*Non-Fiction — August 25, 2022
Whiskey Days
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1. I am a sober woman with a dog named Whiskey, the irony unintentional. He was named eleven years ago—before I got sober, before I even saw him—after Nikki Sixx’s dog, Whisky, who was named after the Whisky A Go Go. It’s possible I was trying too hard. Too hard to do what is hard to say, exactly. Perhaps to prove to myself, my friends, the world, that despite graduating from college at the top of my class—a year early, no less—and taking a job as a bank manager, I was keeping my rock ‘n’ roll heart.
Exhibit A: Three leather jackets
Exhibit B: Red stilettos and red leather gloves
Exhibit C: Tongue piercing and new tattoo
Exhibit D: Dog named Whiskey
Exhibit E: The whiskey I drank, the reds I smoked, the nocturnal hours I refused to exchange for banker’s
2. Whenever I begin reading an essay about a dog, I brace for heartbreak. So, let’s start with this: Whiskey is alive. To write about Whiskey, to put words on paper, say anything about his life at all, he must be alive. So I do it now, with him beside me, snoring gently at the foot of the bed as I scratch out sentiment in the middle of the night.
2. Whenever I begin reading an essay about a dog, I brace for heartbreak. So, let’s start with this: Whiskey is alive. To write about Whiskey, to put words on paper, say anything about his life at all, he must be alive. So I do it now, with him beside me, snoring gently at the foot of the bed as I scratch out sentiment in the middle of the night.
Part of me worries this essay is Amaranta’s death shroud; that by beginning it I have called upon forces I do not believe in who will protect Whiskey so long as I keep writing, keep editing, keep revising, but not a moment after. Part of me worries it is a race; I must type quickly to ensure I finish in time.
But these fears are unfounded. Though he approaches thirteen years of guessed age, he is ferociously and fully alive. We spent this morning chasing tennis balls at my in-law’s, him ignoring my calls as he sprinted out of view, preferring to find squirrels to chase or deer urine to roll in. We shared a vanilla custard on the way home, as is our tradition, one of countless small penances I offer up against sins he does not remember, one of infinite tokens of thanks for all he has done.
There are things we all regret as our dogs grow older: I could have taken him on more walks. Could have played more. Could have given him more time in the snow. Could have started running sooner, back before his hips stiffened.
And there are things only a former disaster can flay herself for: Being so drunk, I forgot to feed him. Being too hungover to take him outside. Staying out all night with men instead of coming home to him.
Perhaps this is the advantage of believing in a god. Christ died for humanity’s sins. Priests assign Hail Marys. Allah forgives those who forgive others. Judaism holds forgiveness as fundamental. If the divine can forgive you, it is the height of ego to be unable to extend the same grace to yourself. But a higher power has never been part of my recovery.
3. My life has been filled with dogs, at least one in each of my broken childhood homes. The smallest, Sneakers, was an overweight 12-pound Yorkshire Terrier. The largest were the goldens—Buster and Buddy—brothers from different litters. Brandy was the first. Cassie was the first who felt like mine. Whiskey, the first who truly was.
3. My life has been filled with dogs, at least one in each of my broken childhood homes. The smallest, Sneakers, was an overweight 12-pound Yorkshire Terrier. The largest were the goldens—Buster and Buddy—brothers from different litters. Brandy was the first. Cassie was the first who felt like mine. Whiskey, the first who truly was.
My post-college apartment was in one of Pittsburgh’s trendiest, dog-friendliest neighborhoods. Even though it allowed pets, I knew it wasn’t the time to adopt. There were still boxes instead of a couch, furniture waiting to be built, student loan payments soon to begin. I browsed Petfinder until I left Pennsylvania. I knew that waiting to get a dog would be the right move.
I always made the right move. In kindergarten, I led classroom activities when one of the “room mothers”—the gendered and problematic, if accurate, name for family members who volunteered—called off. Halfway through third grade, they moved me to fourth, insisting it could not wait until the end of the year. In high school, I passed on drinking in the woods and hotboxing between classes in favor of becoming the newspaper editor, the star of the play, the champion public speaker, the chemistry olympics finalist. I found a job in the recession’s depths. I had earned the right to make a wrong move, to bring home a dog on impulse instead of waiting for the right time.
Before he was Whiskey, he was Boomer, a foster dog in Ohio. His foster mom emailed two photos. One of him covered snout to tail in snow, crouched and ready to take the photographer down into the powdery white with him. One of him resting his head on a pillow, looking back lovingly. I would quickly learn these are his two natural states of being. She described him as always by her side, rarely barking, and a wonderful companion. Oh, and he’s housetrained, she told me, but could use some work on jumping.
But I want the dog who jumps up on you. Who can’t bear his own happiness at the sight of you. Who has never been happier in any moment of his life than the one when you get home. Who will never be so happy again, until the next time.
