the kitchen and then spread newspaper on a section of the kitchen floor for paper training, a precursor to going outside for toilet time. We emptied the local pet stores of puppy toys and chew sticks, collars, leashes, and dog tags. We used an old saddle blanket for her first dog bed. We bought and read books on huskies, books on dog behavior, and magazines dedicated to Siberian huskies. We even set up her first veterinary appointment with a colleague of Earl’s, a fine dog vet, to vaccinate and deworm her and check her out so we’d have a second opinion about what an excellent puppy she was.

  Finally, the day to bring Keli home arrived. Earl’s mother, Beverley, was visiting us, and since Earl had to work, Bev joined me for the drive. Donna’s house was well north of town, and the closer we got, the more excited I became.

  Donna welcomed us in, and the three of us stood around chatting for a bit, even though all I wanted to do was retrieve Keli. Finally, I paid the balance due, and we drove home.

  That is, Beverley drove. There was no way on earth I could pay attention to the dicey winter conditions on those country roads with my beautiful new puppy in the car. I sat in the passenger seat of the Javelin and fussed over Keli. Keli sat either on my lap or on the car mat at my feet, wriggling and wiggling. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Usually, I get carsick if I’m not looking out the window, but not this time. Every cell in my body was reveling in the excitement of bringing Keli home.

  The first few nights, neither Earl nor I got much sleep. Keli, separated from her mom and littermates for the first time, wailed and yipped, keeping us both awake. But she settled into her new home fairly quickly, figuring out the places she was allowed to be in the house and yard, as well as the new people she now owned.

  Keli introduced me to worlds I’d never known before, beginning with the rollicking fun of puppy kindergarten. Class was once a week in the evenings.

  Huskies are a very stubborn breed, and for husky puppies, kindergarten is crucial. It provides an environment where they can focus on their human partners, learning to override their instincts to run away and also learning to follow, instead of ignore, commands.

  Getting accepted into kindergarten almost didn’t happen.

  Our instructor was Clarice “Claire” Rutherford who, with David H. Neil, had written the defining book on puppy training, How to Raise a Puppy You Can Live With. She didn’t want to admit Keli; the class was nearly full, and Keli was a little too young to begin training. But early training is an absolute necessity for a husky puppy, I argued, and the next puppy class was months off. I felt like an overbearing New York trophy wife demanding that the prestigious preschool admit her off-spring before she ever got pregnant, but in the end, I prevailed. Claire even signed my copy of her book, which became my new dog bible. I still have it, now worn to tatters.

  Kindergarten was delightful, with different breeds and mixed breeds of pups in various stages of development. Keli was by far the youngest puppy in the class. As she and her classmates learned, I learned too. There’s a real method for properly teaching puppies to obey the commands of sit, wait, stay, and down.

  My Keli was the class model one evening for the down lesson. I was so proud—she did it perfectly. That was the lesson where I learned that Keli would do just about anything for a tiny corner of a Kraft cheese slice and a high-pitched, sing-songy, “Thank you!”

  Our last class was on February 28, 1983, the same night that the final episode of the long-running TV show M*A*S*H* aired. This was before VCRs and DVDs; there was no way to record shows, so if you missed it, you missed it. By unanimous consensus, class ended early so we could be home in time for the show.

  I clasped Keli’s graduation certificate close to my heart. In my mind, she was the valedictorian of puppy kindergarten. I was as proud as any mother could be, confident that my brilliant and beautiful pup was exceptionally obedient and well-trained.

  We strolled home in the crisp, fragrant winter night, past the college dormitories. A handful of students was outside, blowing off steam by jumping into a huge pile of leaves leftover from fall. I let Keli join in the play, delighted to watch her making friends and having fun. She dove deep into
the leaves and tunneled her way through, nothing visible but her wagging tail.

  I felt lighter than air as we headed for home. I framed her graduation certificate while watching the final episode of M*A*S*H* and hung it in a place of honor on the family room wall.

  Keli was still too young to run; we wouldn’t start running until she was twelve months old. So for the time being, we walked every-where—in the neighborhood, at the park, up in the foothills—all the while practicing what she’d learned in puppy kindergarten.

