The Ol’ One Two Punch

What Could be Worse than a Hurricane?

She came to the house with a flaccid fanny pack of delicious dog treats thinking she was dealing with a dog...

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In the past, I used to write songs to process things. I don’t know why. Because writing songs is difficult and it takes too long. Writing a Substack post is much easier, much quicker, and just as therapeutic. Maybe I’ll write a song about this topic someday. 

This might be a long one. Apologies. 

TUESDAY 10/1

Our dog of thirteen years, Primrose Lavender Homefry Gianni, died today. That’s not worse than a hurricane that affects tens of thousands of people, ruins entire regions, and takes lives. Of course not. But it feels pretty close to worse to the four of us right now. 

2011

Let me tell you a little bit about Primrose. Thirteen years ago, the kids were 8 and 10 and we’d been looking for a dog for some time. We’d had a lizard named Tiger that was well-loved, but not terribly cuddly. Then we had two little bunnies that were a complete nightmare. We thought, “Little bunnies will be much easier than a dog…” But no, we were incorrect. Bunnies are the worst pets imaginable. After a year we found them another family to terrorize. The kids have asked me since if I really found another family for them or if I took them down to the butcher shop. I would totally admit now if I’d taken them to the butcher shop, but they went to a good home in West Asheville. Promise. I’m now wondering what the person behind the counter at the butcher shop would say if I brought in two live bunnies to be deboned. I wish I’d at least done it to see the reaction- and then I could have brought them elsewhere before the actual butchering happened. That would make for a good story. I’m getting off track. 

So we’d been on the lookout for a dog. On Facebook, a parent from the kid’s elementary school posted one she’d been fostering. It was so cute. A blue pitbull/french bulldog mix named Primrose. She was the saddest-looking dog I’ve ever seen. The parent (Jenny) had posted that her fostering time was over and that she was bringing the dog back to the Humane Society. I messaged Jenny and she said that the dog was definitely damaged goods, but so sweet. 

Jen was out of town teaching and the kids were with their grandparents for the weekend, so I went to the Humane Society to get a look at and a vibe check on this dog. They put us in a room together and Primrose (who at the Humane Society was named Lavender) cowered in the corner. Damaged goods barely described it. This dog was traumatized. Whatever had happened to her must have been horrible. She wanted to have nothing to do with me. I tried to pet her and she tried to disappear. But she was cute as hell. They told me that they’d found her because she’d been hit by a car. They’d done surgery and she no longer had a ball joint in her left back hip. I don’t know how that’s possible or how she was able to walk around. But whatever else she’d gone through was much worse than getting hit by a car. I thought, whatever her problems were would go away after some tender loving care. It’ll be fine. I adopted her. And what a bargain she was! Usually, the adoption fees were $100, but she was only $25. On clearance, because she was on her way to the gas chamber if she hadn’t been snagged by someone because they deemed her too unsociable to be adopted. I’m glad this policy isn’t in place in regular society, because I would have been euthanized long ago. I couldn’t wait to tell Jen and the kids about our new completely broken dog. Turns out  It took twenty minutes to get her into the car. I thought she was going to have a heart attack on the ride home - she was so nervous. And then it took 45 minutes to coax her out of the car and into the house. She was petrified. She obviously didn’t like the looks of me at all. She was suspicious and scared. 

We sat in the living room staring at each other for an hour. I decided that her new name would be Homefry. She looked like a Homefry. When Jen was pregnant with our first daughter, everyone under the sun started to bother us about what we were going to name her. We got so sick of it that I sent out an announcement that our daughter would be named Homefry which had the desired result of people ending their inquiries as to the name of our first child. It worked so well that when Jen was pregnant with our second daughter I did not hesitate to announce before anyone had a chance to ask, that her name would be Crazy Horse. You must think that half of what I write in these posts is fiction. I assure you it is not. I don’t think I’ll ever run out of real-life material. Fiction is much more difficult. I became a little depressed when the legal names ended up being Marcella and Malena. My wife came up with both of those and I can’t imagine their names being anything else. They are just perfect. But I hadn’t yet given up on Homefry and Crazy Horse. 

