Here's Hoping the Easter Bunny Brings Something Better Than Chocolate

Me: Do you remember what Easter is?  
My Son: Yes, it is when you and Dad hide eggs and leave a basket filled with candy; can I request a gift for my basket this year? Andrew at school says you can do that.  
Me: No, the Easter Bunny does that stuff, not me and Dad.  
My Son: Um, right Mom, that’s what I meant to say.  
Me: OK, so do you remember what Easter really is?  
My son: No, can you tell me again?  
Me: Easter is the day Jesus Chris was resurrected.  
My Son: What does rezrected mean?  
Me: It means he rose from the dead.  
My Son: What does "rose from the dead" mean?  
Me: It means He came back to life.  
My Son: I knew it, Mom, I knew you could come back from the dead, you were wrong!  

And, there you have the reason that Holy holidays are my most challenging. 

I want our son to know the “real” reason behind all the reasons we celebrate these special days, but man, is it hard. So I am going to just leave it at that. I wish everyone a basket full of pretty dyed eggs and as many chocolate bunny ears that you can bite off. Happy Easter, everyone! 

I thought, being that it is Holy Week, for those who observe, I might confess to friends — unburden myself, if you will. I would like to share with you something that has transpired since earlier this year. It's something I thought I would never be aparty to that I feel I may have judged others for (just a teeny, tiny, itty, bitty bit) in the past that I have now done myself.

We adopted another dog since Lady's passing in January. I do not want to lay the blame for this small fiasco at anyone's door, but, you know, I blame my mom. My mother has her own dog, an obese Jack Russell Terrier named Stella. Picture a full grown watermelon, covered in white wiry hair, resting on four white toothpicks that constantly shake from the pressure they are supporting and you will have a pretty good mental snapshot of Stella.   

Stella and my Lady were best frenemies for about 10 years (did I mention that we live with my mom?). And when Lady passed, there was no mistaking, Stella was depressed. A 10-year routine of spending their days together while I worked was instantly broken and Stella was distraught.

My mother was justifiably concerned for Stella and began to pressure me to get her a new friend. And, much sooner than I would have done if Stella was not in the picture, I did. My mom said all the right things to me: "You miss Lady so much." "There are so many homeless babies out there that would love you," and so on. 

I will admit, I did not require a lot of convincing on her part, because I did miss Lady and I did desperately want a dog to love. So, I caved. But, you know, it's still her fault. So Jim and I went to the shelter and adopted Chewie (aka Chewbacca).  

Chewie is the most unique looking dog I have ever seen. Chewie is like a Tim Burton creation or a Picasso painting, sort of. He is disproportionate. He has an unusually large head and a long skinny snake-like body and when he stretched himself out from front toes to back toes, I swear he was six feet long, though he is only a 25 pound mutt.

Everyone who saw him questioned his origins and even the vet's best offer of a description was that he was definitely ... a dog. He was red with random splotches of black here and there; and he was, bar none, the greatest snuggler on Earth. And when he slept, he slept the sleep of the dead. When Chewie slept in your arms it was like holding a dead snake on a stick.  

Unfortunately, Chewie did not get along with the pets I already had, like Stella and my cat Puddy. In fact, the scuffles with Puddy finally drove the cat to the basement from where he would not emerge. And as for Stella, I think there is something innate in Stella that she had no control over, that made other dogs want to attack her, because even my perfectly perfect Lady would occasionally take Stella down on to her back in what seemed like a savage attack but was always more bark than bite.

You know how there are just people who instantly rub you the wrong way? Those that you may just dislike on sight? Well, I believe Stella is a dog version of that person; other dogs just see her and want to kick her butt. Maybe dogs, like people, engage in weight-ism, not liking other dogs simply because they are too heavy, I don't know. 

And Puddy didn’t help matters, either. I believe that if Puddy did not get his hackles up every time Chewie walked in the room, Chewie would have likely ignored the cat, but in classic male behavior, the more Puddy played hard-to-get, the more Chewie wanted him, until it became obsessive. Puddy became unsafe in his own home. And Jim and I became dog and cat herders.