And so, one wintry Saturday, Underachieving Boyfriend #1 and I drove to the suburbs of Cleveland. It was just to meet him, I told myself. Sure, it’d be great if it were a match, but I wasn’t getting my hopes up. I refused to buy a single toy or treat.
I entered their living room in flared jeans and a green plaid coat, my hair ironed too flat, brows plucked too thin. I’m sure hellos were exchanged. I’m sure they gave us great information about his habits—perhaps how he knew not to come into the kitchen or jump up on furniture. I’m sure they asked questions. But all I remember are those eyes, one blue, one brown, peering up from under muppety grey eyebrows, bursting with joy.
He sat on my lap the entire ride home. First in the back seat, then in the front of the aging Oldsmobile Cutlass, where he frantically sniffed the air coming through the heating vent.
“You’re just Brand New,” I whispered in his floppy ear, over and over. After Underachiever #1 got out at his mom’s, I slid behind the wheel and drove to Petco. We wandered down every aisle, filling the cart while I told everyone who fawned over him that he was Brand New.
“Whiskey,” I said the whole way back to our apartment. “Your name is Whiskey, now.”
4. The vet suspected he was part husky, about two years old and in good health. He had a minor case of worms, but nothing Panacur wouldn’t fix. Having acquired toys, treats and a cleanish bill of health, it was time to break his good habits.
4. The vet suspected he was part husky, about two years old and in good health. He had a minor case of worms, but nothing Panacur wouldn’t fix. Having acquired toys, treats and a cleanish bill of health, it was time to break his good habits.
“Come here, Whiskey!” I egged him on, patting the bed. “C’mere, boy!” He wagged his tail from the floor, looking up with his head tilted to the side, believing it wrong.
But I want the dog who jumps on furniture. Who snuggles up to you at night and steals your covers. Wedges himself between you and your bedmate. Stretches his legs and pushes his paws into your spine.
“It’s okay, buddy! You’re allowed.” He gave in and jumped up, licking my face and circling the shiny gold bedspread before curling up, making his 40-pound body impossibly small.
“There,” I whispered. “You’re home.”
5. Two years later, we packed most of our belongings into the Cutlass, which no longer had working heat or the ability to go more than 20 miles without needing antifreeze. The bed, the futon—anything fabric unable to fit into a washing machine—were abandoned. The once perfect apartment flooded and filled with centipedes so often the architects who owned it were tearing down the building. I found mushrooms growing up from the carpet and could only imagine the mold.
5. Two years later, we packed most of our belongings into the Cutlass, which no longer had working heat or the ability to go more than 20 miles without needing antifreeze. The bed, the futon—anything fabric unable to fit into a washing machine—were abandoned. The once perfect apartment flooded and filled with centipedes so often the architects who owned it were tearing down the building. I found mushrooms growing up from the carpet and could only imagine the mold.
“Whiskey, you want to move?” His tail wagged, like always. “You’ll have so much space!”
The new apartment was a third-floor walkup, 1200 square feet filled with windows, all ours. Well, ours and Underachieving Boyfriend #2’s. I threw tennis balls down the lengthy hallway. Chain-smoked Marlboro Lights in the spare bedroom. Bought fancy bones from the boutique pet store. Snorted lines of blow from the windowsills. Adopted a kitten. Mostly quit cocaine. Named the kitten Puck.
As Whiskey and Puck grew close, Underachiever #2 and I disintegrated.
One morning, I woke up freezing and hungover at the bottom of our steps, having presumably passed out just inside of the front door the night before. Broken glass sparkled on the steps above me. As my eyes adjusted to the sun, I saw Underachiever #2 had punched a hole through the window above my head and left a trail of bloody handprints along the wall. A brand new iPhone and flowers waited on the kitchen counter at the top of the stairs, apologies for a fight I didn’t remember. When I climbed into bed that night, Whiskey tucked his body against mine, facing the door. If Underachiever #2 came too close, Whiskey growled. He’d never growled before. I knew it was time to go, though it would take me months to do so.
6. We packed up the Cutlass—now barely hanging on—again, and Whiskey, Puck and I found ourselves in another third-floor walkup. It was a third the size of the one we’d left, but it was all ours and, without tension filling the air, it felt spacious. For the first time in years, I was tethered to nothing but my job at a fancy startup hotel, where we worked late into the night regardless of job title, breaking down weddings and taking shots of Jameson.
6. We packed up the Cutlass—now barely hanging on—again, and Whiskey, Puck and I found ourselves in another third-floor walkup. It was a third the size of the one we’d left, but it was all ours and, without tension filling the air, it felt spacious. For the first time in years, I was tethered to nothing but my job at a fancy startup hotel, where we worked late into the night regardless of job title, breaking down weddings and taking shots of Jameson.