 I thought it would be a good idea to take Homefry on a walk. Her first walk around the neighborhood. It would be bonding time. She’d loosen up. I couldn’t wait to show her the trees where I knew there was a thick layer of a hundred neighborhood dog’s dry urine that she could leaf through like an aromatic canine address book. I’d bought a leash and collar, but I decided to just use the little cheap leash and collar she’d come home with from the shelter. It took awhile to get out the door, but once outside things went pretty well. She was skittish, but seemed vaguely interested in the smells along the side of the road. I was feeling good. Here comes the transformation. 

We successfully did a little loop and were just about to pass by the weird pet cemetery that is down the way. Perhaps I should have avoided a plot of dead animals with such a skittish dog. But it was a fat squirrel who caused the problems. It dropped from a tree directly beside us and Primrose Lavender Homefry freaked out the way you would if a tiny alien reached out of your toilet and pinched you on the ass in a non-playful way. She pulled against the leash and shook her head violently back and forth and somehow wiggled out of the flimsy collar. There was a split second where our eyes met and I could have sworn she cried, “FREEDOM,” and then sprinted away into the woods. 

I spent the next 17 hours in a full panic trying to track down this dog. I ran organized grids. I did freak out random searches. My neighbro (not a typo) Bruce helped me and we spotted her behind an industrial building down on the edge of Biltmore Village that has since become High Wire Brewery. I ran toward the dog and an annoyed security guy stopped me. I explained the situation quickly and the guard helped us try to corner her. It didn’t work. She was too fast and too petrified. 

I met the grandparents in Spartanburg to pick up the kids the next day. They were 8 and 10 at the time. We started driving home and I said, “I have good news and bad news. The good news is that we got a dog! The bad news is that she ran away.” I didn’t include the details that she ran away on her first walk not two hours from when she arrived. I’m not sure what my expectation was as far as a reaction to that sentence from an 8 and 10-year-old. By this time Jen was home and they printed flyers using the photo Jenny had used on her Facebook post and went out to tape them to light poles while  I continued to acquaint myself with every inch of the one-mile radius around our house. I called the Humane Society to get their advice. Two of the volunteers I’d met there during the adoption drove to our house to help search. Unbelievable. I don’t know why I’m so surprised when people are amazing because it seems to happen in my life quite frequently. Asking for help has become the most enjoyable thing I do. Being willing to ask for help will connect you with the most memorable people you’ll encounter. I know this is a fact. 

The dog was like Sasquatch. There were blurry sightings and wild rumors, but she did not want to be found. 

Two days later I got a Facebook message from Jenny m, the foster mom. “Primrose is here.”  I started to write back, “You mean Homefry?” But the dog’s legal name didn’t seem to be important at that moment. Here’s the insanity of what happened. Jenny lived about two miles from our house across a busy thoroughfare. She had fostered the dog for two or three weeks. From her house, she drove the dog the seven miles to return her to the Humane Society. I adopted her and drove her 7 miles to our house. She escaped my irresponsible new dog owner's first walk and somehow found her way two miles to Jenny’s house with zero reference to go by. How? By smell? Really. How is this possible? Of course, the next question is, if a dog goes through this much trouble to get away from you and back to Jenny, is it possible that you shouldn’t own this dog? Of course, the answer was yes. But I have an 8 and 10-year-old who have been told they have a dog and there is a Jenny who is an honorable foster dog mom but who is not interested in being a forever home for Primrose Lavender Homefry. So out comes the new heavy-duty leash and collar I’d purchased and a detail of Secret Service agents with a cavalcade of enormous black American-made gas guzzlers to escort this pain in the ass sad looking little dog to its god damned forever mother fucking home. 

She remained suspicious of me, the one who had rescued her from a humiliating death. But she loved her namesake Homefry  (Marcella). She followed Jen around like a duckling following her mom. And she slept next to Malena for the next decade plus. Of all of us, I think we’d all agree that Malena has the strongest and deepest bond with Primrose.

Prim was weird from the start. She was never a normal dog who would bound up to you and lick your face or hop up on the sofa and lay her head on your lap. She had too much of a troubled past for any of that. She was incapable. But what she lacked in dogness she made up for in Team Gianniness. We are quirky individuals and we needed a quirky dog. And we hit the jackpot. 

The Early Days

As hard as I tried, the name Homefry never stuck. Primrose did. If you ask me, Homefry suited her perfectly. But in the dog court, I am a bailiff at best. I had no control over this matter. I was overruled and my valid pleas were drowned out by the crashing gavel coming from the female majority that I am happy to be saddled with. Primrose it is. I later named my tiny motorcycle Little Ugly Homefry to reinstate my indisputable power and authority. 