  I discovered that she loved car rides too. All I had to say was “Go for ride?” and Keli would sail into my Volkswagen Super Beetle. It didn’t matter where we were going; she was ready for any kind of trip. She sat straight up in the passenger seat. Other drivers would grin when they saw my fine passenger.

  She proved to be excellent company, and I enjoyed hiking with her alone. When we went out, strangers would say hello, admire my magnificent pup, ask what her name was, and talk to me about their own pets. The most common question they asked was if Keli was a wolf.

  Huskies may look like wolves, but they’re useless as watchdogs. With their friendly, outgoing personalities and boundless energy, they’re more likely to join in the fun than chase off a bad guy. If a burglar broke in and a husky could speak English instead of canine, it would meet the bad guy at the door with a grin, tail wagging, and say with great enthusiasm, “May I lead you to the good silver, sir?” or “Hold your flashlight for you while you search for Mom’s jewelry?”

  Keli was no exception. She was lying on the kitchen floor one day when a workman knocked at the door and came in. Keli turned her head, looked the newcomer up and down, sighed, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

  So she wasn’t a guard dog by any means, but I never felt afraid walking with my wolf-look-alike dog, even at night. Friendly conversations with nice people focused on puppies, not robbery, and I thoroughly enjoyed chatting with the folks we met along our walks.

  The fall before Keli joined our family, I’d finished reapplying to vet school. I was annoyed that I had to totally reapply, repeating everything I had done the year before. It was the institutional hoop-jumping machine at work. But I had to do it if I wanted to be admitted.

  The application involved massive paperwork—no personal computers, stored databases, or saved electronic files in the early 1980s, just the chore of using a manual typewriter and carbon paper. I sighed. Why couldn’t the admissions committee have saved my stuff from the year before and just moved it from the “no way” to the “try again” pile?

  I submitted the application in November and turned my attention to teaching physical education to four- to twelve-year-olds at the country school east of town and enjoying adventures with our new puppy. It would be spring before I heard back from the admissions committee.

  The letter arrived in April, just over a month after Keli’s graduation from puppy kindergarten.

  I looked at the neatly printed addresses on the envelope. “Colorado State University College of Veterinary Medicine” was embossed in gold on the return address corner. Everything looked very formal. I felt a little apprehensive about opening it. What if I were rejected again?

  On the one hand, this past year, when I hadn’t been accepted, had been a wonderful year, focused on our animals, my work, and the first year of our marriage. It had been a great year, and I wouldn’t mind repeating it.

  But I didn’t want to be rejected a second time from vet school either. I still wanted to be a veterinarian someday.

  I later met a student who’d been rejected eight times before she’d finally gained admission. I don’t think I would have been able to push through that many tries; I think two failed applications would have been a Higher Spirit telling me that the universe had other plans for my life.

  Finally, standing in the middle of the family room, I sliced open the envelope and slid out the letter.

  My eyes widened as I realized it was not a rejection—the letter was welcoming me to the College of Veterinary Medicine Professional Veterinary Class of 1987, to begin the following academic year. I was in! I’d done it! Wow! Woo-hoo!

  All that time in organic chemistry, which was not only difficult but downright scary, had paid off. After my first O-chem exam, I’d noticed my first gray hair. I’m sure it wasn’t a coincidence.

  To my surprise, calculus had seemed like a breeze. I had actually done well in it, although I couldn’t have explained it, even if I’d been offered a winning Powerball ticket. I’d missed an A by a hair on a subject that not only was unintelligible to me but would have nothing to do with the practice of veterinary medicine. I’ve always thought calculus was a class designed to weed out the not-so-smart students from the truly smart ones. I think I was in the former group, despite my decent grade.

  And I never did figure out why we had to take biochemistry as a prerequisite for vet school; med students took biochem in their first year of medical school, not before.

  But all that was behind me now. I raised my arms in triumph, like Rocky Balboa on the top step of the Philadelphia Museum of Art after his famous training run.