Every waking moment was spent making sure this gate was up or down and this pet was in this room if that pet was in that room and bed time was by far the worst. My mom had to spend some time in a rehab for a broken bone so both Stella and Chewie were sleeping with us for a time.

And every night was like a scene from National Geographic as Chewie spent the first 30-40 minutes in bed every night picking at Stella's fur like a monkey in the jungle picking bugs off his mate. He just liked to pick or chew, or whatever you might call it, on her wiry hair and like an idiot Stella just laid there and took it. Sometimes Chewie would pull too hard and there would be a yelp, which lead to a collective changing of positions, synchronized circling and nesting, but it was a circus, every night.

So as difficult as Puddy and Stella may be, they did come first and have been with us for many years and now Stella has a limp from her last fight with Chewie (and probably because she is carrying 20 pounds more than any Jack Russell should).  And my Puddy, whose purpose in life is to keep me warm, was nowhere to be found — hiding down in the depths of the house like the Kraken rarely ever to be seen because of the new kid in town.

So we had a really hard decision to make. We gave it two months and the situation never improved, not even a little — if anything, Chewie's desire to, I don't know, eat the cat? grew. If he had his way, Stella would have never eaten again for being attacked every night at dinner time.

There was much debating about what to do, but I have never returned a dog or any pet to a shelter and I must confess, I have frowned upon those who have. I had frowned on those who failed to live up to the commitment to their new pet; and suddenly that person I so readily frowned upon was me. I had done it. I gave up on Chewie, though we did not send him back to the shelter. I was afraid if we sent him back he would get some kind of scarlet letter stuck to his cage, a warning not to be overlooked by any and all potential new parents. I feared my failure would follow him forever like Richard Gere's gerbil.

So, once again my family came to our rescue and super cousin Jeannie and her roommate Lisa took Chewie on as a foster pet and set out to find him a new home.  And now, three weeks later, they have. Chewie has a new home with three Bullmastiffs (and no cats) to keep him company. He probably won't be picking on them any time soon, considering they are quadruple his size. I consider this a very happy ending for Chewie; but once again, I am dogless and forlorn. Will I ever dog-love again? Do I deserve to?

I find myself driving slowly past homes where I know dogs live and forcing myself to watch the Roberta Flack "First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" ASPCA commercial that makes me sob every single time it comes on in martyrdom and self-punishment for failing Chewie. This experience has scared me, it really has. The guilt I feel for sending Chewie away is palpable but the empty feeling I have for not having a dog is as great, and now I am just afraid to get the wrong pet-again.   

While the shelter you adopt from can give you a background, you know, it's just info from a piece of paper in the dog's file. I was told Chewie would get along with other pets. If getting along means maniacally chasing the cat and intimidating and occasionally attacking the other dog every night at dinner time, then yeah, Chewie was perfect, better than Lassie.

But the paper in Chewie's file was inaccurate. And the shelter is blameless here. I am not at all suggesting otherwise. If the dog never had a home before, which Chewie did not, then guesses have to be made based on shelter life. In the shelter he got along great with 30 other cats and dogs who were all in their own cages, where they privately ate their own food where no one else could possibly get to it.

They could never know these things would happen in a new environment where he would eat side by side with the other pets, where cats roam freely and sometime brush against you when you sleep. When you adopt a pet, there are risks you take, and normally they are minimal, and the reward is a thousand times greater in almost every case. Once in a blue moon, it doesn’t work out.   

And this could also not happen at a worse time. It is a dog walking extravaganza out there as spring time unfolds. Everyone is out walking their dog, and I am watching you, longingly, enviously. Yes, you dog walkers are being stalked. By me.   

Maybe, in a perfect world, one day I will wake up, open my front door to leave for work and find a basket at my doorstep, with a little Boston Terrier or a Scottie dog whose owner had to go to China or Japan or because someone I live with finally got the hint. A note would be attached and it would say, "Dear Denise: Shut up already! Here's a new damn dog."

Until then, friends, I am desperately seeking a new canine companion. I hope to share news of his or her arrival very soon. Perhaps the Easter Bunny will be coming bearing something better than chocolate.