The Unsung Hero

In the wake of new parenthood it's often easy to completely overlook things in your life that used to be staples of security and of sanity. Things that used to be fundamental can at once seem frivolous. Large pieces of you can suddenly be eclipsed by the arrival of baby - which is, in part, why G and I refer to our lives as BC and AC. Because life really does seem to be divided into Before Child and After Child. And I was ready and willing to trade in 2am bar crawls for 2am feedings and forego sleep, submit to the Wiggles and read Brown Bear, Brown Bear What Do You See until the words are surely scripted on the backs of my eyelids. I was prepared to submit my entire prior life to whatever new world we were entering for the promise of a family. But then I realized that "we" did not only refer to G and I. Because "we" already were a family. And that although we were all marching into unknown territory - one of us did not enter into this pact voluntarily.

Logistically, Moo was a gift. Metaphorically, though, he was a miracle. He saved me - and without him, there may never have been a family at all. He was given to me in the summer before my second year of law school. I hadn't taken care of so much as a goldfish without parental supervision my entire life - so a puppy was a substantial step up. I knew the moment I laid eyes on that wriggly little face that I was smitten for life - and I have been. We were (and still are) inseparable. In spite of our indivisibility, G made me promise that Moo would sleep in his crate in the room across from ours. That was the condition he had imposed on us - and one that both the pup and I begrudgingly agreed to abide by. Of course, Moo couldn't live up to his end of the bargain. Only moments after putting him on his comfy bed inside his crate and retreating to the next room it began - a sound that should come from no living thing. A sound so heinous that it's heinousness can not even be described - except to say that it was heinously heinous and would forever be the most heinous of all things heinous. And it continued. Unrelenting. All night. By early morning's light, G rose out of bed. He looked down at me and our eyes met. We had laid awake, unmoving, all night, but hadn't spoken. He bowed his head and disappeared out of the room. When he returned it was only to lay Moo down on the pillow next to mine where the two of us slept the most gorgeous sleep for the next many hours.

He is a farting, snorting, snuffling, curly tailed, convex bellied cherub - and he has dragged me from the depths of depression back into the world. He has taken up residence on my lap and remained there, unfettered, through long nights of tears, through endless hours of pouring over text books, through triumph and failure. Many failures. He has slept on our bed - often still on our pillows, nestled ever so gracefully above our heads (all fifty five pounds of chunk), traveled with us across the border, across the country (four times!), seen us through new jobs, new homes, new states - new lives. He is my miracle. He is my first baby. But, of course, first implies that there is a subsequent baby.

Moo interpreted change from the moment G and I celebrated the blue line on the stick. Like the excitement induced by pulling out a suitcase ("We're going somewhere?! Hooray! Where are we going??!!") our bulldog seemed to know without knowing that big changes were afoot. This suspicion only grew with the arrival of nursery furniture into a room that had otherwise been empty - and exclusively belonging to Moo. And then, of course, the belly. Already asserting his dominance, the larger Baby C grew the further my belly expanded until there was nearly no more room for Moo to laze across my lap. My lap had been his station - his spot of security - since those summer puppy days. It's strange to say but it's like we could both sense it - the sudden shift - that no matter how hard we tried to push the thought away, Moo and I both knew that his position in life, both literal and figurative, was changing. Despite the gradual disappearance of the lap, though, Moo did his best to help me cope with the pregnancy. He sat by me during my terrible bouts with morning all friggin' day sickness, waddled beside me as we walked and was generally content to flop on the couch and loaf with me - our distented bellies majestically heaving in the August heat. I'm pretty sure he even gained sympathy weight. So there we were, both of us swollen and snoring in the thick of the night when my water broke. Things changed some after that.