I have an uncontrollable urge to say things I know I shouldn’t say. Even when the kids were small. I simply can’t help but say things that I know will rile them up in some way. From the very start, I would always talk about which parts of Prim I would most like to eat when she died. She had these front lips sort of right behind her nose that were so tender - I just knew that they would be a fantastic snack. I’d show the kids where I’d make the cuts to get a perfect slice of Prim jowl. Maybe seared and draped over a juicy piece of cantaloupe. It gave them the chance to squeal and tell me that they would never allow it. A fairy tale with no wolf is bullshit. The wolf makes it fun.

Again. If you tried to think of Primrose as a dog you would be disappointed. She didn’t give a shit about dog stuff. She didn’t fetch. She didn’t like sticks. She didn’t really need or want your attention or affection. She didn’t come running when you walked in the door. The only dog quality she had was farting. And she was a master farter of the highest order. An expert in both sound quality and foul odor. Mostly foul odor. If there was such thing as a dog fart sommelier, Prim’s rear end would be suggested at every table. The odor part really sticks with me as I’m thinking about it. I’d say she was more of a cat, but no cat in history could create the horrifying nightmarish paintings on the inside of your nostrils like Primrose could. 

Primrose was also a nonconformist. There was no dog command she would obey. I mean, you could say, “Primrose! Fart!” and have pretty good odds. But sit, stay, fetch, play dead, roll over, heel, or attack?  Please. You might as well ask her to recite the Declaration of Independence. We hired a trainer one time who could be the subject of her own post. But she came to the house with a flaccid fanny pack of delicious dog treats thinking she was dealing with a dog. At that time Primrose didn’t even have enough dogness to care about food. The dog trainer had no other tricks up her sleeve or in her fanny pack and after a month of trying, she left with her nonexistent tail between her legs as a complete and utter failure. Primrose gave her nothing and I don’t want to speak for the others in my family, I think we were all kind of psyched that Primrose made this rather pompous self-professed dog whisperer look like a complete asshole. Yet I will add, that no refund was offered. 

Prim just adored the women in our family. She didn’t fawn but you could tell. The women in our family did fawn. Prim was so damn cute it was hard not to. But she and I had a strange relationship. I wanted her to love me so badly. I wanted a dog to jump on me in uncontrollable excitement when I walked through the door. I wanted a dog to lay on my lap and watch a movie. But Primrose was not a dog and I would never get any of that. If any of the girls were around, I did not exist. Looking back this was probably good for keeping my ego in check. Even though she wasn’t totally comfortable with me, we’d go on outings by ourselves frequently. And she liked me best in unfamiliar territory when the girls weren’t around. When she was unsure and afraid I was suddenly her best bud. She’d hang out under my legs at the coffee shop looking at me for affirmations. Once home, I disappeared once again. I got used to it. If you love someone you accept them for what they are and you don’t expect more than they can give.  If she wasn’t completely in love with me, she was definitely obsessed with me. In the TV room, she would look to me for permission before jumping up on the sofa with the girls. She would wait until I nodded and then jump up. Once there she would stare at me constantly like a murderous psychopath. At the lake, if I would jump in the water she would lose her mind and bark and wouldn’t stop until I got out. If we were hiking and I stopped suddenly it would trigger something in her little brain and she would bark and run around stopping short and I would run toward her and she’d run away but circle around and I would suddenly freeze and hold out my arms like I was going to “get her” and she would freeze too, her tail wagging in a blur as she waited for me to make a move. I saved her life three times. Once from euthanasia. Twice from drowning. Those short-nosed dogs have no business in the water, but she loved the water. (We called her snout her “nozzle.”) We eventually got her a life jacket. She appreciated being saved for about three seconds. It’s like a parent with Alzheimer’s. Little snippets of recognition. You take what you can get when you can get it and you appreciate it for what it is. I realize that I sort of like making other humans slightly uncomfortable with my presence if I can. But that was never my intention with Prim. It happened anyway. We had a weird relationship. There’s nothing I like better than a weird relationship. There’s no way Prim didn’t feel the same. 

