Saturday, March 7, 2015

Chainlink cuddles: a short true story

A view of our 'hood
I’ve had kind of a rough week. It’s pretty personal, and, of course, these kinds of moments and periods happen to everyone, but suffice it to say that this week found me frowning about as often as smiling, a proportion that is rare for me (and thank goodness for that. Smiling is fun yaaaaay. Also, please forgive me for this apparent complaint; my lifes otherwise frakking rad. Finally, please don’t worry: I’m just fine.)

Is it fair to say that I’m better now? Yeah. And, sure, Friday sometimes is the harbinger of F**KING AWESOMENESS! but… sometimes, it’s just another day. And yesterday was just another day… until it wasn’t.

Some background’s probably necessary, right? I’ll back up from where and when I am, away from ella’s uncle café (the lower-case is intentional, because that’s how the name is stylized very prettily on the sign) on Bloor Street West, near Ossington Avenue, and rewind more than twelve hours.


Dane and I were seated at our kitchen table, talking about our respective weeks and their various challenges: his healing from having all four of his wisdom teeth removed; my work at the university and the strike and the tensions involved; physical and emotional exhaustion. It was this last point that had us start talking about our always-inconclusive and recurring conversation about getting a dog and what kind of dog we would adopt, since a dog’s presence would ease isolation and make all frowns turn upside down.

Thank you, Snapchat, for allowing me to draw on everything.
In my fatigued demeanour, I explained to Dane that a package had arrived at our door for me a few days prior, but when the postal worker rang the doorbell, I decided not to answer, because I hadn’t been expecting anyone or anything. So, I still needed to pick up the package from the post office where it had been transferred for pick-up at a later date.

I confessed to Dane (and, later, to my mum, who laughed a lot and said that I had “an amazing imagination”) that I had this secret hope that the package was a puppy. Of course, shipping a live animal through Canada Post would be cruel and awful and I’d never actually accept that to happen, so I explained myself: “You see, the puppy would be sent from whatever its origins were all the way to Toronto via a chainlink of cuddles from human transporters.”

You can picture it, right? One tight hug, then pass it on; one tight hug, then pass it on; one tight hug—you can see it now, right? Sure, these thousands of people probably have way better things to do than form a human chain to send a canine to a bummed-out PhD student in Toronto, but what are hopes and dreams for if not to be totally unrealistic sometimes?

It was at this point in our conversation that Dane and I heard barking and whimpering eerily close to our house. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t, for the tiniest moment, believe that my post-office dog had found its way to our very door. In all seriousness, though, the bark was way too deep for it to belong to a creature that could be cuddle-shipped across Canada; that bark belonged to a big dog.

The neighbour to the south of us has an adorable pug (I believe I’ve mentioned him before. His name is Puck and I’d be happy to hug his smooshed face all day), and although it is not rare to see dogs on our street, none of our other immediate neighbours have dogs. So, when we heard this deep bark so close to our house, we were surprised and perplexed: where was the dog? Whose was it? When could we I meet it? Though the sun is starting to set later these days, seven o’clock was too dark to see the depths of our yard (which we avoid in all seasons, really, because the former tenants and/or landlords weren’t especially tidy, so there’s a lot of construction nonsense that’ll need to be dumped come summertime). Anyway, it was really cold out yesterday, but, thankfully, the temperature had started to increase as the night went on. Nevertheless, I knew that it wasn’t normal for this dog to be outside for this long. We couldn’t just sit around with this dog freezing and possibly in pain and continue with our night.

I called my good friend, Barbi, to find out whom to call. She suggested Toronto Animal Services. They were closed, so I dealt with 311, and, boy, are they ever a wonderful and truly helpful bunch. Their hands were tied by permits and permissions and bureaucratic limitations, but they’re a compassionate group of people and they really wanted to help doggerino. (In case you’re unfamiliar with my pooch terminology, “doggerino” and “pupperino” [and, sometimes, “dawgy-dawg-dawg.” I know: it’s weird. Heck, my dog, Brandy, that I had when I was little, never got called “Brandy”; she was “Hadjabouti”—and still is!—to me. Juuust… don’t ask.] are words I use to affectionately refer to dogs. The end). I called 311 at 9 p.m., and then 10 p.m. They would try to send someone over from Animal Services as soon as possible, but their after-hours crew might decide to check in only on the following day, and since we thought that the dog was in the neighbour’s yard, they couldn’t come to “seize” (ugh. I dislike this terminology, but it’s what’s used) the dog without permission to access the neighbour’s property. They said they would call us if or when they would come by.

