kingston

Kingston plays dead.

I love dogs. I always have. One of my earliest childhood memories is going to pick up Max, my childhood dog slash best friend, from the farm where we bought him. Max was a wired-hair fox terrier, AKA a total badass. Terriers aren't badasses, but Max was.  I named Max. That's relevant because when you have brothers, anything to brag about is worth bragging about. Max would run away all the time and was always found at his "girlfriend's" house, four neighborhoods away. Max's real name was Sir Maximillian Duwemi [My last name which I don't disclose]. He was amazing, my bff, and also the star of many photo shoots that I would force him to participate in when I was eight years old and going through my photographer phase.

When it became clear to my mother that Max would die one day, she decided to get Abby, a West Highland Terrier who was much less of a badass but much more cute and snuggly. I named Abby, and now you know why that is important. She was tiny and white and perfect... like Lindsay Lohan before she went rotten. When Max died, much to our surprise, Abby was there to remind us that we had purchased a replacement dog to cushion the blow. Thanks, Abby.

I went to college and became a quasi-functioning adult. I did quasi-adult things like sometimes pay my rent on time, grocery shop for Ramen Noodles, throw parties, and live beyond my means. I eventually rented a house, got a boyfriend who was bad for me, juggled a job and school in there somehow, and longed for a dog. You know, to get that intimate, real connection you can only get with someone who can't verbally respond to you.

When my ex-boyfriend cheated on me for the first time, he gave me the perfect opportunity to adopt a dog. I had been searching for unconditional love, foolishly thinking I could find it in a man, when all along all I had to do was invest my time and energy into a dog. (Currently resisting the urge to draw man/dog parallels right now and it's quite difficult.) But seriously. I wanted a dog. I had a job, I was looking for responsibility, and I desperately wanted to prove my parents wrong that I could care for another living thing. Plus, I was heartbroken and needed something to fix. So, I mosey'd on down to the local animal shelter to save a dog's life.

What I found was a scrappy little son of a bitch with some name like "Oreo." I can't remember the name exactly because I instantly thought "Um, no." I visited "Oreo" three times that week, just to be extra sure. On the third day, I made him mine. I arranged to have his balls chopped off and then brought him home. I named him Kingston because I was going through a phase where I loved Rasta colors and Gwen Stefani had named her baby that and I wanted that name before she did, so it seemed like the only reasonable thing to do. He was a goofy little fella the first day or two - walking into things, moving slowly around the house and cuddling with me every chance he got. It was what I like to affectionately call our "honeymoon phase." What I didn't realize is that Kingston was on drugs those first two days.

The honeymoon phase.

After the drugs wore off, I got to know the real Kingston. I became what I like to refer to as an "Actual Dog Owner," which is much different than the "Imagined Dog Owner," which is all gumdrops and lollipops and dandelions and snowflakes. Being an "Actual Dog Owner," is like having a baby. Except worse. Because babies grow up. Dogs stay the fucking same.

As soon as I realized how hard it was to have a dog, which I anticipated, but everything is different when it's real life (like when you imagine your first breakup and you're walking in the rain crying and then you actually experience it and not only are you walking in the rain, but you're run over continually by your ex and left stranded, mangled, crying, gasping for help but no one can hear you and you just want the pain to stop?), I knew I had to rise to the challenge. It's not like it's your own life, which can fall into disrepair, or a paper that you can neglect to turn in and lie about your Grandmother's "death" to use as a reason for not doing it, or anything else. No, this thing needs food. And a place other than my room to poop.

Jokes aside, as with most things in my life, I am motivated by the fear of failure. I didn't want to fail as a dog owner. So, I watched the Dog Whisperer, I talked to my parents (successful dog owners for nearly thirty years), and I read up on how to do it. And I did it. I was in the best shape of my life because I walked/ran him for 45 minutes every morning and evening. I fed him. I loved him. I trained him. I put his shit in a plastic bag every single time he made poopoo. I even bought him a little jacket for when it was snowing outside.

I taught him to sit, stay, heel, fetch, and even to play dead when I would point at him and say "bang! bang!" He was awesome. I would sit on the edge of my bed or couch and he would come up behind me and assume the "give me a piggy back ride" position and I would literally give him piggy back rides. My dog.

As an actual pet owner, I was fortunate enough to get a glimpse into my future as a parent. I will be altogether affectionate, thoughtful, and dangerously overprotective. I will drive my kids crazy and they will wind up hating me. Because of Max's tendency to run away at any chance, I would physically freak out at the thought of letting Kingston off the leash. So, instead of letting him off the leash around my house, I took him to the Bark Park.

This is when I discovered the lengths to which I would go to protect my progeny when the heinous bitch at the dog park who tried to engage me in a screaming fight about my dog "playing too rough with her dog." My response was that "This is how dogs play, you insufferable monster, and they will sort out who is Alpha in just a moment if you'd chill the fuck out. Oh, and your teacup Pomeranian should be in the Small Dogs Bark Park, not the Medium Dog Bark Park." She cursed at me (CURSED!) for getting her dog's sweater dirty. I couldn't even form a sentence after that. But in my head, I thought: Hello! It's the Bark Park! Leave your dog clothes at home! Dog clothes are for photo shoots! Or snow! That's IT.