Moo was left to sleep alone that night - the first time in a very long time...if ever. G came home twice after the baby was born to feed and walk him and give him lots of love (and, hopefully, a manly pep talk on the road ahead). The third time G returned home he had me in tow - and I had a strange something nestled in my arms. I was proud and protective of the little something. G encouraged a slow and careful introduction of our two boys and, while I abided, I knew instinctively that our dog would be both gentle and understanding. Moo regarded him with interest, sniffing snarfling at his foot. And then I saw it - as Moo watched over C's wriggly little face he became smitten for life. Or, if not smitten, at least devoted. In the days and nights that followed Moo was my loyal shadow. He sat with me through long nights of tears (both mine and C's), endless hours of pouring over this new little life, through triumph and failure. And he was ever gentle with this new addition. And ever mindful. He slept dutifully by the bassinet while baby slept. By my feet while I fed C. By the chair while we rocked. He sat apart from me - supportive, and loving, and present. This beautiful dog - who for five years would affectionately bulldoze his way over any obstacle and onto my lap - would sit quietly by in silent understanding that something else now occupied my lap. Something precious. We both knew that his place has shifted - that the lap was now reserved for someone else - and it saddens me still that we've lost that tenderness.

It's been nearly two years since C arrived - and in that two years C has grown from squishy, fragile, screaming infant to bouncing, animated, screaming little boy. Moo takes the good with the bad and, at the ripe old age of seven, has even become a little stoic. Now my boys are true brothers. Both drool some, eat food off the floor, throw their momentum around with wreckless abandon, enjoy a good nap, occassionally poop on the floor - and are unbelievably sweet for mama. Moo dutifully takes his lumps. He gets poked in the eye and ridden like a raging bull. The more mobile C became the fewer places Moo had to retreat. Now, it seems, no place is safe from tiny hands that pull and jab. C does adore his doggie - but my boy, who inexplicably demands neatness (between G and I a neatness gene just doesn't exist - so he must have gotten it from his Nana), often yells at and tattles on poor Moo. "SSSHhhhhhhhriiiiieeeeeek" (he's drooling on the floor - do you see that? Drops of goo!), "Noo Dooooooo!" (he's pilfered my stuffed animal! it will never feel the same after this!), "EEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeekkk!" (he has the audacity to sit in my spot!), "NNNnnaaaaaahhhhhoooo!" (he's sniffing my hand that is precariously holding this slice of cheese directly in front of his nose!). We pat our poor berated pup and tell him he's a good boy - and remind him that Colonol Shriek yells at us too ("Lint, Mom. Lint. On your sweater. Didn't we talk about this yesterday?!" or "Your hair is wet, Mom. Wet. You know I hate creepy wet hair!") Of course, the older C gets the more good Moo can derive from their relationship. Like table scraps - a whole mess of table scraps. And copious crackers and cheese slices ("one for you, one for me, one for you...I want the one you had back. Let me pry it out of your sloppy toothful bulldog gob and EAT IT!"). And my favorite - hugs and kisses. Moo just sits very still and hopes it all ends quickly as C lavishes him with squeezes and smooches - but somewhere inside I'm sure he appreciates the mooshy sentiment. Moo is present at every wake up, meal, nap, bathtime, book and bedtime. He is very much a part of the family.

These days, I share my lap. Moo has made his way back some but I still wonder (even though C spends less time occupying his old spot and more time exploring the world) if he doesn't really feel that it belongs to him anymore. I try to convince him otherwise, but he still hasn't made it all the way back. I'm always elated when, without coaxing, he creeps over - my sweet galumph, and deposits his heft where I love and remember it most. Where we are closest with one another. Where I stroke his fur and scratch his ears. Where he looks up at me and licks my face. Where his thick neck is ripest for hugs and when, just holding each other there, I can hear him whisper to me "It's okay, I'm here."

Moo didn't ask for baby C. He didn't ask for any of the upheaval. And he didn't ask to be displaced. But, in life AC, he has handled this new world with grace, dignity and doting love. I can only hope that one day he'll make it back to the lap - and that one day soon there will be another little lap to rest his head in, and he will be welcomed in with sweet little hands to scratch his ears. And that Moo will one day look back on his life and know how much he was loved - and that he was never forgotten or left behind with the addition of another - that there was just more love. More hugs. And more stray food.

No, Moo didn't ask for any of this. He only asked for one thing: that the baby would sleep in his crate, in the room across from ours. And, for now, that's where C sleeps - sweetly in his crate crib in the room across the hall - so, thus far, it's a promise unbroken.