A parade of men came through our new door—my former professor who spoke five languages, bartenders cheating on their girlfriends, the chef cheating on his wife, a boy I loved in town from Portland, Underachieving Ex #1—to name a few. Whiskey befriended all of them, the light in his eyes never dimming, even when I came home after 2 a.m., even when he got only one walk a day, even when I was out all night, even when we barely played. He watched and waited as I took selfies, all lace and skin, answered OKCupid quizzes and cried over boys, content for the moment to snuggle while I recovered on the couch from frequent hangovers, intermittent depression and one abortion.
My neglects, big and small, blur and bleed together, but for one: I stumbled through the front door after midnight with a man I’d met at the hotel bar during my shift, a friend of the owner. Whiskey wagged his tail to say hello, but we went straight to the bedroom, shutting the door behind us, leaving him alone again. I passed out before I could walk him. The next day, hazy, I walked into the living room to see him having a rare accident on the carpet. He hadn’t been outside in 24 hours. He looked at me with shame-filled eyes.
Dogs want only to please us. When you step on their paw, they’ll circle and wag their tail, believing they’ve done something wrong and asking for forgiveness. When you’re too wrecked to care for them, they’ll blame themselves for your failures. But a dog’s shame is short-lived. Yours will be carried for years.
One of the men, obscenely beautiful, lean and muscled, newly released from the U.S. Airforce—I called him Captain America—took us to the dog park I’d tried but never been able to find. It was a fenced-in swath of a much larger park, a stream running down its center. When I unclipped Whiskey’s leash, he took off sprinting into the shallow waters and leaping out on the other side. He rushed up the hill before turning around to see why we couldn’t keep up, crashing back down through the brush to jump up on us with wet muddy paws and elation. I’d never known he liked water.
7. We returned to the park two years later, this time from a different apartment, with a different boyfriend, one who adored Whiskey, but was so-so on me. Whiskey ran into the piles of dead leaves, swimming in their crunch and bursting out of them to splash in the water. Loop after loop he ran: leaves, crunch, stream, splash. He sprinted like a puppy, not an eight-year-old dog, floppy ears flapping as his legs made full extension, parallel to the ground below.
7. We returned to the park two years later, this time from a different apartment, with a different boyfriend, one who adored Whiskey, but was so-so on me. Whiskey ran into the piles of dead leaves, swimming in their crunch and bursting out of them to splash in the water. Loop after loop he ran: leaves, crunch, stream, splash. He sprinted like a puppy, not an eight-year-old dog, floppy ears flapping as his legs made full extension, parallel to the ground below.
You are so close, I say to photos of that day, keep going. The woman in those pictures does not know within the year she will get sober, get a promotion and fall in love with the man she will marry, one who will love her and Whiskey equally, as much as she and Whiskey love each other.
I hope she can hear me across space and time, in the sounds of leaves, crunch, stream, splash, a promise: It will all get so much better. Just keep going. For both of you.
8. My second favorite wedding photo doesn’t have my husband, Mike, in it. I’m sitting in a grassy field, legs tucked under me, veil pushed back, unconcerned with the delicate lace gown. Whiskey had no interest in looking at the camera, wanting only to look at Mike, his second best friend, and me. He put his front paws on my thighs, licking my face. Mike stepped away, behind the photographer. Whiskey looked to him, and in doing so, at the camera. Click.
8. My second favorite wedding photo doesn’t have my husband, Mike, in it. I’m sitting in a grassy field, legs tucked under me, veil pushed back, unconcerned with the delicate lace gown. Whiskey had no interest in looking at the camera, wanting only to look at Mike, his second best friend, and me. He put his front paws on my thighs, licking my face. Mike stepped away, behind the photographer. Whiskey looked to him, and in doing so, at the camera. Click.
The photographer told Mike to join us. He crouched next to the train, looking at Whiskey with a smile. Whiskey leaned in, trying to put his head around my shoulder, to get to his Mike. I giggled and turned my head. Click. The photographer caught us, giddily happy, the dog’s tongue out, hearts on our sleeves.
This is the life he has always deserved, I think when I look at these photos.
You too, a quiet voice not-quite-mine responds. I like to think it belongs to the woman in the park that day.
9. How does an atheist forgive herself? What penance will ever be enough? I consider rituals. Writing the sins on paper and burning them. Deploying crystals to the cause. Investing in sages or colored taper candles. Perhaps a cleansing spell. Does it still work if I don’t believe in it?
9. How does an atheist forgive herself? What penance will ever be enough? I consider rituals. Writing the sins on paper and burning them. Deploying crystals to the cause. Investing in sages or colored taper candles. Perhaps a cleansing spell. Does it still work if I don’t believe in it?
