Merwin and Merwin : June 2018

Merwin wasn't the dog we were supposed to get. We were supposed to adopt Freckles. We'd bought the bed and the food and the squeaky toys and the crate and bowls for Freckles, not Merwin. But before Freckles even finished his long journey from somewhere down south as part of a group of pilots who fly dogs out of high kill shelters, his pilot fell in love with him and adopted him on the spot. We received the call about an hour before we were supposed to pick up Freckles. I was devastated. But then Simon saw a similar tan and white cocker spaniel named "Puppy" on the New Hampshire SPCA's website. We drove up from Boston first thing the next morning.

"Puppy" hated us. They put us in a room with him to get to know him better. The room had two doors and Puppy ran back and forth between them for the entire 20 minutes we were in there with him. I remember looking at Simon and saying "What should we do?" and Simon said, "Obviously, we should adopt him."

We were rookie dog owners so I sat in the back seat of the car with Puppy on the way home because I wasn't sure if you were supposed to do that. During the drive, we agreed that keeping the name Puppy would be downright cruel, so we tossed around ideas. l had been set on naming our first dog Ranger in honor of the New York Rangers. But we knew almost immediately that this dog could not match the strength and power behind such a name. What about Albert after Simon's favorite Cardinals player Albert Pujols? Nixed it because he could get traded or something (he did get traded). Along those lines, Simon offered "Stan" after Cardinals legend and Polish icon, Stan Musial. A bit too creepy guy in the corner of the office for me. Then it came to me. This dog seemed to be an oddball kind of anti-social recluse with a nerdy, reserved side. My horribly stereotypical image of poets is that they are like that. My favorite poet is WS Merwin. Merwin, the dog, was "born."

I distinctly remember him running into our Somerville apartment sniffing everything in sight and jumping right up on the couch. Even though he was one-ish, it was a long journey to train him. He knew some general house rules and could, for the most part, do his business outside, but it was pretty clear he had likely been abused at his former home in NH, or at the least, severely neglected. Everything scared him. He was terrified of people and would bark his head off at everyone we encountered. He was fearful and therefore aggressive to other dogs. Any other dogs. All other dogs.

It's hard to think back on those days and remember how far he's come. It wasn't without a lot of training, meeting with a behavioral specialist, and constantly reassuring him that people aren't all bad and other dogs just want to play. He got better year after year, most recently getting over his hatred of toddlers after realizing they were vehicles for tasty fallen food morsels.

The one thing he was good at almost immediately was sticking by our sides. We had read somewhere that adopted dogs don't "love" their owners until 6 months into their relationships. It was a running joke between us, me asking "Does he love us yet?" Simon responding, "Not yet." But he did. He loved us from the beginning, even if it was only because we were the ones to feed him and to be there with him when he was petrified of being left alone.

It's funny the way absolutely everything about our life has the dog in it, maybe not as the focal point, but when I picture the last 8 years, he's always there. Perhaps at the edges of things, the fringe, but his little self was always involved, even if it was just tagging along in the backseat of the car, curled into his bed as we drove wherever. Or at the lake. We've never been there without him, shadowing us in the house, as we did yardwork, or played cards on the deck. It's as if every memory of the years with him is a photograph. In some of them, he's the subject, front and center doing something completely strange and wacky. In others though, he's along the border, a backdrop to the sunset or a little batch of fur nearly tucked out of the frame while other things were in the lead. But he's in all of them.

It's amazingly difficult to imagine any of those photos without him. It's agonizing to try to peel back his presence in our lives and realize it won't be like that anymore. This grief, this devastation is so total, so overwhelming. Just like he was so total in our lives, impacting every part of them by just being present for all those moments.

He has served as my faithful companion this last year as I've transitioned out of my job and spent a lot more time home contemplating next steps. I'm so grateful for that time we had together. I don't know how to be in this house without him. Without his little sighs and sounds, without his enthusiastic, spastic greetings when I walk through the door, without his huge brown eyes, or those ears that perk up if you say "treat" or any word that sounds remotely like it. But more than that, and it's hard to explain, I always just felt him in the background, a constant presence that filled this place with his little spirit. Merwin, and all the doggies, are always just there, steadfast in their willingness to give everything to the ones they love.

Thanks, Merwin, for being the perfect little oddball that you were. We feel honored to have been your humans and only wish we could've stayed with you a bit longer. Thanks for bringing your sweet self into our lives and changing them for the better, so much better.

Wherever you're off to, I hope the tennis balls are infinite, treats flow like water, you can run full speed through the woods at all hours, and you meet up with the people and creatures that beat you there. I know they'll be excited to see you.

It turns out you were the dog we were supposed to get. We were the people you were supposed to get. We love you.