Thursday, June 17, 2004
The Adventures of Cosmo, the Really Terrific Dog, Adventure the Last: Macho Cuddly
Cosmo combines two traits that are usually quite distinct from each other: cuteness and toughness. Little kids - the ones who haven’t been trained to fear dogs - love him and rush up to him; he’s been “bow-wow’d” at by children of a dozen nationalities in a score of languages and he always recognizes it and smiles for them. When the kids rush him and poke at his eyes, he, stalwart, takes it. He grins and wags and puts up with them. He knows they’re just puppies and they can’t help it.
In fact, he’s basically a kid himself. He loves to play with balls and sticks and especially fuzzy dolls. Whenever he finds a doll anywhere he scoops it up in his big ol’ mouth and trots around with it like a cat with her kit, but rather more fully inserted between the jaws. He once found a raggedy ann doll in the park and carried it, adorably, with the head and arms flapping to one side and the legs falling out the other side of his mouth; people coo’d and chuckled… then with a deft flick of his head he re-oriented the doll so its head was stuck down his throat and its arms and legs seemed to flail helplessly against his face. He was ever so pleased, but the public reaction was less jovial and sanguine. It was like he was eating Pinocchio.
His adoration for young children has never exceeded the bounds of decency, canine or human, though on some occasions his restraint amazed me. At one time I was involved in a campaign to build an animal shelter, and the organization wanted to use Cosmo in the video being produced to promote the project. His job was to sit happily and quietly on a bench in my boss’s backyard while her two young children petted him. The shoot went smoothly; the rest of the shooting was soon completed; the footage was edited and the video was screened within a few months. I was in the audience for the first screening, and eagerly awaited Cosmo’s appearances: he both opened and closed the video, his gaping smile an irresistible enticement to donate heavily to the good cause.
But what my boss and I seemed to be the only ones to notice, was how much he seemed to be enjoying his moment on screen. The 11-year-old girl draped an arm over his shoulder, and the 9-year-old boy stroked the white patch under his chin where he likes to be stroked, and what appeared to be a bright pink lipstick burst cheerfully from the brown brindle fur of his lower abdomen and jiggled gently under the juvenile ministrations he was receiving. The kids, it seemed, aroused the animal in Cosmo. But he sat still and denied himself, left himself and the kids alone. I truly respected, retroactively, his rectitude. My boss didn’t know whether to be mortified or to burst out laughing, but one thing was sure to both of us: here was a dog who understood the basic social rules, and wanted to honor them.
His love of his for the company of plush toys and his restraint among the kidlets matches nicely with his enormous stoic strength. Once when playing “catch the pinecone” out on Pine Cone Hill, he barely yelped when he came down the wrong way and tore his ACL. We didn’t even realize he’d hurt himself till we’d walked him back home, and even then he was still smiling and wagging through the pain. Every time he’s hurt himself or gotten sick, he’s responded with the utmost restraint. Bump him, poke him, step on his foot - he gets over it and forgives you. He’s got a high pain threshold, and he’s very forgiving.
That’s how we knew how seriously things were wrong that night he refused to go down the stairs to pee. As an old dog, already 30% past his life expectancy, his joints were getting sore and tired; he’d been taking drugs and supplements to keep him going strong but suddenly, that night, he totally balked for the first time. He wasn’t using his right rear leg at all and he looked worried. We carried him down and then back up the stairs, and his condition steadily deteriorated over the course of the evening. When he began to tremble with pain, we got him to an emergency clinic.
The details of the veterinary odyssey are complex and irrelevant, so suffice it to say that two nights later we were visiting him at a THIRD clinic, one with an orthopedic specialist and 24-hour care. We’d taken Coz there earlier in the day for assessment and stabilization; he’d tolerated the trip only because he was so doped up. However, he hadn’t been eating since he’d gotten there, so we visited that night to entice him. We found him in a roomy run on a bed of fleece and blankets, hooked up to an IV and groggy as a vodka tester. He was resting with a little friend, too: next to him lay a small stuffed cat, the size and shape of our tabbycat Rufus, similar to her (yes, her) in color and activity level as well. We got him to eat a little peanut butter and they released him home to us with a raft of medications ranging from antibiotics to a syringe of morphine. He doesn’t want to cry about what’s happened, that much is clear. I wonder if he’d like a little doll to gnaw on while he recuperates, though. I understand it’s good for him, and he’s good that way.
Postscript: I wrote this shortly after Cosmo’s return from the overnight clinic; since then he’s been back to that clinic to have his stifle flushed and thereafter has been resting quietly. With all due caution and in full recognition of the fact that I don’t know what is happening up in that creaky rheumatic old joint of his, he seems to be doing a lot better than we had been led to expect he might. His follow-up visit is next week and we’ll play things by ear till then, but I am hopeful that between us all pulling for him, he may yet have a pretty good recovery.
Since that dark Tuesday evening I’ve carried him up and down the stairs an average of three times a day. That’s three trips, times seventeen days so far, times two times per trip I have to pick him up off the ground and clutch him to my bosom, times 100 pounds of dog (weight, not archaic limey currency): That’s 10,200 pounds of dog I’ve lifted over the past two weeks or so. If you want to make it sound impressive, then, we also live on the third floor so I go up and down 54 steps with him for each trip outside. But now he’s actually looking to avoid having me pick him up; he wants to go down the stairs on his own; I have to stop him from trying to run upstairs when I bring him in from a visit across the street. That’s when I remind myself that this is the very thing that he could not do when he hurt the worst, the limitation that showed me that he was in trouble. It appears now to be fading in the distance behind him, if the signs are accurate.
Of course, I hope that’s true. But regardless what we find out at the re-check next week, we’re proud as hell of Cosmo. He’s got more heart than the 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey Team together with their on-screen counterparts plus an extra Kurt Russel added in for good measure; he’s a good friend and a faithful companion and a fearless protector and a loving gentle housebuffalo. However this situation finally resolves itself, one thing cannot be questioned: Cosmo is the dog that other dogs strive to be, and he plays the part with self-deprecating humor and quiet wisdom. He is a tremendously good dog, and it will be a pleasure having him in my life for every day we are granted together. He and we appreciate deeply the support you have sent his way during his recuperation.
But as of Sunday night or Monday it’ll be time to return to the Chucklehut and its previously randomly-generated programming. The Cosmohut has done all it can. See you next week, I hope, with a perspective on the world that features Cosmo’s injured knee in the past, and a bunch of weird crap coming up ahead. You know, like it used to be.
