An ode to my dog, Ronnie

Who rescued who, anyway?

Jan 25, 2024

I didn’t think I could fall in love again.

I had just turned 40. I was settled down. Entrenched. Set in my ways.

More importantly, I was already married. With kids.

And yet. There she was, sitting in my lap. Charming, cute and irresistible as could be. And in spite of my misgivings, I was taking her home.

I had been warned about her. That she would steal my heart, and maybe my favorite slippers. That she would be hilarious yet pushy, loving yet demanding, intelligent but with occasional boundary issues. That she’d pilfer a Whataburger right off your plate, then crawl into your bed later as if nothing had happened.

And I had started to suspect that it was all true.

This was two years ago, and life hasn’t been the same since. Veronica*, alias Ronnie**, alias Boo Boo, alias Wigglebutt, joined our family on a bone-chilling January day. On the drive home, she hopped up into my lap, and she hasn’t really let me be since.

The good in those early days: Her foster family had house-trained her. (The mom in the mother-daughter duo was German-born, and I suspect she firmly declined to suffer any canine foolishness.)

The bad: She loved to chew on things. Couches. Rugs. The aforementioned slippers, not to mention some desert boots, a pair of flip-flops, a neighbor kid’s shoes, several blankets, and at least one pair of overpriced gym shorts (mine).***

And while she generally seems inclined to remain home where it’s safe, warm, and stocked with chow, she has made a few valiant escape attempts:

Escape attempt #1

At night, she saw a neighbor putting out her trash bins, and started running across the street to say hello. Unfortunately, right then, a car was barreling toward her in the darkness. Our neighbor leapt in front of the vehicle, and fortunately, the teen behind the wheel saw what was transpiring before running over anyone, human or dog.

Escape attempt #2

One afternoon, I let her outside to do her business. I was at home, working, and after some time went by, I started to wonder where she was. I went to the backyard to check and saw that, whoops, our gate had been left open. And Ronnie, presumably, had gone exploring. We live near a busy street, so I hustled out front with my heart in my throat. No sign of her in any direction. I hopped in my car. It had been at least a half hour. I hurriedly backed out, debating which way to go, when lo and behold, guess who came sauntering down the street as if she had just gone on an innocent little walkabout…

Escape attempt #3

Then there was the time she was playing in a neighbor’s yard, and got so scared after another dog joined the fray, that she sprinted out of the gate before I could leash her, and led me on a five-block sprint in the dark before ultimately surrendering to her panicked (and out-of-breath) human.

We’ve had some good times, of course, and I think we have a lot in common. We’re both uncommonly charismatic (obviously). We both possess an overbearing love for our human companions. We both enjoy a good walk. We’re both enchanted by strangers, but a little too timid to actually, like, say hello to them (unless we really, really want to play). We both hover over other people’s leftovers like vultures who have never been fed. We both would rather be napping.

Once, at the local ball team’s Pints and Pups Night — where beer is cheapish and dogs are welcome — I was walking her around the concourse when a staff member hopped in front of me. Would we like to take part in a contest? Of course! She told me to bring Ronnie down by the info desk between the fourth and fifth inning, and I did as told (bringing the family along, of course).

It was a peanut butter eating contest, they told me, and I felt confident that Ronnie would win, because she loves peanut butter. So much so that I informed the other dog’s humans that they should enjoy the consolation prize, a package of dog treats and the like, because we were gonna win. The ushers brought us out at the appointed time, and Ronnie and I were directed to the roof of the third base dugout, along with the competing dog and human. You might think that Triple-A ballplayers would be jaded about mid-game contests, and you would be wrong. Instead, the guys on the team leaned back on the railing to get a better view and cheer as a frightened Ronnie refused to eat any of the peanut butter. (If they couldn’t see, we were helpfully displayed on the giant TV beyond left field.) Time slowly ticked down and we came in a distant second place. The only thing either of us ate was crow.

