Up dog

Identity crises ensue when a dog enters the cat house

I wake up every day at 5 a.m. to take the dog out. This used to be my time. There are few things better than waking up before the sun, drinking a pot of coffee, writing, reading, or just basking in the quiet before work. 

But now I wake up and immediately calculate the hours it’s been since the dog has been out, and it always seems like it’s been too long. He needs to go. He’s probably suffering. He’s probably developing kidney stones. Can dogs even do that? 

But no, Porter, the dog, is still asleep on the couch. In fact, he looks slightly annoyed when I wake him up. But once he understands what we’re doing, he whisks the annoyance away with a wagging tail. 

Outside, we both shuffle through the dark. The silence of the morning is only accentuated when we’re outside. No cars, no people, but most importantly, no other dogs. Porter’’s leash-aggressive, and just the mere sight of another similar-size mutt will trigger something fierce. He’ll thrash against his leash and whip drool around his snout in a way that makes him look completely insane. 

Porter urinates on the wheels of a truck parked on the street. I’m too tired to pull him away. Sorry, neighbors. I briefly think about Porter’s intent here. I’ve spent the last eight years trying to discern why my cat will piss on certain articles of my clothing and what message he’s trying to convey, and now I’m doing it with a dog. The psychology behind animal toilet behavior lives rent-free in my mind. 

It takes a good amount of time for Porter to find a place to shit. As soon as it looks like he’s found a spot, a car will drive by or a blade of grass will move, and Porter will get stage fright. We’ll have to sniff out a new spot. Repeat and repeat. There goes any hope of me getting any writing finished this morning. 

Finally, he finds a place, usually in some tall grass beyond the light of any house or street lamp. I pull the poo-bag out of its dispenser. These things are scented now, and I can’t help but marvel at humankind’s capacity for innovation. I slide my hand into the aromatic bag and loop Porter’s leash around my other wrist. I pull out my phone to use the flashlight. It’s an awkward, clumsy process that has me spotlighting around in the tall grass. My other hand is bagged and ready, poised like Swayze just before he rips out a throat in Roadhouse. 

I pick up what he’s left behind, still warm, and try not to gag. I tie off the bag and we begin our walk home. Porter trots, happy and light, and the bag of his shit—clutched in my other fist—knocks against my thigh. 

I’m still very much getting used to being a dog person. 

***

When I was growing up, we always had dogs. At one point, our family had four. Dogs were just always around. 

But that was in Utah. Space was more abundant. We had a sizable yard for pets to run around, and access to nearby hiking trails. Comparatively, San Diego has never felt like a good place to have a dog to me, but then again, no city does.

Which is why I’ve become a cat person. I’ve never lived in a house or apartment in San Diego that seemed suitable for a dog, but a cat? They’re happy to rule over as much or as little space as they can, as long as they can do it with totality. They’ll look at a 300 square foot apartment and be like, “Thine kingdom.” 

***

Porter was my father-in-law’s companion dog, but after an injury prevents him from being able to take care of the Porter, my wife Jessica and I let the dog stay with us until we find him a new home. I’m nervous about how Porter will be around our cats—both of whom are terrified of dogs, and Porter’s got a mouth the size of Jaws. One quick snap and poof—no cats. But I also know that Harvey, a fierce old cat, will defend himself if he needs to, and I have gruesome visions of Porter’s eye hanging out after a friendly attempt to socialize with Harv. 

I try half-heartedly to find a new home for Porter. We don’t know much about his past, but it’s evident that he’s been in and out of shelters. He’s got scars. He’s seen some shit. All I want is to find him a home where he can feel safe. I post on social media and reach out to lab rescues, but it’s hard to find a place for a dog who’s aggressive to other dogs. 

One night I ask Jessica what the ideal situation is. We both look into his big, sad brown eyes, and we both know the answer.

Cut to Harvey, watching from the hallway, wishing for death to us all. 

***

Harvey begins jumping over the pet gate that divides our house between respective cat and dog zones. His fear of dogs isn’t strong enough to counteract his intense desire to rule the house. He creeps his way toward Porter’s water bowl and begins drinking. When Porter walks over to say hi, Harvey faces him, pupils as big as dimes, and hisses. 

Harvey has always been obsessed with water, but this is different. This is domination. 

Porter bows his head and returns to his spot on the couch while the cat laps up his water. Harvey then spends the next few hours guarding the water bowl. 

