Growing up an Orthodox Jew, there was no outpour of domesticated animals running through our community. Most people within our community were without animals. I don't know that there was any specific reason for this.
I know that a lot of ultra-religious or "frum" Jews tend to stray away from animals, but a lot of that streams from a dog's inability to be properly cared for during the holy days of the Sabbath. Of course there are ways around this and like most things, I think the option of housing animal is a very personal choice. It varies from person to person depending on the situation.
Anyway, growing up there was no outpour of animals in surrounding families. When I was very little, my family had a collie named Samantha. We also had an outdoor cat named Princess. I couldn't tell you what happened to Princess if I wanted to. In my memories, it's as if she slowly faded out of the picture. Samantha, on the other hand, plays a big part in my memories. She was welt-tempered, sweet, loyal, affectionate, and full of energy. I remember playing with her fondly, often climbing up onto her strong back, often bringing this dog to the floor. I loved Samantha as any little boy does his dog.
Around the age of 6, Samantha became ridden with fleas. My parents seemed to take every necessary precaution (as I was told) to rid Samantha of these parasites. They shaved her repeatedly and seemed to be addressing the situation. Just about the same time, my younger sister was an infant with barely any hair atop her head. One day my parents found fleas crawling up atop her head. This was the worst case scenario for our dear Samantha. One day, while I was at school, my parents handed Samantha off to a maid my mother hired sporadically. They told me they had done everything they could, but there was no way to rid Samantha of the fleas, so she had to go.
I never saw Samantha again. :-(
We went years without another animal. Most of the kids in our community had no pets themselves, so my argument for a dog fell on deaf shoulders.
Then, one day, it all changed.
My mother decided we were all ready for a dog.
As most things went in my house growing up, my mother's decision was a concrete truth for all of us. So, if she wanted a dog, we were getting a dog. There wasn't a discussion there. I, of course, was happy at the prospect. Having always regarded Samantha as the perfect dog, my family (my mother) decided to get another collie. After a grueling search through a roster of high-pedigree dog breeders, we obtained our first victim - I mean dog.
Our new addition was named Maggie May after the Rod Stewart hit 'Maggie May', a favorite of my mother's. I had never heard the song (I have since). 'Maggie May' was an amazing puppy with a sweet, playful demeanor. The problem was that Maggie May didn't come trained. Not only did she not come trained, but there was no user manual. My parents didn't take lightly to this. I didn't understand it at the time, having no prior experience with housebreaking a pet. Whenever Maggie May had an accident in the house or got into something she should not have, she was met with frustration and screaming from my parents. I didn't understand. I loved her.
Within a year, Maggie May became housebroken by no other logical reason than pure luck. This made me happy because I hoped she would finally be embraced as the "family's dog" rather than Raanan's dog that everyone else reluctantly tolerated. I mean, I didn't even get to name her.
Then, one day my mother decided she wanted a dog. In my mind, she wanted an additional dog, but she was going about it as if Maggie May did not exist. When I questioned her intentions, she explained that another dog may help her embrace Maggie May.
This new pup would be a different breed of course. The two options on the table were a Toy Poodle or an American Eskimo. My mother wanted a toy poodle, while I preferred the American Eskimo. Needless to say, we ended up deciding on a Toy Poodle. My mother wanted a lap dog. We left one day, sans Samantha, to visit a breeder with toy poodle puppies. I was instructed to speak not of Samantha while we were at the breeder's home. I didn't understand this, but agreed to go along with it. We were keeping Samantha, right? Well, we fell in love with a small black toy poodle. We were informed her hair would turn to "silver", a kind way of saying her coat's shine would be that of a retired gentleman. We took the puppy home with us that day. I was given the option to name her. Given her black coat and the impending shift to gray, Peppy LePew, a Looney Tunes character who was a skunk came to mind. His love interest in the cartoon is FeFe. I named our toy poodle FeFe.
Within a month, I discovered that naming FeFe was a tactic to distract me from impending doom. All of a sudden, one day, I was informed that my family would be giving Maggie May to our electrician. They informed me that I could visit her as often as I liked, but she no longer felt mine. I never saw her again.