—

Those who know me might be surprised by this turn of events. Not only was I not a dog person growing up, I was terrified of them. Some of this was inherited. (Another story for another time.) Some of this was due to some less-than-stellar early experiences — the German shepherds that snarled at me on my walks to elementary school, the caged-up dogs that reeked of feces and urine next to the house where I mowed lawns for spending money. (I realized much later they were being mistreated.) Dogs, in my estimation, were messy, ornery, and mean. I could live without them.

I say the following with admiration and kindness: My wife wore me down. It took years. Like, 14 years. She’s a dog person — grew up with them, gets along with them, understands them on a deeper level than most of us understand anyone or anything. And she clearly passed that along to our daughter, who shares an intuitive understanding of how to be with dogs, and they love her for it.

So after much persuading from the two of them, we agreed to meet up with the foster family of the rescue puppy already named Veronica. And I’m so glad we did. She needed us, or at least someone — she had been found wandering on the outskirts of Austin, and a dog like her wouldn’t last long under those circumstances. And we needed her — or at least I did, more than I knew at the time.

We got the feeling that this had the potential to be a failed foster situation. Ronnie was (and is) sweet, shy, special. So we acted quickly, and before I knew it, I was driving home with a puppy on my lap.****

I realized soon afterward that this was a significant moment in my life. There had been something inside me that was, maybe not broken, but at least a little bit empty. George Harrison once said that every love song is actually about the divine, and I do wonder if there is something about our relationship with dogs that transpires on a higher, mystical, dare I say cosmic level. (I mean, it better, given how much we clean up their poop.) There is a fulfillment and a peace that overwhelms me when I’m alone with her, one that transcends or at least defies description.

A friend once told me dogs can’t really love people, at least not in the way scientists understand love, and I reluctantly think he’s right. But I also think he’s missing the point. Love is a verb, and we love dogs by serving them — providing for them, feeding them, walking them, playing with them, and oh did I mention picking up poop?

In return, they give us comfort. Joy. And unconditional affection (which some might call love). And … that’s really it.

There’s something important happening there, something I’ve had to learn (and re-learn, and re-learn…). That loving someone is an act of service. It’s about humbling yourself, about giving of yourself without concern for what you’re getting. It’s about presence, and bearing witness.

So much of what our culture teaches us about love is performative — think of John Cusack holding his boombox outside Ione Skye’s house — when the reality is much less glamorous. Love is about showing up. About providing care. About doing it consistently and without reward or even a thank you.

To experience this with a dog is to learn how to better love your children, your partner, your friends and family, your community. I’m not saying I’m perfect or even good at it, but loving Ronnie has been my window into a more open-hearted way of living in the world, and I’m grateful for it.

I’m grateful for her.

—

This week’s playlist is all about dogs, of course, but you’ll probably notice another theme. Let’s just say there’s some truth in that old joke about what happens when you play a country song backwards: You get your wife back, you get your job back, you get your dog back…

So consider yourself warned: Many of the pups in these tunes don’t make it. I would advise keeping a hanky close by, or maybe closing the door if you’re listening at the office. Especially if you chase it with Jimmy Stewart reading a tearjerking poem about his dog named Beau on The Tonight Show in 1981.

And especially if you know, deep down, that the dog who so often crawls next to you in bed and sighs when you pet her, like Stewart’s Beau once did, some day won’t.

*Especially at first, I would introduce her as “This is Ronnie, short for Veronica.” To which one person memorably replied with a laugh, “This is Fido, short for pain in my ass.” (The dog wasn’t actually named Fido, but I don’t remember the real name, and the family moved to Colorado right after we met them, so Fido it is!)

**In an eerie coincidence, Veronica “Ronnie” Spector, died within a week of Ronnie’s arrival in our life, so the song “Be My Baby” feels appropriate.

***She’s calmed down since then. We forgave her, of course.

****I’m often asked what breed she is, and I don’t know. Part lab. Part anatolian. Part… who knows. But as I often say, she is absolutely, certifiably 100% adorable.