Baize
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He was a little dog, somewhere in size between schnauzer and terrier, a mutt, with bat-sized ears and wooly mammoth fur that rose from his body in a disorganized way. He always looked like he’d just woken up and hadn’t combed his hair. His color was a rich brown. He was incredibly quick, could change direction instantly, and was speedy, too, like he was shot out of a pistol. His name was Baize, given to him by my girlfriend, his owner. He had limitless energy, and a great, original talent for mischief. Like many dogs and infants, he couldn’t tell the difference—and didn’t care—between what was a toy bought expressly for him and an object that someone owned that was not a toy. If it appealed to him, he took it. And ate it. Or chewed on it with his sharp little teeth. These purloined objects included his owner’s eyeglasses, combs, and books. He was a clever little thief, I’ll grant him that. For some reason, underwear took his fancy. Who knows why? I was taking a bath once, and left my underwear by the side of the tub. Baize wandered in casually, looked around, left and right, then in an incredibly deft action, snatched my underwear and fled. I really had to hand it to him.
He was a genial little dog, always up for some fun, and insistent. It was hard to tire him out. Since he was so small, he could wedge his taut, muscular body between us and did often, demanding attention. He would not be denied. One way or another, he got what he wanted.
His hearing was beyond acute. We would be sitting on the couch and, without warning, he’d jump onto the floor and begin barking. It was a sharp loud bark. Like a baby’s cry, it broke through everything and went on for too long. Many times we couldn’t figure out what he was alarmed about. Sometimes it seemed he was barking at a neighbor a quarter of a mile away taking out his garbage. Those ears were huge and like many dogs’ ears, could be shifted swiveled, arched, perked in many positions. No sound escaped him.
My girlfriend has a cat, and Baize would often attack her in mock-seriousness, and they would tumble around the house playing at fighting, until Baize would bite her leg a little too hard and she would hiss and jump up on a table where he couldn’t follow her. But she always came back for more. They would rumble from one room to another, rolling around on the floor, thoroughly enjoying things until, as I said, she got tired of him and leapt out of his reach.
Baize, like many other small creatures, did not enjoy being picked up. I think it reminded him of how small he was. He had a forlorn look on his face when you picked him up, and held him like a baby, his belly exposed and his long-nosed face gazing unhappily at you, he’d look at you as if you’d just told him he had to go to the dentist.
Whenever you bring an animal into your life, you should assume they will change the way you live. They will do things that do not fit into what is your normal routine. That is part of the reason you get a pet. But, misguidedly, you assume these things will be amusing and not bother you. But often these changes, these surprises, are not especially desirable. Your dog chewing your $200 glasses beyond recognition is not something you had high on your list of things you were looking forward to your dog doing. Neither is taking a dump on your kitchen floor most every day. These things will all become lore later, but at the time, they are a pain in the ass. But even so, Baize slowly took over our hearts. Because he was in the end a sweet creature, affectionate, not malicious, fun, ever-ready, with a sweet, open face and big smile, and, because of his small size quite, vulnerable. Everything he did, he did from instinct and doggy-ness. He didn’t plot to annoy you. He behaved as he did because he was a dog, pure and simple.
In the end, he was too much for my girlfriend, though. Baize needed to be with other dogs where he could play and romp and dispel some of that limitless energy he had. He needed owners who could match that energy. She had him for a year, and she treated him wonderfully well. When he was sick, she fretted and took him to the vet. She bought him a caravan of toys, and loved him hugely. But he wasn’t getting the companionship and play he needed—neither of us are young—so she took him back to the shelter one day. It was a sad day. It made me especially sad, and I couldn’t figure out why until I realized that I identified with him. Each person’s experience with their pet is different—and he wasn’t even my dog!—and some people I’m sure identify with their pets more than others. But in my case, it was that he was alone and helpless and he was being taken away. That so reminded me of my own childhood. I had to get that under control, and think of Baize himself, but I couldn’t quite do that, and there was a lingering sense of abandonment in me that rests there still and a forlornness at his leaving. We have our pets’ fates in our hands, and they depend on us for their well-being. We take that seriously, if we’re wired right. My girlfriend gave Baize a beautiful year. But he needed more.
I was glad to get a text from my girlfriend that Baize had been adopted the very next day by a young couple. He has a home.
I’ll miss you, Baize. But you’re in my heart.