An Ode to Ernie

Okay I know what many of you are thinking: Is she seriously writing about her dog? Well... yes. Yes I am.

The thing is, I have been warned constantly throughout my pregnancy that I need to be prepared for Ernie to be replaced, in every sense, by the new baby.  They say that he will become “just a pet”, or even a nuisance, according to some. And that most likely, the space in my mind and heart that has been completely, effortlessly dedicated to him will soon belong exclusively to her.  I’m not sure that I believe these things, but since I have not yet experienced little C’s arrival, I have no choice but to consider and respect this advice. Therefore, I have decided to record the incredible gift that Ernie has been in my life, so that whatever unpredictable shift that may occur in the upcoming weeks, I can refer back here and remember the crazy, ridiculous, inexplicable, furry love that changed me in so many ways.

Obviously, I love my dog. But really, that does not accurately describe our relationship. He is so much more to me than a pet, it’s actually pretty ridiculous. I have had other dogs in my life, and I loved them too; they were fantastic animals. And arguably better “pets”, in the traditional sense, than Ernie has been. But Ernie is truly my friend. My child. My guardian, my heart.

 I try to explain it to people, usually beginning with something like “It’s like he understands what I’m saying.” Or, “He knows what I’m thinking.” And they generally smile politely, and nod, as I probably would if someone said these things to me. But there are a couple of people that can actually attest to these unbelievable and hilarious characteristics of our relationship, mostly because they have lived with us. One is my brother Bubba, and the other, of course, is Christopher. Chris is my biggest proof because he is a true “convert”. Upon meeting Ernie, he was admittedly afraid, mostly of his intimidating size/coat/breed. He was polite to Ernie, but mostly inconvenienced by his neediness.  Ernie wasn’t allowed in his car, or at his house… not that I asked, but I understood how others saw Ernie, and didn’t push the issue. Needless to say, Ernie spent quite a bit of time with Uncle Bubba those first couple of months.  But over time, I would invite Chris to meet Ernie and I places, the park, the river, pretty much anywhere he was allowed, and almost as quickly as Ernie fell in love with Chris, Chris realized he wasn’t your ordinary mutt. Ernie is not only allowed in Chris’s truck now, the backseat has been specifically customized for Ernie’s optimal riding comfort. We cannot pass a promotional supermarket display of “babies” (Any stuffed animal, intended for pets or not) without Chris picking one out for Ern. It absolutely melts my heart to admit that they have become so close, that I sometimes have to fight for their attention- and my spot in bed. Ernie is no longer “my” dog, he is “our” dog… sometimes even “Chris’ dog.” And as far as his ability to understand us, and know what we are thinking- ask Chris. He’ll tell you. It’s insane.

We’ve come so far, Ernie and I, that I sometimes forget the incredibly strange circumstances under which Ernie came into my life. I had been wanting a dog badly for a very long time, but knew that I couldn’t have one anytime soon. I was a senior in college, with another year ahead of me, and working at Bally as a graphics intern in my free time. I was living in a teeny, tiny house with no time, or space, for a pup. But still, I would peruse the pet classifieds in the newspaper and even sometimes visit pet stores and/or new litters for sale, with no intention to adopt, just to get my furry fix. Somehow, through my online browsing, I was placed on an email list for a rescue shelter in Sparks, NV that sent out weekly adoption updates. The first email I ever received was a picture of two 7-week-old pups; one fawn, one brindle. They were siblings, a girl and a boy. The email indicated they were Mastiff crosses, and the female was beautiful with her traditional Mastiff coloring. I had to see her. I enlisted a friend to come with me, with the strict instructions NOT to let me adopt a dog. We were told to meet the foster parents of the pup at a discount pet supply warehouse in Sparks; we were unsettled by these strange, illegal-drug-deal-transaction-like circumstances, but we went anyway. After about 15 minutes of awkwardly waiting inside the dimly-lit warehouse, the foster family showed up carrying an extra-large kennel. Odd, I thought, for one 7-week-old, 8 lb. pup. But when she opened the gate, out charged an energetic, brindle ball of wrinkles with perhaps the largest paws I had ever seen on a dog, their size emphasized by his hilarious inability NOT to trip over them. He ran up to us as if he recognized us, wagging his tiny tail so hard that it threw his little buns from side to side. I was so enamored with this little creature, his personality so huge and amusing that it was almost thirty minutes before I realized that this was not the dog I had come here to see. I quickly got up to meet her and found that the kennel, and the foster family, were gone. I turned to ask the store clerk where they had gone, when the door chimes sounded and the woman who had been carrying the kennel re-entered, carrying only a piece of paper. She informed me that the paper was the information sheet I had filled out in order to see the pups, and I just needed to sign it. I wasn’t clear on the purpose of this contract, but obliged. She handed me a card with her name and number on it and then bent down to pet the stripy animal sitting on my shoes. And then she was gone. 