So, I went to take a nap while Dane played video games. He woke me up at 1:30 a.m. and the poor canine sweetie was still barking outside. My heart and Dane’s heart broke. In our pyjamas, Dane and I went outside to see if we could see the dog, to ascertain whether the dog was chained or stuck or hurt or if it was small enough that we could have it stay the night at our house until the following day.

I couldn’t see the dog in the darkness, so I whistled until the dog responded, but it didn’t. We were scared it’d jump out at us, but Dane soon spotted it to the right of our shed, and he and the dog made eye contact. It was a big dog, Dane confirmed. (Dane is 6’1’’ and I’m 5’1’’, so my ability to evaluate the situation was limited by my height. Of course.) Although doggerino wasn’t growling or making any sound, menacing or otherwise, the way they’d locked eyes without the dog’s reacting in any way made us both very uneasy and scared us enough to go back inside. We both have had unsettling experiences with strange dogs in our lives, so our legs moved a little faster than our brains. But we weren’t about to give up on this dog.

That was at 1:30 a.m. We called 311 again when we got inside. They were spectacular again, but still, their hands were tied since we didn’t know if it was a stray or if it belonged to our neighbours or whose yard the dog was actually in. This was frustrating to everyone—me, Dane, the operator—because the dog was clearly in distress, but no one wanted to ruffle anyone’s feathers; I say RUFFLE THEM ALL! Nonetheless, they said they’d get back to us as soon as they could have a team out to check out the situation. Dane and I went to sleep with the dog’s barking echoing in our ears, its whimpers filling the empty spaces created by the separated pieces of our broken hearts. (Vomit. It’s dramatic, I know, but we were distraught.)

I even had a dream about the puppy: Dane and I were able to get to the other side of the fence, but I got there first and had patted the puppy on his back, near his hind legs, and I instructed Dane to do the same, saying that that’s usually the first spot I pet when I meet a new dog, because it shows I’m a friend and, also, it protects me from its snout: should it feel threatened, my hand would be far enough from its face to be able to withdraw in time. Dane pet the dog and after the dog gently showed us that he, too, was our friend, Dane gave the dog a full-body hug. I’ve seen Dane do this in real life, and it turns my heart to mush instantly. It was sunny in the dream, and I don’t know how it ended.

I awoke at 7:30 a.m. to the sound of our smoke alarm doing a maddening test beep. Between its deafening beeps, I heard the dog barking.

I got up and actually saw the dog from the kitchen. He is a big dog. He’s a boxer. He’s beautiful. And he’s staring at me through my kitchen window, shivering as he stands there barking and whimpering. I wonder why he’s not sitting or lying down. I also realize that he’s not in the neighbour’s yard at all (our neighbour to the rear of us), but in a weird neutral zone between the two, separated from our yard only by a very short wire fence—the cheap kind people put around their gardens to keep rabbits or raccoons out. The dog was wearing a red windbreaker and clearly had a collar and a leash. This was no stray; this dog had people who cared about him.

I called 311 again and gave them the number for the file we’d opened the night before. They listened, patiently, and told me the same story that the other kind and compassionate operators offered the three other times I’d called. They insisted on receiving confirmation that the dog was accessible from our yard before they sent Animal Services over. I went outside in my pyjamas, the operator on hold, to investigate. I cooed to the puppy. He looked at me, silently shivering. I promised him we’d get him home and that he wasn’t along. His leash, as it turns out, was somehow frozen into the snow beneath his trembling body. I still don’t understand how he got there.

I went back inside, confirmed that the dog was on our premises, and the operator told me to call back at 8 a.m., when Animal Services opened, so that they could transfer me (and my file) directly to Animal Services.

Eight a.m. rolls around. I’m patched through. I speak to someone at Animal Services. He asks what colour the dog’s coat was. I assume he’s using “coat” in the sense of “fur,” but he’d actually been referring to the jacket the dog was wearing. (Hahaha.)

“It’s red,” I said after describing his gorgeous brown-and-white face.
“And it’s a big dog, right? Like, a boxer?”
“Yes! Very big.”
“Did you see his paws? Was he wearing black booties—with one missing?”
“Uuuuhhh… I didn’t see his paws.”
“Okay. This dog went missing yesterday afternoon at Dovercourt and Davenport. We were wondering how it never showed up. I’m going to give your number to the owners and they will contact you to pick up the dog. His name is Bentley.”


Holy shit, man. What a RELIEF.

First, what a relief—as awful as this sounds—that Bentley survived the night. Thank GOODNESS that the colder night was on Thursday; I don’t know how he’d have fared otherwise.