THE CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

Again, I know you think I’m making stuff up. But what I’m about to tell you is 100% true. We have some weird little Christmas traditions that have been practiced since the kids were teeny. I won’t go into all of them, but for us, Christmas starts with the kids coming up to our bedroom with two cups of coffee. Our role, as parents, is to torture them by taking our sweet time drinking those coffees in bed as a way electrify their anticipation which in turn would boost their excitement about finally getting to go down to the tree. We set it up like a hero’s journey where there would have to be obstacles for the protagonist to overcome. Jen and I had to wear certain things that we only wore on Christmas morning. For her an old white robe and some goofy slippers. For me, some flannel pajama pants that had been patched by Malena with a felt Christmas tree, an old blue robe that only got action on Christmas, and some goofy slippers. Of course, we would never have any idea where these items might be when the kids came up, so they would have to find them. I want you to understand too, yes these traditions were strong when they were little kids - but these traditions stand to this day and they’re 21 and 23. It doesn’t matter to us. It took us a long time to come up with these ridiculous traditions and none of us are cool enough quite yet to let them go. Wow, I’m again getting way off track. Another tradition was that on Christmas morning Primrose would be allowed on our bed. Once a year. It’s a high bed and it was another obstacle for the kids to get her up there. But each and every Christmas, and on Christmas only - when she got up onto that bed - she loved me. I mean, really loved me. She would come and lick my face and act in a way that she didn’t act any other time. All the girls would swoon, “Awwwwww. Primmy! Dad, she loves you!” She would snuggle up and just sit there being pet. She would be a real dog for about 30 minutes per year. It is unexplainable. The only thing I like better than weird relationships is unexplainable phenomena rooted in a weird relationship. I savored each and every one of these mornings. The fact that there won’t be another Primrose Christmas Miracle is a crushing blow.

PRIMROSE THE MARTYR

Primrose was patient. Patient in a bored and slightly put-upon way. The girls put her in dresses and hats and all manner of embarrassing predicaments. Prim was like, “Are you guys mentally okay? This is so stupid. But if it makes you happy I’ll endure it I suppose.” Ennui describes it perhaps? It made them happy. Primrose endured. 

Humiliation...

THE MANY MODES OF PRIMROSE

Our dog had many modes which we named as we discovered them. Here is a brief glossary of the modes I can remember. 

• Toothy McGoothy: When one of her jowls got caught on one of her canines. 

• Full Vampire: When both of her jowls got caught on both of her canines. 

• Short Mode: When she compacted herself to 6 inches.

• Long Mode: When she extended herself to three feet. 

• Prance Mode: When she sashayed like a happy deer or Pepé le Pew when he was in love. 

• Bat Ears: When her ears were fully activated. 

• Baby Hippo: When she was swimming which she did while possessed by a baby hippo.

  

  

  

  The Many Modes of Primrose

There were surely more named modes. And there were definitely one off modes as well that happened only a couple of times. She was a complicated and creative being capable of many different looks and moods. We appreciated this about her. We didn’t like one mode over any other. We just enjoyed noticing and naming whatever mode she was into at the moment. 

There were two things that could excite Prim. The first was Sparky’s, the doggy daycare and boarding place (that Malena eventually worked at) that was just a half mile away from our house. As suspicious as she was of humans (especially male humans, especially male humans wearing baseball caps), she LOVED other dogs. In her younger years we’d bring her to the dog park and she’d quickly sniff some asses and then would spend the next hour sprinting with whichever gang of hoodlums happened to be there - stopping to fake fight a bit , and just generally having a grand time. I never understood how she could run like she did when she was younger with that bad hip. Her love of other dogs is why she loves Sparky’s so much. We’d bring her there when we had to go out of town, and there was no place she would have rather been. There came a point where we could whisper the word “Sparky’s” and it did not matter where she was in the house. She would instantly appear and start jumping and bouncing and barking at the door with excitement. We should have been offended that she preferred to be there than our house. But we weren’t. We’d all probably prefer to be with dogs than humans, given the choice.

Prim had free rein at our house. She had a dog door that let her out into the back yard and she did whatever she wanted. There were only three times that she got out of the yard somehow. A broken piece of the fence or whatever. The first time this happened, we freaked out. Then we got a call from Sparky’s. “Hi. Primrose came to visit.” She’d get out of the yard, walk down to a very busy and dangerous street, cross it, and head another block down to Sparky’s where she’d sit at the door and bark until they let her in. This is what happened all three times she got out of the yard. I mean, you have to give her points for moxie. She knew where she most wanted to be, and it wasn’t at our house. This changed as she got older, and she sort of mellowed on her excitement of Sparky’s. But it was fun to see when it was happening.  