This was a huge life lesson taught through the care of animals for me:
If at first you don't succeed, give up and try something completely different. Always expect new results without a change in your actions.
Hmmmm...
Well, it was only a matter of time before FeFe started testing my parents' patience. Another dog with no user manual! FeFe had accidents daily, barked at everything, and could squeeze herself into any mischief weighing in at about 6 lbs. We were nowhere as lucky with FeFe as we were with Samantha. FeFe was often very temperamental. About a year into FeFe's residence, she slipped through our fence in the backyard. I didn't know she had escaped until we received a ring at our doorbell. A friendly middle-aged blonde woman was at our door with FeFe. She had discovered FeFe outside our home - without a leash or any supervision - on her drive home. She was concerned. Within a few moments, my mother began to disclose all of her frustrations with our puppy to this stranger. The stranger - an avid dog-lover - offered to take FeFe off our hands and devote the time and attention she deserves. The woman lived in our neighborhood and offered for me to visit as often as I like. I didn't want to part with another dog. I truly didn't. This woman offered we sleep on it before making any decisions.
The following day my mother made the decision to give FeFe to this woman. I was not happy, but felt confident that she was being given a nice home nearby where I could visit often. The day after FeFe's dismissal from our home, my mother received a phone call. The woman on the other end of the phone was a new stranger who now had possession of FeFe. She worked for a rescue organization and FeFe had been placed in her possession. She scolded my mother for FeFe's neglectful care and informed her of FeFe's underweight malnourished state. That closed FeFe's book.
Soon after (we're talking a few weeks, possibly a month), it was time for another dog. Dog #4 was a Newfoundland. They are beautiful dogs that grow up to look like small bears. They are sweethearts. This pup was named Lucy after the Beatles hit 'Lucy in the Sky'. Again, another song I was ill-familiar with. Lucy was very similar to Maggie May in her ability to adjust to our home. She wasn't trained, but found her way there much easier than FeFe who was never fully trained. Lucy was sweet and amazing and I thought we would finally settle on a dog. Finally.
Well, just as Lucy entered our home, we entered into an ultra-observant even more religious time in our home. During this time we had many Rabbis and their families spend extended weekends in our home. These Rabbis and their families all seemed to have deathly fearful apprehensions with dogs. Lucy, as harmless as she was, was not only a dog, but one that resembled a grown bear. For this reason, Lucy was exiled to the backyard for the entirety of these religious stays.
I know that a lot of people poke fun at the stereotype that African-American people are often deathly afraid of dogs, but the stereotype often rings true with religious Jews.
As any puppy craving attention would, Lucy grew restless, sequestered to the outdoors. She began to tear up the deck behind our home in frustration. Here there was a home full of people and she couldn't be a part of it. She would stare endlessly through the sliding glass doors that looked out from the kitchen on to the deck. I felt sorry for her and all the while, she was the bane of my parents' existence. Or so it seemed.
Right around the year mark, my parents found a home for Lucy. I refused to meet the family acquiring my dog and hid in my room when they picked her up.
3 dogs later, my parents seemed skeptical in choosing a new breed. The solution: a Rescue shelter.
We ventured out one day, as a family, to a number of different animal shelters in search of Dog #5. We found one shelter that had a collie look-alike in which I fell in love. Her name was Annie, but the shelter informed us she was a runner and we decided to choose another dog. My parents thought was that an adult dog may be more tame and somewhat trained. The potential for success was higher than that with an untrained puppy. Then the shelter workers/volunteers introduced us to Sheba. Sheba was a black mix about 4 years old. The people at the shelter raved about her temperament. "Sheba doesn't even have to be walked on a leash. She's the best tempered dog here!" We took her out for a walk and spent some time with her. She seemed calm and easy and before the day's end, we took Sheba home. My father, to this day, will always claim Sheba as the best dog we ever had. "She never had one accident!"
