One Good Eye Between Us
Thoughts on my lovable dog as we approach his puppyversary
I first met Cujo in November of 2008. That was when I decided that my husband and I needed a dog. Until then I had been able to get my ‘dog fix’ by watching a Shiba Inu puppy cam but all of the puppies were slated for adoption in November. This made it obvious to me that wit was high time my husband and we got a dog. For some reason, the world just seemed so hopeful.
I don’t want to short-change or over-romanticize this, as Darren and I had talked about getting a dog before this, and the amount of responsibility, so it’s not like it was totally out of left field or a surprise when, unable to wait any longer, I sent Darren an instant message that essentially said “You can come with me to the shelter to help pick out the dog, or you can meet the dog when I come home.”
Shelters are hard places for empaths, highly sensitive persons, animal lovers, and people with souls. We walked down the lines of cages, hoping to see the face our new friend, when a firm, clear “BARK!” caught my husband’s attention. When we asked about the tiny, shaking animal that originated the sound, we found that he was slated for euthanasia in three days.
“This is the one, I want to meet him.”
From the moment I held that stinking mass in my lap in the little room, that fella was ours.
I can not understate what a mess Cujo was when we met him. His face had puncture marks and damage, his ears were nicked. He was so terrified of everything that we had a sign a wavier with the shelter affirming that we understood he’d never be normal, he’d probably never socialize, and he probably wouldn’t adjust to life with us.
It didn’t matter. We loved him already, and packed him up in a borrowed carrier for the bus ride back to the Valley.
Naming him was the easiest of all of our dogs — with him so fearful and tiny, he was either going to be ‘Killer’ or ‘Cujo’ and ‘Cujo’ won because the name itself is adorable. If you really think about it (and I spend a lot of time saying it), it’s made up of two really adorable sounds — and every time I call my dog, I essentially ‘Coo’ at him to start.
Anyway, Cujo was afraid of everything when we first got him. We’d set him on a pillow and he would stay there until we moved him. He didn’t really adopt dog like behaviors until another dog came crashing into the scene. It was through Cujo being around another dog that he started to open up, and become less afraid of the world around him.
As Cujo opened up, it just so happened our lives changed. We moved across the country, and Cujo got to smell more rabbits and sycamores than palm trees. He got to fly across the country (we made arrangements for it to be as safe as possible).
Quiet and unassuming in his relentless insistence, Cujo also grew to be more curious.
But he was always cautious, to the point of anxious terror if things got too ‘real.’ When things become too much for him, he’ll come over to me or Darren and lean into us. When we have him, he knows he’s safe. He doesn’t have to be held or in our arms (in fact he prefers to be directly under our feet, if I’m being honest) — he just wants to be close to us.
As will happen through the years, Cujo’s sight has been taken by cataracts (ask me about mine some time.) We moved to Oregon, where he can smell massive trees and he got to see and smell the ocean. Once again, Cujo changed, evolving — as he lost his vision, he lost his fears. Where he used to cower from any cat or dog he would see, he no longer does. It’s as if the fear is gone when he can’t see what was terrifying him. Cujo’s reaction to losing his vision — or non-reaction — helped me to understand and process with my own experience.
As we come up on another puppyversary with my best friend, I’m reminded of how grateful I am to have his companionship every day, even if means we’re a menace on our walks. After all, there’s only one good eye between us.