“You’re going to have to be firm with her,” he says, amused.
“I know,” I say, as she nudges her nose under my arm, again. “Oh, I know.”
When I hang up, she nestles close and spoons with me, pressing her shaven spine against my soft belly.
*****
Fanny Cranberry is my fourth dog. Named after the Victorian lady explorer I am playing in “On The Verge,” her life of adventure echoes my character’s. Of course, I can only guess at the details.
In the play, Fanny Cranberry travels some of the roughest, meanest pockets of the earth, slips in a bit of time travel, and winds up finding love and a true home in 1955. Our Fanny was found in Cypress Hills, Brooklyn, on the Fourth of July (near a branch of the Brooklyn Public Library, because she is a lady at heart, and likes to be read to, we can see). Burned and bleeding and limping, she found her way to us, through a few well-timed miracles and good people. Now she is indeed home.
My internet sleuthing revealed that, 48 hours before she was found, there was a massive five-alarm warehouse fire in Brooklyn—a kitchen cabinet company. The back of the building collapsed. Her injuries suggest that she had crawled out of burning rubble, somewhere. Deep lacerations and burns covered her back; all of the pads on her paws had been seared off entirely. Her nose was completely burned as well, and she also had a deep cut at the corner of one eye, as if she had propelled herself through broken glass. All of her fur was singed, including her white whiskers, which now curl oddly at the ends.
Even after two baths, she still smells faintly of soot and ashes. Her pink ears are ringed with gray grime impervious to scrubbing. Occasionally, she still gags and coughs with startling intensity, as if her ugly past is caught in her throat.
The warehouse was only two miles from where she was found. It would not surprise me if she’d been a squatter there, trying to stay out of sight, most of the time, perhaps raising pups. She has a penchant for crawling under the house, under beds, in closets. She seems more at ease in the dark.
Our Fanny is still awaiting at least two middle names, one from each of the girls. She may wind up having at least as many names as a show dog. Phoenix. Cypress. Sylvie.
*****
I got a late start in life, with dogs, through no fault of my own. My mother was nervous about dogs and insisted on pets that could be put away for the night. It made her anxious, she said, the thought of “an animal prowling around the house at night.” So guinea pigs and rats and gerbils and hamsters and parakeets and rescued pigeons and tortoises and baby birds were my childhood. We took in anything with feathers, anything that could be kept alive in a warm cage or aquarium, lit gently from above with our family’s trusty “tenser lamp.” I have no idea how to spell “tenser lamp,” or why we called it that. I believe it was a simple white desk lamp, with an earnest, bendable neck. It gave off a nice heat, just right for shivery small creatures.
It is funny what comes back.
*****
I wrangled Ferf, my very first dog, out of a Philadelphia animal shelter when I was 20. He was my birthday present to myself. Initially, the staff were not at all inclined to let him go home with a senior in college, who was planning on taking him to her Iowa farmhouse apartment. But eventually I convinced them to part with Pup 409A, a collie/shepherd/husky mix of about six weeks of age, the darkest and spunkiest of a lively litter. When he died 16 years later, I sent them a photo of him and a thank-you letter, to let them know he’d had a wonderful life.
His first night at home with me that summer in Philadelphia, Ferf proved he was top dog, a true alpha pup, by first pooing directly into my mother’s bedroom slipper. Then he somehow managed to clamber onto the dining room table in the middle of the night, knocking over a myriad of clunky objects, waking us with a yap and a howl to let us know he was not enamored with the cordoned-off sleeping area we’d hastily prepared for him.
I had read every dog book I could get my hands on, from the time I could read. But nothing could have prepared me for Ferf. Two trainers? Three obedience courses? “You’re going to need to show that one who’s boss,” one instructor told me. Ferf yawned, as if this was not news to him.
My roommate had a dog too, during our senior year, a sweet lug of an Aussie shepherd mix. They hit it off famously. Ferf was more than willing to let his buddy take the blame for chewed rugby mouthguards and destroyed sofas. “Who, me?” was his prevailing expression, the weasly bright kid in the back of the class, cracking jokes on the sly, but serving up the right answers when it suited him.
With time and patience on both our parts, Ferf matured beautifully, into the most noble creature I’ve known. A wise protector and, eventually, a true gentleman, he was no pushover. He knew who his peeps were. He felt no need to fawn over anyone too far outside of that inner circle. He loved D and the girls and my family and close friends, but I was his person, and he was my souldog. He died in my arms at home in 2007, after nibbling me once on the nose—something he hadn’t done since he was a pup—before the vet administered the shot that would let him rest, finally.
