MINOR CATASTROPHES

When Zack turned 70, his attention turned south, in the direction of his nether regions. Women—young, middle-aged, elderly, whatever—became irresistible, his body rounding toward them like a cypress bending over the road, although not as awe-inspiring.

Initially, I chalked up his conduct to the shock of arriving at an undeniably old age. He’d settle down in a few months, I told myself—at most a year. Seventy-one would be far less traumatic. From birth, ages ending in zero signify more than those that don’t push their victims into the next decade. Go figure.

Seventy-one arrived, but his recovery didn’t. He dropped the divorce bomb on January 21, 2020, the day news of the Covid pandemic broke. Two disasters in less than 24 hours. Only a female sherpa could nimbly scale that mountain of rubbish. It took me a couple of boxes of Kleenex, but I managed.

When it came to dividing up our community property, only one “item” incited rancor: Cargo, our German shepherd. Nineyears earlier, I’d found him dumped on the side of the road. I’dnamed him for what the jerks who tossed out a puppy believed him to be: unwanted cargo.

The moment he saw the dog, Zack said “no.” He ordered me to surrender Cargo. After more than two decades living together, he seemed to imagine command prompted obedience. Then he remembered who I was.

While I put away kibble and treats, he begged. He wheedled—ugh, I hate wheedling and he does it so poorly. He said I could give the puppy to a German shepherd rescue group. “It would wind up in a fine home. With people who are crazy for the breed.”

“He—not it—already has a fine home.”

“Not if one person in the house doesn’t want him.”

I said that individual could take a long walk off a short pier. Zack said the cliché was beneath me and that it had never been funny anyway. I told him I wasn’t aiming for humor; I was just trying to shut him up. He followed me and Cargo through the house, moaning, groaning, and wheedling. Around midnight, I fell asleep to his droning voice, the puppy nestled in my arms.

In spite of his determined resistance, it didn’t take long forZack to fall in love with Cargo. Soon, whenever we watched television, we competed for that soft, warm little body.Bickering over whose turn it was became rancorous, so I instituted a roster that I posted on the refrigerator door, like a preschooler’s artwork.

Now, having jettisoned me, my insensitive goon of a husband insisted that, because he had paid for the lion’s share of Cargo’s veterinary care and feeding and had spent so much time with him, he alone deserved custody. After all, his salary had always been higher than mine, therefore—

“And why is that?”

Ostentatiously bored, he said, “Please. Not more women’s lib preaching.”

Zack went on to detail a list of his alleged contributions to Cargo’s care and feeding. There had been all the vet bills—tooth extractions, cleaning, neutering, and that terrifying surgery for bloat. Vaccinations. Annual stool test. And then there was all the equipment he’d paid for—the bed, the living room cot, the training, the leashes and collars. The toys. How Cargo chewed through toys!

“Give me a break. My paycheck went into that.”

He rolled his eyes. “You need to realize how much I’ve invested in him. I can’t just give him up. Besides, we’re buddies. He’d be unhappy without me.”

“I’m the one who found him. I’m the one who fought to keep him. And now I’m the one keeping him.” 

Zack’s face tensed into a frozen mask. “I’ll come and grab him when you’re not looking.”

“You’d dognap him?”

“You bet.”

“You really are a monster, Zack. Here I’m losing you and my home—my life for the past 35 years—and you want to take my dog? Want me to leave my cosmetics for your new love too? How about my clothes? She looks to be close enough to my size. Maybe she can ditch the coveralls. Hell, take my phone for her, why don’t you?”

He looked fleetingly uncertain, but, as always, quickly recovered his sense of entitlement. “C’mon, Gwen. Be fair. He’s more my dog than yours. You can get another dog. Another German shepherd. I’ll even pay for you to get a puppy. Cargo’s old. He won’t be around a whole lot longer. This way you won’t have to suffer through his decline.”

“People like you,” I said, tossing my dog’s food and water bowls into a box, “think dogs are like cars. When one wears out, you get another. Dogs aren’t objects. Cargo’s all that’s left to me of family. I’m taking him with me.”

“I’m warning you,” he whined.

I grabbed the box and started for the door. But before I turned the knob, I stopped. “Here’s an idea. How about we let Cargo decide his own fate?” Zack quirked an eyebrow, listening. I described an exercise I’d seen on YouTube in which a couple called their dog simultaneously out of curiosity to see which one he’d go to.

As I knew would happen, Zack’s ego convinced him Cargowould choose him. After all, he and the dog ran together. They went to the dog beach every Wednesday, Cargo wading and occasionally swimming out after a ball. The two of them hadeven gone camping several times without me. With a wide grin, Zack said, “Fine.” 

“But you have to agree to abide by his decision.”

“As do you.”

“Definitely. I’m just making sure.”

He smirked. “Scout’s honor.”

We went outside and sat Cargo down, moving away from him and from each other.

I intoned, “One. . . two. . . three.”

Slapping our legs, we shouted in unison, “Cargo! Come!”

My boy loped straight to me.