Dave Maass

It’s been a trying two weeks for me as a dog owner. Last weekend, Marlowe was sick, and when I say sick, I mean that on Friday night she had diarrhea and I thought to myself, “Oh, well, she must’ve just got something, we’ll see how she’s doing tomorrow,” and then, the next morning, I sure as shit saw how she was doing, in the form of a dozen patches of slime decorating my carpet. Some of it was bloody.

So, off Marlowe went to the animal hospital, where they ran tests on a lock of crusty poop-hair they clipped from her butt. A few hours later, I picked her up with the instructions to watch her and bring her back if she relapsed. The vet said that my little girl had been fine, no accidents… but, as soon as she pranced into my room she had another eruption on the carpet, and off we went back to the hospital, where she stayed over night. I picked her up the next morning along with a vial of vile medication, which I had to spray in the back of her throat every 12 hours, and a couple cans of the mild food you can only get through the vet. She’s recovered quickly–I don’t think she even knew she was sick–and is now back to having thick, well-formed bowel movements.

Then, on Friday night, I dropped her off at David Alire Garcia’s place (my former co-writer, he’s now the managing editor for the Center for Independent Media’s New Mexico site, NewMexicoIndepenent.com) and the two of us attended the Santa Fe Reporter’s Annual 3-Minute Film Festival, with a stop at Souper Salad first. Four hours later, we were back at the house and as David jiggled his key in the gate, Marlowe’s “You’re Home!” squeals were eerily absent. I stomped through his yard… and she was gone.

Panic.

David and I ran through the neighboring field calling her name. We drove in circles around the neighborhood, my head out the window (not unlike a dog) calling out “Maaaaarloooooowe, Maaaaarloooooowe, c’mere lil’ girl, lil girr-rrl?” I called the animal hospital again (and spoke to the same Amy Sedaris-lookalike vet who’d treated her diary) and hounded the folks at the City’s Animal Control. No luck… and I started to lose heart. I was convinced she was gone for good, because if somebody had found her, surely they’d have called the cell phone number on her tag.

A half dozen terrible scenarios played through my mind. She could’ve been hit by a car and been smeared across the roadway. Another stray dog or, worse, a coyote, could’ve torn her to shreds. She could’ve stumbled across some rotten food and instantly poisoned herself. I imagined that someone came across her and immediately realizing how cute and friendly she is decided to steal her and keep her to herself. I didn’t know what I was going to do. She’s kinda my everything.

At about 1am, I decided it was time to admit that we weren’t going to find her. Maybe some body did pick her up and were waiting til the morning to call. The animal shelter wouldn’t be open til 8am. I was going to zip to the office and start printing up posters to hang around the neighborhood.

As we pulled into David’s driveway, his huskies were howling and there the little 7-pound bitch was, sitting in front of his gate like nothing was wrong. She had an expression that said, “Hey, wussup dudes? Why the long faces?” I sprinted across the yard and gathered her up into my arms and nearly squeezed the life out of her. I don’t ever remember feeling so relieved. The closest thing was maybe eight years ago in Japan when I thought I’d lost my $600 digital camera (1 megapixed - that tells you how far technology’s come). David’s sure that his dogs finally figured out what was going on with us and called her back with their wails. (Later, David would claim his prayers to Saint Whahooey were instrumental.)
So, I held her in my arms and we watched Battlestar Galactica… but as soon as we got in the car to drive home, I had my meltdown. Tears and snot, and me moaning at Marlowe, “Don’t you ever do that again. I don’t know what I do without you. I’d just die. I love you so, so, so much, oh Marlowe, oh Marlowe, oh Marlowe… I was so scared!” Seriously, I was a mess and she just looked at me with this “Dude, chill out,” look.

Dogs. They just don’t understand the trouble they are.

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