Apparently, I had just adopted a dog. I had nothing for a dog. For the first time I realized that it was perhaps a positive thing that I was already at a discount pet supply warehouse; and wondered briefly if this was possibly the reason that this was her meet-and-greet location of choice. I bought everything, dog bowls, collar, leash, dog bed, dog toys, bones. I left feeling prepared, but quickly realized that there was NOTHING, not anything that I could have bought or left with that evening that could have ever prepared me for what was to come. 

As much as I love Ernie, we all know that he hasn’t been the easiest dog. All the time in the world would not be enough to explain the issues he has had. For a healthy animal, he has had more injuries, afflictions, disorders and general hardships than any dog, or pet for that matter, that I have ever heard of. Almost all a direct result of his intense, restless, unrelenting, incurable separation anxiety. I had never heard of separation anxiety before having Ernie, and definitely did not understand it at first. But after thorough research, I began the all-consuming task of curing him. This issue affected everything. He could not be left alone, whether in a crate or free in the house. If he was crated, he would bloody his paws trying to get out. If he was loose in the house, he would tear down every curtain and every set of blinds on every window he could access, destroying anything in his path. The worst part was that he would always somehow hurt himself in the process. I put him on a behavior modification plan, resulting in the most wonderfully obedient pet while I was home, but did not affect his behavior when I was gone. I exercised him to exhaustion; he would fall asleep in the car within moments of leaving the park. But the minute he was alone, he was driven by pure adrenaline and panic and found the energy to attempt his “escape”.  I hired a dog behaviorist to come to my house and work with him. She guaranteed her work, and told me that she had never had a case of separation anxiety that she hadn’t been able to cure. After her third visit, she stopped returning my calls. Needless to say, he was not cured. I bought every edition of Cesar Milan’s dog training manuals, and then when I couldn’t get his technique’s to work myself, applied to be on his TV show. Finally, an anxiety medicine was approved for dogs (previously they had used human valium to treat canine anxiety-no thanks.) so we got a prescription. The medicine, in conjunction with a two-week vacation from work to teach him how to be “happy” in his kennel, (including several nights of me sleeping IN his kennel with him) gave us some peace. He learned to be relaxed while in his “house”, and I knew he was safe. This process, from chaos and thousands of dollars in vet bills to a safe, injury-free daily existence took over a year.  People that meet him now could not begin to understand what it used to be like, and how far we have come, but I am so proud of his progress and of myself for not giving up. (As so many people suggested I do.)

He has taught me, like no one else could, the most incredible patience and understanding. Anger and sadness and frustration would just confuse him and worsen his anxiety, so I had to learn to cope without them. I sacrificed more than I thought possible just to keep him safe and happy – money/stability, friends, opportunities. I often wondered why he and I were put together, when I was so incapable of caring for an animal with his level of needs. But I realize now that he was just preparing me for motherhood. I will undoubtedly be a better mother because of Ernie.

I know that this baby girl will bring new trials and lessons, but I can’t help but notice the sweet similarities between how these two adventures began and how they are connected. Ernie was, after all, my FIRST unexpected blessing. I just hope I have enough room in my heart for both of them.