Later that evening, when I’m lying on the couch and Porter’s curled up at my feet, Harvey jumps onto the couch and Bats porter in the face multiple times. I spritz Harvey with a spray bottle and he retreats to the coffee table, where he looks between me and Porter and whispers (if cats could whisper): “Fuuuuuck you.” 

***

In our age of cultural binaries, how can you be both a dog and cat person? This conundrum is compounded by the fact that ours is an era obsessed with personal branding, where people base their entire personality on completely arbitrary things. You’re a [astrological sign]—a designation that’s completely out of your control, yet you adhere to it like predestination? Cool. You’re an introvert, an empath, a person who hates the word “moist”, a craft beer-head, a dog person, a cat person? Buddy, have I got some personalities for you.

But I’m no better. Scroll back through my Instagram and it’s 70% cats. In my house, there are cat magnets, cat art, cat sculptures, even a ceramic heat tile illustrated with a sleeping cat that reads: “The cat owns the house, we just pay the mortgage.” 

By adding a dog to the household, what will that do to my personality? Will our cat friends still like us? Do we try to make new dog friends? Or are we cast out into some gray area of animal people who swing both ways?

***

We assign Porter a big, dopey dog voice. When I come home from work, I ask Porter if he’s been a good dog, and then I’ll respond in his voice, “Yes, I been good dog! Tank you!” Most of Porter’s dialogue is “I’m a dog! I’m a dog!” When we’re out and he’s trotting, he’s saying “I’m a dog! I’m a dog! I’m a dog!” to the rhythm of his steps. 

But then I check myself. This cruel imitation is certainly a product of the cat supremacy that still dominates my thinking. How will I ever learn to fully show Porter the respect he deserves if his voice is that of a village idiot? 

So every once in a while, I change his voice from dopey dog to dignified British art critic. 

“Yes, indeed, I am a dog.” 

***

Every walk is strategic. At the top of our street, there are two dogs behind fences that love to set Porter off. There’s also a guy who likes to walk his dog without a leash. At another house, there are two chihuahuas who wear sweaters and they go nuts when we walk by. 

I’ve tried to memorize the times when these dogs are outside, searching for windows of time when I can take Porter out without him experiencing a ferocious anxiety attack. 

But sometimes there’s just a random guy running with his dog, even early in the morning, and Porter will begin spinning, pulling, barking, spitting like the Tazmanian devil. We’ve been trying to train him to be better on his leash, but In those instances, I’ll drag him out of that situation, a straight-up flight from the fight or flight handbook. 

When we get home safe, I look at Porter, the viscous beast, and he looks back with a concerned, sad face. “Sorry, old chap,” he says, Britishly. “I suppose I let my emotions get the better of me.”

***

The first morning after we take the pet gate down, I wake up to a big pile of dogshit in my office. Perhaps this is Porter’s attempt at territorial domination, or some misguided attempt at revenge for Harvey blocking the water bowl. 

The next day, I enter my office and find my work shoes splattered with dog piss. Like, a lot of piss. Christ. I’m caught in the middle of passive-aggressive war—for territory or human love, I do not know. 

Once again, though, I have to check myself. This is cat-centric type thinking. Cats are the conniving ones, their behavior rooted in petty grudges and retaliation for misdeeds only they know. I’d say over the past eight years, a good portion of my mental stamina has been spent trying to understand why Harvey behaves the way he does. 

But dogs aren’t that complicated. I realize that Porter must’ve just thought my office was the bathroom because of the cat box in there. 

Pet gate goes up in the door of my office. No more messes. “I’m so smart,” I think, right before catching my jorts on the gate as I step over it.

***

When he’s at home, and the cats are asleep, and there’s nothing to trigger Porter’s anxiety, he’s the Best Boy. “Porter the Polite,” some friends call him. He can walk around in the backyard without a leash and won’t run away. He’ll roll around in the gravel, maybe eat some grass, and ask to go back inside if it gets too hot. He likes sleeping on the couch and watching TV with me. If I’m reading, he’ll snuggle up. He’s the most huggable dog. Even when he’s losing his mind, looking all drooly and rabid, I can’t imagine life without him. 

(sorry, had to type that paragraph real quick while Harvey wasn’t looking). 

***

In all the werewolf movies, the transformation is always a painful experience. New eyes, new hair, new teeth, new ways the body can bend. It’s all involuntary and gruesome. But afterwards, once the transformation into wolf man is complete, life just seems fuller, better, and more fun, even when it gets a little messy. 

Wolf man, dog man. No difference. 

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