We knew Nemo was different the moment he arrived in the belly of a plane from the mid-west in 2002. The floppy eared puppy would whine constantly unless he was held. He seemed to know he had been a discount dog, the last of his litter and nearly a giveaway.
The adoration for his liquid walnut eyes and cute cuddly antics wore off in a week. If he was awake, he was causing trouble. It was not just the fact that he ate my leather Teva sandals. Houdini’s pupil, he would break out of any enclosure: crate, room, house, Jeep. Supposedly a cairn terrier and not demon spawn, his tiny 12 pounds of puppy body would hurl into doors, forcing them open. This from the dog that hid if you sneezed. His escapes from barely lowered vehicle windows were dumbfounding. In the second when you pulled off the road to pick up some random item that had fallen, he’d be out the passenger window leaving panicked heart attacks in the wake of his sudden absence.
I finally began to understand the little terror we had willingly adopted the day he ran pell mell up the stairs, turned just shy of 7 feet off the ground, gave me a quick glance to where I was in hot pursuit, and then supermaned into the abyss of the living room. Poised with front legs outstretched, chest thrust forward, a canine grin on his face, I watched the terror slowly creep over him when he realized he couldn’t fly. He treaded air the rest of the way down and landed with a buoyant puppy bounce. “Holy crap, he thinks he is a bird!”
He never quite recovered from the knowledge that he had been short changed in the reincarnation game. He learned to perch on any ledge available. He tried shoulders, but as he grew it didn’t work quite so well. He stuck to the back of the couch, loved the rear tire of the Jeep, and in moments of daring when we left him unattended with the windows down, would hover with all four paws on the 2” door frame. We started calling him ‘Lemur’ at that point.
Full of oddities, we simply accepted the hellion that he was. When he was small enough, he slept under the wood stove. He loves to be smothered in heat. He also has a fur sensitivity. One day outside a bug landed on him. He howled like a banshee and shot to the back door. He likes to be held, but petting is a delicate subject. I pray he never gets fleas.
Needless to say, with this list of peculiarities, the move into the yurt and subsequent construction has wrecked havoc on his being. The move went okay. He was with us. It is all he needs. But falling rafters? Not so good. We had to pick him up and put him in the yurt for him to slowly become accustomed to his home to be. He desperately wanted a place to hide.
Every construction project has sent him slinking to the furthest point available in search of peace and comfort. Finally, late this summer, he found the companion he has been missing his entire life and a safe place to go to when the world is too much, his haven. He adopted a giant pumpkin.
The pumpkin was grown by my mother-in-law. An accident of nature and providence, it grew from a packet of summer squash seeds. No one noticed it until it was bigger than a basketball. When it was ripe and the chipmunks were trying to store it for winter, Raven moved it to the yard as a fall display. That is where Nemo found it.
Since August if I couldn’t locate him, I’ve only needed to check the pumpkin. He sits next to it in silent contentment, sharing secrets that we can’t fathom with its smooth orange bulk. After construction for the day, I would look across the yard to see him sprawled asleep in the pumpkin’s shadow. He barks at it every morning and pees on it every night as he gives it one last check before bed. I have never seen him so peaceful and content. I have no idea what we’ll do when the thing is buried under a foot of snow. Will he dig down to it? He can’t handle the fact he doesn’t have wings. How can I explain decay, letting go, and pumpkin pies to him? Am I going to have to try to preserve a pumpkin that his bigger than him for the sanity of my dog?
