Jo-Ann Mapson

The Everlasting Pet Follies
and My First Alaskan Thanksgiving

First of all, it's nearly Thanksgiving and there's still no snow on the ground. My new skis have evolved into a dusty sculpture in the living room, which now has a new guest, either a vole or one extremely athletic mouse, because it had to climb two staircases to get under the stereo cabinet where it's currently hiding. I wonder if Alaska is toying with me weather-wise. Will a blizzard of Biblical proportions land when I least expect it? Every morning I look out the window hopefully and spy only frost. Scientists say global warming is most visible in the Arctic.

Why is the environment so easy to dismiss until it's in our faces? Here I am, the sensitive English teacher who refuses to let her students write about factory farming or animal testing because four years of research papers have indelibly burned these injustices into my brainpan. Yet it's so easy to order a hamburger and forget the cow it came from. I've toyed with a vegetarian diet for years, but it takes a crisis to make me remember my values.

Like a pork chop bone.

Verbena Mea culpa; I ate one the other night. I was just picking my plate up to take to the sink when this black-and-white missile shot out from under the table. All ten pounds of Papillon launched into the air, swiping the bone off my plate and racing behind the couch. A classic Papillon battle move from Verbena, the dog given to me by a former English 100 student. (Student got a B in the class.) The bone clamped in Verbena's jaws measured about 2" long by ½" in diameter. The missile's throat is maybe twice that size. Maybe. Verbena's a mama's dog, very dramatic, and sports a long list of goofy nicknames: Bean, Bean Dip, Bean-a-rain-ya, Rainey, Rain Doggie, White Raven, Furry B, Purry, Purry Noogen, and most recently, Nugget. Any linguist worth his parchment can easily see the evolution.

I chased her around the house for ten minutes trying to get the bone. She wisely hid under the bed. Then she swallowed it. I knew it was too big to pass through her system, so I telephoned the girl vets at All Creatures Care here in Wasilla. I love these women-they're straightforward, they cut to the chase, and they've vetted for the Iditarod dogsled race. The decision was made to give Verbena mineral oil-necessitating a quick trip to Fred Meyer, AKA the Center of the Universe. I was to withhold all food and water, then call the vet in the morning. Verbena started barfing at 4:30 a.m.

At 8:00 a.m., the x-ray of her belly showed the bone in agonizing detail, a saber-shaped monster. She needed surgery right away. Not only did my great girl vets remove the bone, but also they saved it for me. I have it here on my desk to remind me of our collective good fortune. Verbena's home recuperating now, feeling almost chipper enough to murder Cricket, the omega dog in my pack of four.

Not to be outdone by her sister, Cricket's been busy herself. Carbohydrate warnings be damned, I bought three maple-covered doughnuts at Fred's. It's a winter thing, I told myself, not the start of a very bad habit. I set the doughnuts on the counter far out of tiny dog reach, so I thought; then I called my brother in California to see how warm it is there versus here. 70 degrees versus 40. As we caught up on news, I heard this faint rustling in the background that could only be bakery cellophane. I raced to the living room and there behind the couch, was Cricket with the doughnut wrapper. I smelled her breath--sap season in New England. Crickey would probably scale Denali for a maple doughnut. No dinner for the rat terrier; worse, no doughnuts for me.

People say, How can you put up with the canine shenanigans?

My only answer is dogs seem worth it. They're my buddies. We sleep together. We watch Ally McBeal. On walks through the woods, my dogs caper around like psychotic nymphs, reveling in every new smell, careening across ice like stooges, certain that just around this bend in the road, epic adventure awaits, so we can't stop now. They invite me along. And they possess liquid eyes, so different from human eyes that they seem to reflect a bottomless soul. My grandfather used to say someone who was lucky was "one of God's favored dogs," and I feel certain the comparison had to come from observing a deeply loved canine.

I can endure a few 4:00 a.m. traumas, or dog barf on my down comforter, because I know that one day, when I'm too entrenched in perilous thoughts of the future, one of them will lay a paw on my leg and remind me to chill out, this is only one day out of many, and probably things would look better if we went for a long walk. I'm happy to have them share my home, or that they allow me to share theirs, which is probably how they see it-this two-story doghouse which requires a human to open cans and refrigerators and snuggle up against on cold nights.

Maybe if I'd had dogs earlier in my life I'd know better how to deal with humans.

Which is a roundabout way of apologizing to Mark at the Anchorage Daily News, who used to be my boss. My previous essay offended him, which probably explains my lack of assignments these last two weeks. Mark, I'm sorry, and I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. It was fun working for you, even if you shorten my articles. Hope you can forgive me.

Meanwhile, it's almost Thanksgiving. I bought a humane mousetrap for Ms. Vole or Mr. Schwarzenegger mouse, and baited it with peanut butter on cracker. If he or she falls for it, and I'm thinking all those carbs, she definitely will, I'll set her loose in the woods so she can find some girlfriends to hang out with this unseasonably warm winter.

Thursday I'll be roasting my first Tofurky, complete with realistic drumsticks and "wish sticks," and 'nary a bone in sight. No maple doughnuts, either. I'll make cranberry stuffing, one yam, and drink a bottle of alcohol-free Chablis, because we humans need our rituals. Dogs? To them every day is just cause to celebrate. Happy Holidays.

More later,
Jo-Ann

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