I know guilt and shame do him no good. I know my past-self was doing the best she could. She got us here, now. Where we play and hike and sing and travel, take sunrise walks on beaches and watch him running into and away from waves, chasing the foam as it blows across the sand, nose down, hunting for ghost crabs he knows are real.
How do you tell a dog thank you? How do you tell him he saved you, is the only constant of your adulthood, the only constant of your entire life?
You show up every moment with him. No grieving in advance. No moment unappreciated. We spend hours looking into each other’s eyes. Not at once, but over the course of years. Some days he must be touching one of us, always. Some days his legs shake. Sometimes I watch Whiskey breathing just to know he is. Take endless photos to freeze time.
10. In the earliest days of Homelife, when the pandemic began, I worked from the time I woke until after dinner, usually eaten over Outlook around 10 p.m. The one break I took was Whiskey’s long walk. It came around 6 p.m., after our standing end-of-day call and before everyone started catching up on emails they’d missed while on Zoom. I’d pull my unwashed hair back in a cloth headband and messy bun, toss on a jacket and knockoff Keds and head left out our front door.
10. In the earliest days of Homelife, when the pandemic began, I worked from the time I woke until after dinner, usually eaten over Outlook around 10 p.m. The one break I took was Whiskey’s long walk. It came around 6 p.m., after our standing end-of-day call and before everyone started catching up on emails they’d missed while on Zoom. I’d pull my unwashed hair back in a cloth headband and messy bun, toss on a jacket and knockoff Keds and head left out our front door.
He’d stop at the first tree to pee, then pull frantically up the street. I’d scan the landscape for other walkers. He has never learned how to walk on a leash—my fault. He stops for smells, darts after squirrels, rabbits and nothing at all. He barks with unbelievable volume at the sight or suggestion of another dog.
“You’re an embarrassment to yourself and others, and I am the other!” I tease with a laugh whenever this happens, loudly so nearby humans can hear. Or, if I see them soon enough, I may shout, “He’s about to bark really loudly,”—woof, woof—“Sorry!”
But I want the dog who stops for all the smells. Who doesn’t care that he’s smelled that tree 1,000 times, because he hasn’t yet smelled it today. Or maybe he smelled it this morning, but who knows what it could smell like now? Walks take three times as long, but where are we going anyway, except back home again?
Once back, I sing him songs. Some are standards, memorized and oft repeated.
Handsomest dog is the handsomest dog
Handsomest dog IS the handsomest dog
Handsomest dooooog!
Handsomest dog.
Handsomest dooooog!
Handsomest dog.
Instant classics, you see. Most are improvised, or riffs on prior iterations:
Instant classics, you see. Most are improvised, or riffs on prior iterations:
Good morning my pup
Good morning my friend
Good morning my love
Good morning my Whiskey!
He wags his tail and gives me paw or Dragon. Of his many toys, there are two favorites: Dragon and Leopard Starfish Bear, who is neither leopard nor starfish nor bear. Leopard Starfish Bear is worn and fillingless, brought out only on special occasions. Dragon is his everyday favorite; a long blue tube with green stegosaurus-style ridges and crinkly wings below his friendly face. Whiskey carries him to bed each night for three minutes of tug of war before sleep.
11. One evening, he won’t quit whining. I sit on the couch in our bedroom trying to read, to read with purpose, to study the craft, highlighter and pen in hand, hair pulled up. He circles beside me, high pitched intervals escaping his throat. I move and fluff the blankets, patting beside my feet. He cocks his head and whines some more.
He wags his tail and gives me paw or Dragon. Of his many toys, there are two favorites: Dragon and Leopard Starfish Bear, who is neither leopard nor starfish nor bear. Leopard Starfish Bear is worn and fillingless, brought out only on special occasions. Dragon is his everyday favorite; a long blue tube with green stegosaurus-style ridges and crinkly wings below his friendly face. Whiskey carries him to bed each night for three minutes of tug of war before sleep.
11. One evening, he won’t quit whining. I sit on the couch in our bedroom trying to read, to read with purpose, to study the craft, highlighter and pen in hand, hair pulled up. He circles beside me, high pitched intervals escaping his throat. I move and fluff the blankets, patting beside my feet. He cocks his head and whines some more.
I call to Mike, who calls to the dog. He feeds Whiskey second dinner. After gulping it down, he charges up the stairs to my side again, crying again.
“Mike! I don’t know what to do?”
“I think he wants you to come downstairs.”
I look at the dog. “Is that it, buddy?”
I precariously balance books and pens and fizzy water on my computer and walk downstairs, sitting on the couch next to Mike’s desk. Whiskey hops up. Circles once. Twice. Plop. Nose tucks into tail. Eyes close.
How does an atheist forgive herself? By learning from the divine on the couch next to her.
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.