be another seven weeks before he would be. The streets are apparently rife with deadly canine diseases. As per my dog trainer’s recommendation, I kept the dog in his crate and would carry him out on a leash every couple hours into the stairwell, where I laid down a couple wee-wee pads. With the leash, I kept him on the pads, but Chipper refused to do as I wanted. He would sit, lie down, and roll around. I would sit on a step while he lay on a pad, bored, waiting. I spent hours in that stairwell, fruitlessly waiting. And apparently, Chipper was waiting, too, because invariably the moment I put him back in his crate, he would pee or poop. And so it went.
After a week of this, I decided to willfully disregard the vet’s instructions, and I carried Chipper outside—I didn’t know this, but when you carry a dog, he won’t eliminate on you, just as he would never eliminate on his mother. And miracle of miracles, he peed and pooped almost immediately! I decided that venturing outside with him within a limited area where there are few dogs and most of the dogs are from my building and are therefore more trustworthy healthwise involved minimal risk, and a risk that I had to assume because my sanity hung in the balance.
Once I started walking Chipper outside, I discovered something extraordinary, at least it was extraordinary for someone like me, who comes from an animal-hating family. I learned that people, at least most people, love dogs. When my children were babies, I got the occasional smile from a stranger gazing at my adorable offspring; on the whole, though, few people care about cute babies. But a puppy? Unbelievable! Young, old, black, white, brown, businessmen, garbage collectors, construction workers, Goth girls, tough guys—everyone from all ages and all walks of life and every part of the world has stopped to pet and play with my dog. We engage in conversations about their dogs at home, about how they are still grieving their dearly departed dogs, about how they wish they could have a dog.
My nurse-practitioner (another one of those fanatics who prefers dogs over babies), upon learning I had gotten a puppy, insisted that I bring him to the cancer center when I came for treatment. I was nervous about potential complaints, as was my oncologist. But my nurse-practitioner blew off Dr. A.C.’s concerns and told me to do it anyhow. I was concerned about leaving Chipper home alone for so long, so I did as I was told, carrying him in a little bag that I tried to hide as I sneaked past the security guard. The waiting room was packed with at least fifty people, as usual. But what was not usual was the sudden burst of energy and life that swept through the room when people realized there was a puppy in their midst. Staff came out of the internal offices and exam rooms, squealing with delight. Patients and their caregivers smiled and stared, and some even rushed over to pet and hold the dog. And little Chipper took it all in stride, basking in the attention and then sleeping on me as I received my infusion. He did not once bark or cry or do anything remotely troubling while at the cancer center. I should mention though that there were a few people in the waiting room who did not look at all excited to see the dog. In fact, I might even characterize their expressions as ones of incredulity and disgust. They were the Chinese people, those of my parents’ generation. I could relate.
House training is going well, now that I know what to do. Chipper stopped crying during the night after three days and now sleeps through without incident. People told me having a puppy was like having a newborn baby. I don’t agree at all. When I don’t want to deal with Chipper, I stick him in his crate. He sleeps through the night and doesn’t require endless breast feeding. I don’t need to change any diapers. He doesn’t cry or bark. When I take him out, I don’t have to bring tons of baby paraphernalia with me. He is much, much easier than a baby.
And the best part about him is his simplicity, the complete lack of complication. I have no expectations of him to be a Rhodes Scholar or concert violinist one day, and he doesn’t chafe under