RELATIONSHIPS :: A Letter To My Dog

BFF :: Following his interview with Lisa Erspamer, co-creator of the year’s best book, A Letter To My Dog, GGN publisher Shaun Proulx was inspired to follow write his own letter to his dog, a Cocker Spaniel named Ella. You can write your own, and submit it to ALetterToMyDog.com. Read or hear Shaun and Lisa, here.

Dear Ella (aka Ella-Bella, Lady Girl, Lady Wigglebottom, Baby Lady, Ella-Bird, Ella-Loo),

You are a perfect example of right time, right place. Patrick came home one sunny September Friday afternoon after an outing with our little long-haired miniature Daschund, Jack, who had just had fun in the park with other dogs. “I think we need to find a brother or sister for him,” he announced. “Even though he’s eight years old he still has tons of energy to play with other dogs.”

I had wanted a second dog for a long time and so was on the Toronto Humane Society website faster than a mutt on kibble. I had some specifics: I wanted a rescue, a girl, purebred and a puppy all in one. Several in-person visits to the Humane Society had yielded anything but – what were the odds now?

And there was a photo of you.

What an ugly picture. Bad angle, bad lighting, but the model wasn’t exactly photogenic either (though not even Naomi Campbell could strike a pose under such conditions: you had been returned to the noisy Humane Society twice at this point – even though you were only six months old! – you were caked in urine, and your eyes, which had obviously seen way too much for a baby girl, bulged out of your head like Ramona’s on The Real Housewives of New York sometimes do, all cray).

Regardless, in we went the next day, and when we told the Humane Society staff you were the dog we were interested in, they promptly did everything they could to steer us in another direction. “Teddy” as you were called (what a dumb name for a girl), was a lost cause, we were informed. They actually made us go look at other dogs first, and we did, spending time with other options.

After we insisted we still wanted to meet you, they remained stubbornly reluctant, explaining you were not a good idea. You were burdened with a host of issues: you attacked anyone who even tried to pet you; you were incredibly possessive and aggressive over  things you deemed yours (ie: your smelly broken tennis ball). You had food issues. All for starters. So you had been returned to the Humane Society twice for very good reasons, though clearly something(s) had happened to kickstart such aggressive, dominant behaviours (not  your fault).

Finally we met you, in a locked room (like you were Hannibal Lecter). The Humane Society staff were so determined to make sure we knew all your defects that they even showed us – using a fake hand / arm on a stick – what happened when anyone tried to pet you. You made Cujo look like a cuddle toy.

“But I’d react like that too if you poked at me with a plastic hand,” I pointed out.

When you weren’t being prodded by a fake hand, you showed another side. Yes you had obvious damage and the wounds, but you were clearly also a little puppy girl who – as long as she went first – was playful, frisky, and eager. I saw those qualities more than the negatives; you seemed like possibility.

Everyone deserves another chance.

To the astonishment of the Humane Society we took you home, along with a long letter we signed listing all that We Were Getting Into – just so all parties were clear.

We were – but we weren’t. We couldn’t have been prepared for the extent of the mess that was you. What. An. Ordeal. We needed a leash, four hands wearing thick gardening gloves, and the patience of Job just to wash all that urine off you once we got you home. You didn’t trust us or our hands and you attacked them fearlessly as the water from the shower rained down on you.

Feeding you was a matter of placing the plate down and whipping our hands away so you didn’t go for them. Your snapping, growling, biting at the air in our direction was nerve-wracking. We didn’t sleep for the first several nights. You howled, yet we couldn’t touch you to comfort you. We tried to but regretted it, especially Patrick that one time, and his index finger. When you bit us – and you would come to do this many times – the adrenaline rush was a shocking experience unlike anything else.

Who did what to you before we met?

Patrick wanted to take you back. But I refused.

Because even though every setback seemed like a huge failure – just as we were relaxing into progress – each day that passed I could see overall improvement. I focused only on that which I wanted more of.

“She wants to be a good girl,” I insisted, stubbornly oblivious to the scabs on our hands and noses.

