Jackpot

We thought we rescued her. I’m not so sure.

Every dog owner thinks their little Chu-Chu or Poo-Poo is the cutest, smartest, fastest, bestest dog in the world.

Yo…every dog owner: you’re wrong.

Peasley is the cutest, smartest, fastest, and bestest dog in the world.

When she feels like it…

A rescue mutt, Peasley came into our lives over twelve years ago. Her doppelgänger, an old Scottish, somewhat drunken man, describes Peasley’s early years as “living on the mean streets of Bakersfield.”

At the time she came into our lives, we had another dog. Boo was a goldendoodle from a not-at-all-mean doodle farm in Alabama. Boo was a wonderful, loving, kind dog who sadly had to be sent to her next incarnation after living with us for all of her 15 ½ years.

One day, my wife Traci was dropping Boo off at the groomer and saw a wiry, scrawny, dirty thing peeking out from behind a door—no doubt giving off the “Will you love me?” stink eye. The groomer noted that she and her sister made monthly trips to Bakersfield to retrieve rescues, and “Easy Peasy” was one from their most recent visit. Traci leaned down to pet her and fell in love, but also warily assumed I wouldn’t be interested in another dog.

She called to confirm.

“Are you kidding? I’d love another dog,” was my response. (We’re on the same page about most things, really.)

The groomer, to her credit, thought it best she clean up the mutt and that we introduce the girls at a neutral spot—a nearby park, just in case. No worries. Boo, to her credit, was very chill and had no issues with Easy Peasy. Jensen, then 9, decided on the spot that Easy Peasy was going to come home with us, and by the way, her name was going to be Peasley.

A grand name for this less-than-grandiose little thing!

When you rescue a rescue, you’re inheriting whatever has happened to that poor being in its earlier life. You also inherit the resulting behaviors. Peasley has more than her share.

I call them Peasiosyncrasies.

To wit:

• Food. After we put down food for her, Peas will circle the bowl a few times, then cautiously take a few nibbles. When she finally realizes the food isn’t going to eat her, she proceeds to ravenously suck it down. So fast, she ends up belching—very loudly—soon after. On top of her bougie dog food, we sprinkle several pieces of white-meat chicken. Not just any chicken—Sprouts chicken. None of that Whole Foods stuff, either. And if the chicken is more than one week old, it ain’t happening. This is an animal whose diet was mostly hard-fought-for dead rat innards before moving in with us. Go figure. And left to her own devices, Peasley would eat until she explodes. She usually has dinner at 5:30 pm, and an hour later, when we’re having dinner, she’s nipping at our heels as if she hasn’t eaten in a month.

• Person. Peasley’s person is Traci. She follows her around the house 24/7, in any and every room, even the bathroom. She debates jumping in the shower with Traci, but seems mostly content sitting on the mat directly outside the shower door. As I wrote in Wanted Help, she won’t eat for a day or two when Traci leaves town, as if in protest. Eventually, she’ll begrudgingly eat, protestations giving way to extreme hunger, no doubt.

• Teeth. Clearly, there wasn’t enough in the family budget for toothbrushes back in Bakersfield. Consequently, Peasley has had to have most of her teeth removed. She has her canines and a few others here and there in her mouth. Every once in a while, the profile view of her snaggletooth slightly hanging out on top of her lower jaw is quite the sight. I haven’t been able to capture it yet, but stay tuned. And I don’t know if it’s the lack of teeth, or whatever, but her breath is, uh………not great.

• Ticker. Her heart is not tip-top. No doubt that the multi-pack-a-day habit down in Bakersfield finally caught up with her. There are few days in the week when a box from Chewy doesn’t show up at our door. Being the elders of the house, Peasley and I share meds—amlodipine (heart) and gabapentin. She takes the latter for stress, like going to the vet; I take it for my knees. Although I think Peasley’s knees are starting to go—good thing there are not one, but two “advanced ortho surgery” vets nearby. (I kid you not.)

• Eyes. Her sight seems good, but she continues to develop small growths on her eyelids. So she sees an optometrist; I have visions of the doctor saying to Peas, “OK, cover your right eye and tell me the smallest letter on the screen you can see.”

• Hats and work boots. In Bakersfield, I’m sure she had some unpleasant encounters with men wearing work boots and ball caps. She’s aggressively gone after the ankles of several unsuspecting men dressed like this over the years. Back when she had teeth, it was an issue. Now, not so much. But even I get the side glare and an occasional growl when wearing a hat.

• Who am her? For the longest time, we were sure Peas was a Havanese, with maybe a little cat, rat, or bat mixed in. When she was more spry, she had the “Havanese hop” when walking quickly. We decided to have her DNA tested. She’s mostly Bichon Frise, with a bit of Papillon and Poodle. Sounds impressive, but my guess is that one day, an unsuspecting owner of a Bichon took their eye off the dog for a bit too long, and the rest is history.

The funny thing is, none of the above is why I love her so much. That’s just the stuff that makes me laugh. What I really love is who she became after everything she’d been through.

I love her because she wakes up every morning knowing that today is going to be a great day. Peas is quick to forgive, even with her rugged past. Me? I still remember shade from a cousin at Thanksgiving in 1964.

Despite her past, Peasley still assumes the best of people. Sure, she barks when strangers come to the door, but it’s always with her tail wagging and always hoping for a belly rub or at least a scratch under her chin. And she’ll return the favor by voraciously licking whomever it is who is showing her love. And she doesn’t assign labels to people other than “potential food source.”

I have theories about reincarnation. I do believe that when humans return, we come back as a higher being. I’m pretty sure with dogs, reincarnation works both ways. Most dogs come back as people, but there are people—the kind who’ve had truly difficult lives—who come back as dogs. Those are the ones who live in Marin County, California.

Maybe—no—probably, Peasley.

Peasley no longer sees the groomer who brought her back from Bakersfield. The stress was too much for her, and no amount of gabapentin seemed to help. So a mobile groomer now comes to the house. In a Mercedes Sprinter Van. And charges a fortune.

I still see the former groomer’s store. It’s next to where I get my stress-free, way-less-expensive haircuts. As I pass by, I always think of the groomer marveling at how Peasley “hit the jackpot” when she was taken in by our family.

On mornings when I wake up, and there’s no space between my nose and Peasley’s little black nose, with her breath that could stop a bison, her eyes closed, and her heartbeat a bit labored but still there, I think…

I’m the one who hit the jackpot.

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