After I got off the phone with Animal Services, I took my cell phone and a bowl of water outside. I went to sit with the dog and reassured him that his family would be there soon. I offered him the water, but he just lay there, regal though shaking, looking at me as I tried to comfort him by using his name. My phone rang and it was an excited, audibly relieved woman on the other end of the phone.

“Is this Christina? You have Bentley? Thank you SO MUCH. We live at ##. Can we just knock on your door?”
“You’re so welcome! Actually, I’m just sitting in the back with him; you can come through the back yard. Be careful, though: it’s icy!”

As it turns out, she lives just a few houses south of us. She had been within reach this whole time and spent a sleepless night at home with her children and husband, wondering where their dog was.

Myriad thank-yous followed and they were on their way. Seconds later—literally—I heard a house door slam and a chorus of animated voices drawing nearer. Bentley noted this at the same time as I did and he stood up on his front paws to rest in a shaky sitting position.

“Your family is coming to get you, Bentley! You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be sooo warm sooo soon. It’s going to feel sooo good. You’re going to be warm. You’ll be with your family soon.”

The family, all five members of them, one by one entered our yard. Bentley’s echoed name preceded them before their faces appeared. My heart sank as, for a second, I worried that it wasn’t their puppy at all—but it was. It was! I backed up against the fence to leave the family room to see and access their dog. The woman who had called me, K., beamed with gratitude and grabbed my hands to thank me. “You have no idea what kind of night we had!” I could only imagine.

I chuckled as one of the boys, who was in his pyjamas like the rest of us, lost his shoe in the snow and had his bare foot exposed as he tried to regain his balance on one leg and replace his shoe on his wet foot. He was barely fazed, overcome as he was with happiness to be reunited with his dog.

K.’s husband leaned over the fence to pick up the huge dog (what an image: this dog who weighs about the same as I do, if not more, being cuddled and… passed along over linked fencing, much like my fantasy post-office dog). As K. and her family left, the youngest of the family, who is maybe nine or 10, looked at me and uttered the most genuine thank-you I think I’ve ever received. I don’t know if I’ll ever forget her sparkling eyes as she said this. Her mum looked at me as K.’s husband walked away cradling Bentley. She reached out with both arms and hugged me before I knew what was happening. She uttered a million thank-yous and said I’d made her day; I said she’d made mine! She walked away with her family and I walked towards our back door as Dane emerged, just missing the family. I walked inside and broke down as Dane held me.

I couldn’t get over how much the dog had suffered and how scared he must have been and how grateful the family was to have their dog back with them and how delighted I was that this dog had survived the night. I was overwhelmed.

And then we had pancakes.


It’s amazing how quickly our fates change, isn’t it? From talking about dogs to taking steps to try to save a dog’s life… From freezing in the unforgiving cold to being cradled by one who spent a sleepless night worrying about your whereabouts… From locking eyes with a homeless, trembling canine to sharing grateful, sparkling glances with a child who’s taking her dog home… From starting your day with pleasant exchanges with human strangers to having said (former) strangers insist that, if you need anything, just knock on their door.

They came back later, our neighbours, while I was at ella’s uncle, while I had already started typing this story. K. called me to ask which unit was ours because they had brought over a token of gratitude and wanted to make sure that they rang the right bell. I expressed how sweet that was—imagining a bottle of wine or muffins or something—and that we were on the main floor, that Dane was home and would answer.

They brought over cash.

Dane, the polite darling, refused three or four times, but Bentley’s family insisted, and Dane said that it felt rude to decline, so he finally acquiesced. He felt like he didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t believe it, when he told me. We agreed that it was totally unnecessary, but I understood the family’s insistence: you can’t put a price on a loved one’s well-being. I called them to thank them, and the gratitude was bounced back and forth like a volleyball over the neighbourhood fences.


Before coming to this café, I went to the post office to pick up my mystery package (“please be a dog. Please be a dog”). The package that awaited me at the post office was flat and tiny. Could it contain the world’s tiniest Chihuahua? No: it was my 10-year passport that I’d renewed a few weeks ago, in preparation for a vacation in May that Dane and I are planning to celebrate our two-year anniversary and his birthday.

Well, it turns out that I had been totally wrong about a puppy in the mail sent to me by chainlink cuddles. Today, I was wrong not only about the item being delivered, but, also, the dream item’s method of delivery; I was right about this, though: a dog was delivered, directly to warm, loving arms, over a chainlink fence. And this rough week had the happiest of endings, the kind that sometimes manifest only in dreams.

Welcome back home, Bentley.