I also watched a lot of other shit go down at the Bark Park, like the time someone almost got shot because their dogs were playing (see also: PLAYING) too roughly with each other and a woman, stuck on repeat, kept saying "COME AT ME CORRECT. COME AT ME CORRECT" at least 30 times. Dying inside, I thought "this is no place for my Kingston." Not to mention other people's dogs who would jump up on you with muddy paws. Which I could deal with and not act like a ridiculous idiot because I learned after the first time it happened not to wear nice clothes to the dog park on a muddy day, goddamnit.

I loved Kingston. He slept on my head at night, was super happy (hyper) all the time, and brought me an odd sense of joy and fulfillment I've never gotten from anything else. But Kingston was a really difficult dog.

What I mean to say is that Kingston was crazy. I'm talking shit on the walls crazy. When I would leave, I would put him in his crate which he would routinely move halfway across the room from freaking the fuck out so hard. I would return home from a 2 hour jaunt to find him sitting, panting, with a puddle of what I assumed to be frantic urine (my new term for 2012) underneath him in the crate. It turns out this was actually frantic saliva from separation anxiety-induced panting.

I took him to the Vet, as any responsible pet owner would do when they realized they were trying to do everything they could to make their child- er, pet normal but nothing was taking. The Vet suggested I exercise him more. I walked that dog for 2 hours every day and on most days when I had time, took him to the dog park for an extra hour of full-on running and playing with other dogs. HOW MUCH EXERCISE DOES ONE DOG NEED? They recommended the continued use of a crate. And consistency.

Kingston sits.

After months of training, practicing consistency, and exercise, I became depressed. I started asking everyone I knew who had dogs what I should do. He had unlearned to poopoo/peepee outside. The world was his toilet. He jumped up on people even though I had trained him not to. He had moved on from just moving the crate (which he was inside) about the room. He had bigger fish to fry, now. One time, I went to the grocery store and came back an hour later to find him still in the crate which he had moved 10 feet to my bedside. Oh, and he had found a way to pull my down comforter off the bed, into the crate and rip it to shreds. The feathers. Oh, God, the feathers. They are probably still finding feathers in that fucking house. I would leave for work and come back five hours later to find the same metal crate literally pried open the way that prisoners do to jailbars in cartoons. Kingston had escaped and chewed up no less than fifteen items. I tried everything the Vet said to do, all of the suggestions my friends had given me, and he was still a wild BAMF.

The Vet gave me drugs. I'm sorry, the Vet gave my dog drugs. He said this should calm him down. I was not going to drug my dog every time I left the house. Call me crazy, but I saw my future and it involved picking fights with strangers at the Bark Park. I made the decision that Kingston had to go. I put an ad up on Craigslist stressing the dog's need for exercise and fielded some requests. One day, I took him out to a farm where he was shot and murdered in front of my very eyes. I'm just kidding. But you totally thought I was going there. We really did go to a farm, and there were 4 other dogs there for him to play with. The woman said she would keep him inside that night and see if he could work as an indoor dog.

"He won't." I said.

The next day, she told me about the blinds and number of toys he ruined. I told her he'd be better outside.

I have never in my life felt like such a failure as a human being and I have never in my life ever cried so hard and for so long. It felt like I had murdered him. Giving Kingston away was worse than having my heart broken by some guy because it was an admission of failure. And yet, it was just like so many relationships I've had.

I loved Kingston when I saw him in the pound. He was rough around the edges, just small enough to cuddle, and had a spark to him. I had no idea he'd turn out to be batshit crazy. How was I to know? But these things happen in life. We meet people, and dogs, and try to fit them into our lives and sometimes we can and sometimes we can't. You go to your friends, your doctors, or your ridiculous TV shows to find answers or guidance, but nothing can help you because nothing is exactly what it is that you're going through. Only you know what you have to do, and knowing that everyone will have an opinion on it makes it worse.

I remember I couldn't deal with the judgment. My parents, I felt, were the only ones who truly got it because they dog-sat Kingston numerous times and understood. Everyone else just gave me a look like "You took your dog to a farm?!" I mean, maybe they thought I had him killed. I don't know.

The point is, what I had was not what Kingston needed. He needed, as the Dixie Chicks would say, wide open spaces. Room to make a big mistake, and I'm sure he fucking is making tons of them to this day. It was really hard to face that, but it was the right thing to do and I knew it. Sometimes, people aren't so easy. You can't just take them to a farm. When I was with my ex, I kept asking everyone for advice and they all told me what I needed to do. After I while, I was just convincing them (myself) of why I should stay with him. It wasn't until I accepted that we weren't meant to be that they were happy for me. Because when the moment comes and you realize that you're not meant for each other, you can both be free.

It just takes the courage to put an ad on Craigslist.