THE KINGDOM OF SADNESS

You’ve seen some photos of Prim so you know her look. Her look is sad. No other way to put it. She is a sad sad sad looking dog. Sad and cute. Whenever we left the house and didn’t take her with us, she would go up half a flight of stairs to the window that looked out onto the street. As we drove away, we would see Prim there looking out over her Kingdom of Sadness. She had a dog door downstairs and could come and go as she pleased to the backyard. We would look down at her from the windows on the back of the house and she would be sitting there looking over the backyard with her chest pushed out and her head held high - just looking back and forth. She would sit there for hours surveying her Kingdom of Sadness. 

PRIMROSE THE MURDEROUS PSYCHOPATH

Prim had a bit of a murder vibe. Just a slight one. Like, a really cute ribbon of murder instinct. Part of her surveying of the Kingdom of Sadness was to be on the lookout for the Kingdom of Groundhogs. I don’t think she hated them. But she wanted to murder them. And a few times she was successful.

Then there was one night where we heard a petrified scream from downstairs. If you use the kids version, our reaction from two floors away was, “What’s up? Why you screaming down there? We’re trying to sleep up here…” “Come down! Come down now! Hurry up!” Good lord. Who’s idea was it to have kids? We lumbered down the stairs grumbling about our wretched life and having to check on why our kids were screaming. What a pain. We got to Malena’s bedroom and both kids were in full freak-out mode, standing on her bed, pointing to the floor where Primrose had deposited a dead possum. At least we thought it was dead, but you know how possums can be. I got a dustpan which was all I could think of in my drowsy state. I knew that there was a chance that when I slid the dustpan under the possum that I would discover that it was in fact very alive, and probably not too happy to have been chewed on and deposited in these two loud little girls’ vicinity. The possum was playing dead so well that it didn’t even quiver as I carried it out into the backyard to deposit it into the earth below the Kingdom of Sadness as Primrose looked on, chest out, head held high.

FOOD IS AN ACQUIRED TASTE FOR A NON-DOG

As I mentioned earlier, she never gave one shit about food in her younger years. It didn’t matter to her at all. Completely un-doglike. But in the past two years she had changed. This change came right about the time that Jen supplemented her shitty kibble from Amazon with a few scoops of delicious wet dog cuisine from Whole Foods that probably cost more than an Ingles filet mignon. Instead of wandering over to the food bowl when she got around to it, she suddenly would wake Jen up at eating time in the morning with a weird new noise she had never made before. And in the evening around 5 pm she would pace back and forth in the kitchen until someone would, as she was obviously thinking, “Get that shit in the bowl!” No longer would she lay in the other room while you got her food ready. Now, when Jen carried the bowl from the kitchen to her eating spot, Primrose would dance and jump like the puppy we never knew her as. She had gone from moody to foodie overnight. By this time she was 10 or 11 years old. So we’d see action and animation twice a day with a lot of sleeping the rest of the time. That was fine with us. 

PRIM OUT AND ABOUT

We took Prim everywhere. In her younger years she loved the lake. She loved to swim even though she sucked at it. She loved to ride in the car. She freaking loved to hike. Folks are pretty forgiving of a dog off leash in Western North Carolina and Prim was a fantastic off leash hiker. She’d do her thing, go off into the woods, meet us up the way a bit. She loved our favorite hike which had 12 river crossings. She loved to sniff every god damned thing on God’s green earth. And for some reason whatever delightful smell she sniffed in came out the other end as an agent orange adjacent horror show wind. Two years ago we had a sad hike where we really realized that she was getting old. It was in Black Mountain and we were headed up a steep trail, and she wanted to do it, but she just couldn’t. At least not like she could as a younger “dog.” She struggled, and it took forever, but she finally made it up. But we knew her hard core hiking days were pretty much over. Believe me - when we’d pull out the backpacks and put on the hiking shoes after that - she knew what was up - and she’d go to the Window of Sadness and watch us leave and it was heartbreaking. This is how age works. We all have a window of sadness that we’re eventually going to have to look out of. That’s how it is. The universe is a dickhead.

Out & About

So that’s a little bit about Primrose. I’m out of energy. I’ll tell you about the day she died in the next post.

Prim with her peeps and her panda...