The dog doesn’t like the weather. The foot of snow. The freezing cold, most days barely above zero. Each day she gives us a stunned glance back when we open the door. We bundle her up, of course, in her black jacket with the popped collar that gives her a vampire vibe.
But it’s her bare paws that are killing her. I know. There is such a thing as boots for dogs. But she’s not the type of dog who would wear them. Several years ago, she had a sore on her chest near one of her front legs, and the vet gave us an ointment for it. Home, we dabbed the ointment on, and she immediately licked it off. We put a cone on her head, but we couldn’t bear the pained, humiliated expression on her face.
Still, we had to do something about the sore. One of us got the idea to try fitting her with an old, oversized T-shirt. That was almost worse than the cone. She stopped speaking to us. Most days she wouldn’t even look at us.
It was weirdly warm that week, and we were outside cleaning up the yard, the dog moping around us in her T-shirt. This was early March 2020, and soon the pandemic was going to shut it all down, but we didn’t know that yet. Our biggest worry was our dog’s armpit wound and whether or not she’d ever forgive us for forcing her into a T-shirt.
I wish we could explain it to her, I kept saying to my husband. But this would be like explaining a global pandemic when we learned that if push comes to shove, many of us don't want to do hard things. Or why right this moment, the federal government is about to descend on Springfield, Ohio, forty-five minutes from where we live, to round up Haitian refugees, people who are here legally, but now, suddenly, they’re not here legally, because our country can do that, change a law to fit whatever they want it to be.
So many things are not explainable.
Anyway, the dog is hard of hearing, so I can’t explain the existence of dog boots to her even if I wanted to. And she wouldn't wear them. I promise you. It would be a battle and I don't have the energy to fight it! Instead, I head outside with her and pray she will do her business fast.
But first there are sniffs to sniff and other dogs’ pee painted on the snowdrifts to investigate. A squirrel to chase off. The neighbor's yard to explore. By the time she’s done with all that, the cold has caught up with her, and her legs give way, her body slipping, her paws painfully angled to keep them off the ice.
I huddle over her, trying to lift her, trying to warm her frozen paws, but I’m struggling too, my bulky coat, my hat falling over my eyes, my still-recovering hand throbbing under my mitten. We can do this, I tell her, and I half carry/half heave her home.
When we make it, I am in tears, knowing I am complicit.
Ashamed, finally, I do the right thing.
I buy the boots.
If you would like to help the people of Springfield, Ohio, here are some options:
Write a letter to Governor Mike DeWine.
Donate to the United Way Springfield Unity Fund.
Give to the Central Christian Church in Springfield and select G92 from the option list (donations to G92 support refugees in the area).
Donate to the Haitian Support Center.
Thank you.