My eyes still fill with tears when I spot a collie-ish face on a rangy, shepherd-coated dog.
*****
Nanette of Waggin’ Train Rescue had remembered my weakness for collie mixes. She works tirelessly and constantly to shuttle dogs out of the city shelter system in NYC into foster homes and permanent homes in New England. When my lovely Nina (my second dog) died in April 2010, I let Nanette know that Eli (my third dog) was missing his sister. I told her that if the right dog came along, we were here.
Last month, the email came, as I knew it eventually would.
“I saw her, and I thought of you immediately,” Nanette wrote. “Let me know if I should pull her.” The photo attached was, of course, Fanny (who was initially called “Chippie” by the intake staff). She was terrified and cowering against the painted cinderblock backdrop of the Brooklyn Center for Animal Care and Control. Something vaguely collie-ish, yes, but the soul in those eyes is what got me. I began to cry, looking at the fear and the bewilderment there, in that face.
And she looked like a mix of Ferf and Nina and Eli genes. She was a dirty, grimy, broken mix of something very familiar, and very beautiful.
“That’s my girl,” I said before I knew I was saying it. “That’s my girl.”
Yes, I wrote. Yes. I could not have said no.
*****
I asked for more details. Her temperament was apparently lovely, and she allowed handling and dressing of her wounds without complaint, despite the pain she was in. She showed no signs of aggression or fear-biting, not so much as a curled lip or a growl. Did I want to pull her, before they put her down? No one had come forward, and she was found without a collar. Her time was definitely running out. Kennel cough had set in. In her compromised condition, it wasn’t a surprise. But now, she was officially a project. She would take time.
We don’t have much money, but we do have plenty of time.
*****
We met the Mayor’s Alliance for Animals van in a Friendly’s parking lot in Bennington, VT. I took Sophie as my wingwoman. Fanny leapt from the van onto the asphalt, then up into Sophie’s arms. They stood grinning at each other, slow-dancing.
*****
Last night, Fanny trotted over to the dining room table, stood on her hind legs, plucked her rabies vaccination certificate from a pile of papers, and carried it over to her water bowl. She set it down beside the bowl, leaving not so much as a toothmark on the page.
“What was THAT about?” the girls and I asked her. She could not tell us, of course, but she enjoyed the attention and was relieved that she was in no trouble. We need a better filing system here anyway.
Everything is new to her. The shower, the sound of the toilet flushing, staircases, being welcomed inside—again and again—she marvels at it all. We marvel at her marveling.
Eli, who has been a wreck since his beloved sister Nina passed on, has become his steady self once again, lying quietly with his fluffy toy, grinning most of the day. He happily shares the bed with her, ambles beside her contentedly on walks. This is good. I had a hunch it would be this way, with him.
Carlita Kitty and Fanny chase each other (it is quite mutual, this hide-and-seek) through the house. Carlita is teaching Fanny how to play. We caught Fanny in a full-on play bow, wagging her tail, smiling at Carlita, who lazily swatted her with one paw, no claws. I had a hunch it would be this way, with her.
Housetraining, well—a work in progress. The howling when I leave the house—also a work in progress. But she amazes us daily with her eagerness to learn. “Sit” and “down” are her forte. “Stay” is trickier. She’d prefer not to be more than a foot away from us, at all times. “No eating the trash” is also going to take some time. But one sharp word is all it takes to send her scurrying away from whatever it is that she shouldn’t be doing.
We are in no particular hurry.
Her smiles are coming more and more often. I know we are on the right track.
She herds the cat, but won’t fetch. She watches our faces, constantly, waiting for our next words. We are thinking border collie genes.
Her skin is beginning to fill out, her reddish-tan fur with white tuxedo chest is growing silky and lush. Her golden-brown eyes are soft and gentle, still worried at times.
The girls are delighted by Fanny’s affectionate nature. She is the most affectionate dog we have ever had. Although the girls’ squeals and quick movements initially threw her, she’s now learned that boisterous little girls mean no harm and are a source of endless petting and cuddles. At night, when I check on them, she follows me in and out of their rooms, occasionally leaping lightly onto their beds for an extra sniff, just to be sure all is well.
Every night since she came to live with us, she has slept on the bed with me, pressed against my side all night long. I knew if she showed the slightest dominance challenge, it was off the bed for her, end of story. But she has no alpha issues. She merely wants to snuggle, the way a small child snuggles. Sometimes, I wake to her front leg draped over me, holding on for dear life.
Sometimes, she wakes to my arm draped over her, holding on for dear life.
What we rescue, rescues us.
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