  I called the elementary school where I taught and sang a ridiculous version of “Animal Crackers in My Soup” to the receptionist to let everyone know I’d been admitted. I could hear cheering in the background. I’m sure my principal was thrilled too—I was definitely not his favorite teacher, and he restarted his campaign to have me resign as soon as possible so, he claimed, he could fill my position. He’d done the same thing last time, before I’d known whether or not I’d been admitted. Just to be obstinate, I waited until the last possible moment, in July, before I officially resigned.

  I was lying on the couch, holding the letter, when Earl came home from work. He saw the envelope and knew what it meant.

  “What did they say?” he asked.

  I threw the letter on the floor, turned my head to the side, and covered my eyes in a dramatic display of overwrought grief.

  Earl didn’t fall for it for a second and congratulated me with a big smile and lots of hugs and kisses.

  Sunday rolled around, warm, mild, and filled with hints of new life beginning to sprout. In Colorado, spring is often more extended winter than a hint of summer, and we don’t take such days for granted. Earl and I took advantage of the fine weather by working in the yard.

  Even though she was only five months old, Keli had already learned that “Keli, do you want to sunbathe?” was her cue to go outside to be tethered to the ash tree.

  She loved “sunbathing.” It didn’t mean Coppertone and a beach towel; it meant being outside to sit, watch us, enjoy the nature of the back yard, and sleep while safely tethered to the tree. Her dog pen had plenty of space—it used to be my sister-in-law’s playhouse—but the tree was a nice change of pace, a way for her to relax outside without being confined to the pen. She was free to move around as long as she didn’t pull on the lead, and we were always nearby—we never left her alone when she was tied up; that wouldn’t have been safe.

  Keli was stretched out flat under the tree, napping while Earl and I worked. The day started to heat up, and I decided to take my cold-weather puppy inside, where she would be cooler.

  Because the distance from the tree to the house was so short, about fifteen feet, and because she was a successful graduate of puppy kindergarten and because we’d practiced everything we’d learned frequently, I didn’t bother putting her leash on when I untied her from the tree. I was confident she’d come with me.

  Mistake.

  I’d expected that I could control her by voice command.

  Wrong.

  She was curious about the world, and she didn’t come with me to the house.

  And even at five months, she already had the escape-and-run instinct of her breed.

  Instead of following me to the house, she toddled like the gangly adolescent she was to the fishpond to investigate the water. She stretched her nose toward the fragrant water lilies.
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  I felt a little nervous. Where else would she go? Would I be able to catch her if she started to wander off? If an animal doesn’t want to be caught, it isn’t going to be caught.

  She ignored my calls to come, confirming that she had the “selective hearing” huskies are known for.

  What should I do?

  Her little nose stretched farther and farther, trying to inspect the turtle and goldfish until—plop! She tumbled headfirst into the fishpond. She quickly surfaced, paddling her front paws a little, looking surprised.

  I started to laugh.

  Also a mistake.

  I scooped my drenched puppy out of the shallow water and set her on the grass. I didn’t even think about putting her leash on because I was laughing so hard at her—not with her, at her. Earl started walking toward us from the barn to see what was happening.

  Keli gave herself a vigorous shake and seemed embarrassed, which just made me laugh harder.

  Big mistake.

  She didn’t like me laughing at her, and she turned and made a bee-line to the east—toward the main street and its heavy traffic.

  I screamed her name in terror. I didn’t use the enthusiastic sing-songy tone you were supposed to use for most husky commands. I was so scared I couldn’t do anything but shriek.

  What puppy would come when called like that? Especially one who’d been thoroughly embarrassed and was now in full-on husky escape mode? Hadn’t I learned anything in puppy kindergarten?

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to catch up with her. I could only hope that she’d come back quickly on her own to get out of the heat.

  But no, she ran through the spruce trees and bushes right into Shields Street.

  A screech of tires, a dreadful thud.

  Earl sprinted past me.

  I was sure he would retrieve a crushed, dead Keli. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing my beloved first puppy as roadkill, but all I could do was stand by the fishpond, frozen by my fear and the knowledge that I’d killed her with my stupidity.