Play Date

Friends joined us for lunch yesterday and brought along their little rescue mutt, a Jack Russell terrier mix named Mr. Chips.  We’d been looking forward to this play date for weeks – meeting the charming and portable Mr. Chips had, after all, led directly to our deciding to adopt Willie.

As I set the table a knock at the door sent Willie trotting off to investigate.  Richard and I greeted and hugged our human guests while Willie growled and bared his teeth at Mr. Chips.  Instinctively, we humans scooped up our dogs to prevent – or forestall – a clash, but it felt wrong to bring the dogs nose to nose while in our arms.  “Let’s take them outside to get acquainted,” I said.

Out in the yard, the two dogs checked each other’s ID, thoroughly sniffing crotches and butts, then began to run and romp through the snow.  We were all struck by our dogs’ similar sizes and body types — the main difference being Mr. Chips’ short coat compared to Willie’s long, scruffy one.  As they rolled and tumbled like long-lost littermates, I also noted that they shared the same pink bellies with gray freckles.

Back inside, we sat down to lunch as the dogs continued to amuse us with their endless play; they shadowboxed and rolled on the floor; they leap-frogged and tumbled like gymnasts, and they seemed to be having the time of their lives.  And then, with no warning, Mr. Chips ran into the living room, lifted his leg, and let loose with a stream of urine on a carved African drum table from Cameroon, saturating the sisal rug beneath it.

“Mr. Chips!” Richard said.  “No!”

I ran for paper towel and the spray bottle of enzyme cleaner; while still blotting warm urine from the rug I turned in time to see Willie squat and pee beneath my dining chair.

“Willie!” I said. “No!”

More blotting and more spraying of enzyme cleaner served as a disturbing reminder that our pet, our perfect little Willie, is – like Mr. Chips – actually an animal with animal instincts.  And before I made it back to my seat, Mr. Chips piddled again, saturating the wide cotton binding of another rug.

Despite the profuse apologies and reassurances that followed yet another blotting and spraying, a momentary pall settled over our little group; Mr. Chips was zipped back into his travel bag and Willie was exiled to his crate in the kitchen.  And instead of resuming the conversation about how wonderful and adorable our pets were, we theorized on what might have prompted those “accidents.”

What’s the reason for all this indoor peeing?  I felt confused and saddened that, after nearly six weeks of enjoying unrestricted access to the first floor of the house, Willie was back to square one.  In his first days at home, I was aware of every ounce of fluid and food that entered and exited Willie’s body, I knew where he was at all times and I knew what he was chewing on.  Once assured he was “housebroken” I relaxed and stopped worrying about the rugs and the plugs, the antiques and textiles and folk art – fragile, handmade things Richard collected in India and Pakistan decades ago during his university teaching career.  Now I was worried:  What if Willie peed on the Afghani kilim in the sunroom or the wool rug in the office when we weren’t paying attention?

That night, after Richard and I had returned from our separate errands and meetings, we sat together in the kitchen with Willie – the three of us now quarantined behind a new baby gate rigged across the doorway.  I reached for the iPad and pondered how to phrase a web search (“why did my dog pee on the rug?”) then instead, on a whim, I called Willie’s former foster mom, Keri in Louisiana,

“They’re both little boy dogs who haven’t yet learned to share, and the same thing probably would have happened if you’d taken Willie over to your friend’s house.  Mr. Chips was laying claim to some new territory, and Willie was saying ‘There may have been another dog here for a visit, but this is my house.’”

So for now it’s a kind of vigil, as if this were again day one instead of day fifty-four.  And as Willie snoozes, content on my lap in the kitchen, all of us barricaded behind that baby gate, I imagine a sign on the wall, the kind I’ve seen in factories and warehouses where “It’s been ZERO days without an accident.”