We exercised the heck out of you. Huge walks in all weather just to get the excess energy out. We learned to keep a leash on you at all times, so we could control you better until you needed less controlling. We taught you to sit, which was huge because we made you sit before everything to show you who was boss. Sit before entering the home, sit before dinner, sit before coming up on the couch. Sit just to sit.

It amazes me the things we did to co-create trust. We sing-songed your name so you knew “Ella” meant good news. I would lie down on the floor with a pillow to read a magazine so to be at your level and you would come over, sniff me and I would just ignore you. You eventually met me halfway and climbed up to sit on my legs. Small victories added up; you began to prove my case.

She wants to be a good girl.

Your face began to soften. We could see it. Weeks passed and then months and while there were mishaps along the way (Patrick still won’t let you by his face for too long), you became a different dog. Your bites became warning growls which now have become just a lot of hot air.  The Sunday I was lying on the couch watching The Young & The Restless and you jumped up and snuggled into my chest, heaving a heavy dog sigh, I wept. And it wasn’t because Pyllis was losing Nick to Sharon again.

“You couldn’t do that with her before,” became almost a mantra each time we experienced “normal” dog interaction with you.

We began to say it more and more as months passed.

In the safeness of our home you grew to become The Dog No One Else Knows. You are still damaged goods, but aren’t we all?  Today, though, you are different. Relaxed, safe, curious, adventurous, obedient, trusting, loving.  The best is when I spy you sleeping belly up. I feel so honoured that you are so trusting and relaxed before us. I hope one day to give you a good belly scratch, but five years later we get a quick rub in and that’s plenty for you.

You are my constant companion. I’m so lucky to be that guy, who gets to have his dog with him at work. You sit by my desk all day except random moments when you come over to be picked up like a baby and have a cuddle. You travel with me wherever I can bring you. You snuggle in the crook of my arm at night. In the mornings (you hate mornings and are the last one fully awake), we have a daily ritual that sees you cover my face in soft kisses and I cover your salty face back. Sometimes our mouths meet and by accident you slip me tongue. I’m down with that.

You are the smartest of all the dogs I’ve had – it’s truly delightful. You sit the second you decide you want something. Food, a cuddle, anything, down you sit first. You let me know what you need when you need it, and I can actually speak in full and complete thoughts and you pick up my meaning. When you tap my face with your wooly paw in the middle of the night because you want under the covers, I am in awe as I lift them and you slip in.

You are All Woman and you hate putting your lady parts down in wet or cold; you will only pee within a ten-foot radius of Home. When you fart (which is infrequent) you scare yourself. And although this one took a long time to make happen, you now love being brushed and prettied up. Your lashes are stupidly long, like a drag queen’s, and you wear your eyeliner just a tad thick but it works. I love your Fraggle hair. Whoever bred you cut your tail off too short, so you wiggle your whole bum instead when you are happy; Patrick and I do a mean imitation. Your copper coat is a thing of beauty when the sun hits it.

You are  still hyper-vigilant.  You still scare the crap out of people who ignore our warnings to just let you be and try and pet you without engaging you first. This seems especially the case with straight men; it is extra funny to see them jump when you snap. You are a tough bitch, a baby lady,  a salty dame, you are an overbearing younger, bigger sister to Jack, and you torment Annie the cat (and she does the same back). You always try and get some of Patrick’s beer, which drives me nuts but I give you credit going after what you want.

You have my whole heart, Ella-Loo, and my soul, your big brown eyes, completely softened now from the Ramona days, slay me every time I look into them. We are a team, a duo, an old married couple. Patrick just rolls his eyes.

“We won,” we say, whenever you are more snuggle bunny than killer beast, which is most days now.

Thank you for this epic experience I wouldn’t ever trade.

You did it, my darling Ella: You’re a good girl.

I love you forever,

Your daddy

P.S. Remember that time we were in the shop buying magazines and a man came in with a huge black pig on a leash?

– Shaun Proulx is the publisher of GGN, and before Ella and Jack there was Sammy and Chip and Patchie and Cheemo. He tweets a lot about Ella here. All images: Patrick Marano.

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