Last week, our new dog Theo went to doggie day care for the first time. Sadly, there's no way to explain to a frightened dog that the day ahead of him has been carefully planned with his happiness in mind.
There was no impressing upon Theo that I specifically did not take him on Rambunctious Black Dog Day or Puppies Without Boundaries Day because I knew he'd fit in better on Laid-Back Older Dog Day.
And just as I couldn't explain the rationale of Laid Back Older Dog Day, I couldn't explain the concept of hours and how, after eight of them, I would return to get him (and would forgive him for ignoring my arrival while being inexplicably ecstatic to see the stranger behind me).
I did not cry, as I thought I might, when I left Theo at day care. Instead, what happened was that the old back-to-school commercial from Staples flooded my brain, the one with the joyous parents dancing in the aisles to the tune of "It's the Most Wonderful Day of the Year."
Not that Theo is a burden. He isn't. But by the time my husband and I took him to day care, we'd had him almost three weeks. We'd held our breath waiting to see whether he was housetrained, reasonably well-mannered, liked humans and could be trusted around coffee-table books, shoes and garbage cans. We'd hardly left the house. We needed, shall I say, a gigantic break.
Truthfully, I was a little worried. Would Theo adjust at day care? Would he like the other dogs? Would he be frightened? Would he fight? What if he got hurt or hurt another dog?
Four hours into Theo's day, I got a photo text from the day care. Theo was standing next to two doggie friends, looking proud and relaxed. Nothing on his face said, "I miss Mommy." Nothing said, "I wonder if those people who dropped me off are ever coming back." Everything said, "This is OK."
And there's a reason for that. A reason that has very little to do with Theo, and everything to do with me.
I am the proverbial older parent. At 52, I have had seven dogs, and that doesn't include another five or 10 foster dogs. Most of my dogs I plucked off the streets. The others came from shelters. They ranged in age from 8 weeks to 6 years old.
I've housetrained, obedience trained, doctored wounds, expressed anal glands, cleaned ears, checked blood sugar, given insulin injections, made midnight emergency vet runs, shaved, bathed and salved. I saw them through everything from flea allergies to cancer. Five were euthanized deep into old age, one died young of cancer, and one died at home.
I've doled out millions of kisses on the tops of heads, tips of noses, bottoms of the feet, insides of ears and middles of bellies. I've also been frustrated, impatient and less than kind at times. In short, I have been a parent to my dogs: loving and imperfect, but always invested.
As I am with Theo. But there is something I was as a younger parent that I don't want to be as an older one: obsessed. Freakishly, desperately, unrelentingly worried about every terrible thing that could harm my dog, including those things that would require that the laws of physics become corrupted first.
For example, what if the dog fence were to suddenly lift off into outer space while I'm at a movie? Or the possible but highly improbable: What if Theo were to hurl himself from the deck while I'm lingering over mussels at Alleia? Or the preposterous: What if there were a hostile uprising at the doggy day care?
In other words, I want to be as invested and loving with Theo as I was with the others. But I'd like to retain my sanity.
When we picked up Theo from day care, we got a report card. Theo hung out with five other dogs, it said. He required no time outs -- and for this he got a handwritten "wow!" He even found time for a nap.
Theo, it seems, is going to be just fine. And so is his mom.
Dana Shavin's memoir "The Body Tourist" is now available. Contact her at Danalise@juno.com.