Well the story on Sheba is as follows: We brought her home that evening and she was horribly skittish. She lay spread out on her belly in the hallway close to our front door. I lay on the floor attempting to coax her into the living room, but the dog seemed too scared. (I often think that maybe she knew where she was. Maybe it was the same reason FeFe attempted running away.) After about 2 hours in the hallway, my father - who was working on something in the front yard - called to me to put a leash on Sheba and take her out for an evening walk. As I opened the front screen door to call back to him and agree, this shy, skittish dog ran out the door faster than anything I had ever seen. It was as if she was waiting for a way out all evening. I began to run after her, but she was too fast. My father and I loaded into his car and took off into the night searching for Sheba. I cried the whole time. At one point in the evening, after at least an hour of driving, we found Sheba standing outside a neighbor's house. As soon as she saw the lights of our car, she fled in the other direction. We never found Sheba. Dog #5 had the record for shortest existence in our home. Brava Sheba!
My tears that night have been a running joke within our family for years. I came to believe I was the only true animal lover in our home which made everything else that much more confusing and upsetting. Was it better to keep clean from emotions with these animals? How could a boy not fall in love with a dog in moments? I know from experience that you can.
Within no time at all, Dog #6 entered the picture. This time: Chihuahua. My mother named her "Tzippy", a Hebrew name short for "Tzipora". Tzippy lasted about a year before she was handed off to a friend of my sister's.
After Tzippy, my parents vowed to take a break from dogs. As one would so obviously expect, this led to the acquisition of a feline. My mother fell in love with a breed of cat named 'Rag-dolls. They are a cross between a Himalayan and a Persian cat, notably known for the way they sit up, perched like a rag-doll doll. Hence the name. I was given the bonus of naming this cat. I named our new cat, who was the first male animal of ours, "Ollie", short for "Aleph", the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Cats are much less work than dogs and we discovered this quickly. Within a years time, there was no fear for Ollie's departure. He was embraced as our animal and made my parents reevaluate their stance on dogs.
Dog #7 entered the picture. The breed of the moment? A Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. While I loved every dog we acquired, this was the first breed to really excite me since the days of pondering an American Eskimo. For those of you that followed 'Sex and the City', Charlotte's dog 'Elizabeth Taylor' was a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel on the series. Cavaliers, as they're often abbreviated to, are available in many different color combos. There are the Tri-Colors (Black, White, and Red-Brown), Blenheim's (Red-Brown and White), Black and Tan (Brown and Black), and the most rare and highly coveted Rubies (All Red-Brown). My mother wanted to acquire the most notable and we ended up with a Ruby. I had the pleasure of naming him as well. I thought he resembled 'Scrappy Doo' from the 'Scooby Doo' animated TV series. My mother didn't like that name too much and compromised with the option of 'Scooby Doo'. This is how I first acquired the LOVE of my life: Scooby Doo.
Scooby had the same obstacles to face as every dog before him had. The difference was that I wasn't going to let go of this puppy. I felt an instant connection from Day 1 that he was my dog and would always be. I have been infatuated with this dog since the first time I set my sights on him. My parents didn't embrace him within no time, but I didn't care. His departure was not up for discussion. Scooby (for short) came into my life towards the end of high school. This was a time of so many changes in my life dealing with religion, my gay identity, and what was next for my life. Scooby came on when I needed companion most and I clung to him.
Because Scooby's departure was not open for discussion, my mother grew anxious for another animal. We brought another rag-doll into our home. This one I named "Bet", after the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet, and we called her "Betsy". Now we had Ollie, Betsy, and Scooby.
After my first semester of college, I moved out of my parents' home. This was not well-planned. It was a reaction to strife with my parentals. Within a week's absence, my mother handed Scooby off to a family friend. I never wanted to move back home. I felt betrayed and saddened by it all.
Later, after moving back home, my parents offered for me to visit Scooby whenever I like, but it didn't feel right. It felt as if someone stole the single thing most important to me, but if I wanted I could watch them enjoy that item whenever I liked. This was not for me. I couldn't visit my puppy. It was too hard.
For the next few years, I stumbled through the beginning of my adulthood and an animal was the farthest thing from my agenda.
During those years, after having moved back out, my parents got rid of both Ollie and Betsy. (Dog #8, a Yorkie was introduced in that time. Ironically enough, my family still has Dog #8 as well as a Dog #9.)
After a few years of shying away from the idea of a dog, I was in a relationship with a guy who was obsessed with the idea of a dog. I was insecure that our relationship would not work out (due to constant fighting and issues...), despite its impending doom, and I thought a dog may save the relationship. This is the gay equivalent to getting pregnant in order to lock in your guy. He wanted a Jack Russell Terrier, but I wanted a Cavalier. Of all the dogs I had experienced throughout my life, Scooby was my favorite and I wanted another. I started looking into Cavalier Rescue Organizations and began putting major focus into the idea. I was open to a Jack Russell if it came to it, but I was hoping to find a Cavalier first.
My mother knew my intentions to welcome a dog into my world and, in turn, shared this information with her friend who had been housing Scooby all these years. She informed my mother that Scooby was always "Raanan's dog" and that if I was ready for the responsibility of a dog, I was welcome to come claim him. I never even thought that would be an option on the table. I became elated, but at the same time hesitant. Scooby had been without my care for a quite a long time now and my father - having seen him - told me how fat he had become and I just was not sure he was my dog anymore.
My ex and I drove to my mother's friend's house one night during the week to claim my prize. Scooby looked nothing like what I had left when I moved out of my parents house. He was about 35 lbs, which was extremely obese according to the vet's conclusion. Cavaliers vary in weight, but generally they are known to fluctuate between 12 and 16 lbs. Some are heavier, but Scooby was a beast. He could barely walk a straight line, was constantly huffing and puffing like an 80 year old cigarette smoker, and would snap to the touch. This was not a happy dog.
Scooby was going to take a lot of work. Instantly upon rescuing him I felt overwhelmed and unsure I had made the right decision. My relationship, which had been on the rocks, ended shortly after my acquisition of Scooby.
This mess of a dog, as he was, was not what I bargained for.
Lucky for me, I had an incredible position with a warm inviting company that welcomed the idea of a dog in the office. I had the ridiculous luxury of bringing my dog to work with me every day. I put him on a diet and spent every moment of every day training him. I wanted the sweet loving dog I remembered. Scooby never snapped at me, but he was sensitive to the touch with anything and everyone else.
I spent time managing his many health issues. He was born with a cataract in his left eye that was never treated by way of surgery and had now gone fully blind in that eye. It also seemed that Scooby was fully deaf, something we had not discovered when he was a puppy. Additionally, he had a degenerate gum disease problem that was improperly dealt with prior.
My Scooby began to snap back into place. He returned demeanor to that of a sweet little love bug, like I remembered. He shed much of the weight, keeping him healthy between 20 and 23 lbs. (He weighs about 21 lbs today.) Due to his hearing impairment, Scooby makes virtually no noise. He never barks or gets yappy. I sign in relief every time I'm reminded of this. He has a magical bladder and has not had an accident in over 6 years. I'm mighty proud.
The last number of years, Scooby has been with me, much like he was as a small puppy. He's my child. I have a connection with him like I've never had with another animal. I feel as if he was a product of a long physically numbing high-profile man labor. He's my baby and I love my baby.
Over the years, there have been a number of other health problems for Scooby's chart:
- Appendicitis
- Heart Murmur
- The loss of all of his teeth (He only has 2 teeth left in his mouth)
- Enlarged Heart
- Tremors
- Insanely Inhuman Horrific Intestinal problems resulting in deadly fits of gas
- Epilepsy
And those are just a few.
All of that being said, most people think Scooby's a puppy when they see him. He's always happy with his tail wagging, visible from a mile away. You'd never know how damaged my bank account is due to his medical bills from the looks of him.
Scooby's turning 14 this year. It's crazy, but he's the LOVE of my life and I don't know what I'll do when he's gone.
He has taught me the importance of responsibility, unconditional love, and companionship. I now know the pleasure and fulfillment that come from training a dog properly and devoting your energy to them.
Blast from the past:
Scooby: Present Day.
Young pup, Scooby, right when we first got him.
Scooby during the first year.
Scooby resting in my lap, in my bedroom, circa 17 yr old Raanan.
Ollie/Aleph.
Betsy/Bet.
Samantha and me.
Thoughts or opinions?
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