Remy

On the eve of Friday March 24th my dog Remy bit me. Benjamin and I were experimenting with a fancy cocktail - The Aviation. He brought home these delicious, syrupy, Croatian, maraschino cherries. Deep, deep red. When you lifted one out of the jar, the syrup would wait a full two seconds before dripping off. Somehow this felt elegant. 

Remy laid in his bedroom/kitchen bed half watching. He had become much weaker the last few weeks so I thought he might like a jolt of sugar. I dipped my right pointer finger in the syrup and bent down towards his bed. Two seconds later the syrup dripped and Remy bit. My sweet puppy had his teeth on my cherry dipped, right pointer and I had no idea how the situation was going to end.

…

There was only one situation Remy might attempt to bite you. When you were leaving him. I always warned company when leaving, "Don’t say goodbye. Remy hates goodbyes." When he noticed the shoes going on, the jacket being zipped he’d start paying attention. He'd stand there blocking you with one paw raised, an intimidation tactic that seemed to say: One move and I punch you. A few times he’d bite my heels as I put them on at the door.

My Remy routine (and routine in general), changed a lot the last few years. But it was the last 5 months of Remy's life it changed the most. On November 3rd I said goodbye to Remy from an oxygen chamber. He had anxiously spent the hour being put through the ringer of tests and I was leaving him to be put through more. Hours later I was told over the phone my sturdy, bowling ball had a heart base mass that was suspected to be cancerous and that it would be an ok decision to consider euthanasia. I made a call to Laps of Love. An appointment was made for them to come to my house 3 days later. We went to get Remy.

I sat in the backseat of my dads car with Remy where my dad had a bed ready for him. I collapsed over a still groggy pup and told my dad I was glad we decided to bring him home. 

Remy wasn't in great shape. His walk had become stiff and slow and all he wanted to do was lay in bed. That first night after his diagnosis, I slept with him out in my living room. A few hours into the night I woke up to Remy standing on his own and slurping water out of his bowl for 20 seconds straight. Benjamin walked in from down the hall and said it was the best noise he heard. 

The next day my dad brought over salmon. A friend brought pepperoni. A package arrived with a stuffed heart toy. Lots of tears for Remy but also lots of love and support and gourmet meals. Remy was weak but there seemed to be a renewed energy in him that had me doubting saying goodbye so soon. Was Remy feeling the love as much as me? 

I canceled the appointment.

Remy had always been my world but this was a new world for us. I carried my love for him with everything I did and spent all my time doting on him. 

Remy became stronger in his weakened state and seemed to settle into a nice groove. He didn’t want to go on walks, so we didn’t. There was a lot of experimenting with food as he lost some control of chewing. He didn’t want his normal dog food so we gave him the good stuff. Canned chicken was a winner, salmon of course and a good amount of Doggy roll-ups aka rolled up salmon and sweet potato in slices of Tofurky. Remy even had the strength to put the paws on the couch, rub his face into his bed, beg, go down steps, and trot quickly back inside after one of his famous, deep pees barely outside the apartment. My heart soared when I opened the bathroom door after a shower and Remy laid outside waiting. He still found the sun spots to lay in. He was still Remy. 

Leaving Remy's side was painful so if I had to go somewhere my dad would routinely check on him. I’d watch my dad’s arrival on the Furbo camera. Remy always seemed to sense my dad was close, picking his head up or sniffing under the door moments before he arrived. He had lost a lot of hearing so this always impressed me. Everytime I came home I would collapse happily on his bed with him and thank him for still being with me.

I kept thinking of our time together over 2020. This felt similar to that. Nowhere to go, nothing to do but be with my Remy. Some of the best times were over the holidays: forced to stay inside, eat shrimp and watch bad Christmas rom coms. I committed to doing that as much as we could in 2022. The Christmas tree went up a week before Thanksgiving. Unheard of for me. Every night I could spend watching a bad movie and a Christmas tree lit Remy, I was immensely grateful. This time with him was amazing. He was cuddly. He was hungry. I stared into this dog's eyes for hours. 

Remy was still obviously not getting any better. He became skinnier, he lost muscle. I described this as Remy going into cat mode. He was thin enough to curl up next to me in a perfect cinnamon bun swirl. I didn’t like seeing him get like this but never knowing Remy as a puppy, I loved being able to hold the once 35lb, bulky Remy as a baby. My baby. 

Remy’s spark quieted around mid-March. Our days became eat, sleep, cuddle, eat, sleep, cuddle. I didn’t want to force Remy to do anything he didn’t want to do but with the start of spring, I wanted him to experience the sun and smells he was missing by not going on walks. I got us a stroller. We strolled a few wonderful, wonderful times. I never quite knew if he loved it or hated it. Sometimes he’d stay standing, freaking me out that he was trying to jump. But maybe he was just getting a better look. He looked so damn cute in that stroller.

Every day was becoming a special but challenging day with Remy. He never told me he was in pain, and I don’t think he was, but his weakness was obvious. In the early, early hours of Sunday, April 2nd, I had just finished giving Remy his 4th bath of the day, blew dry his frail body on the floor of my bathroom and cried for the millionth time.

I had been having him sleep in my bed with me in his own bed for extra support. I loved the moment I carried him and his bed into mine. Flying Mister Remy! I remember specifically that night he propped his head up when I did it. The little spark. I pushed his bed into my arms and took a selfie of us. I felt bad that the flash went off.

He shifted a few times during the night and I readjusted him each time to make sure he was ok. I slept on and off. 

Remy passed in bed with me that night. I woke up around 9, his body still warm. Before the sadness swept over, a moment of immense gratitude swept over me. Remy chose to leave with me by his side. Just us. 

The mark from Remy’s cherry dipped bite still remains on the nail of my pointer finger. My skin on the other side is still slightly raw. This moment of fear transposed into a moment of memory and love and a scar I hope takes forever to fade. 

Remy hated goodbyes. 

Doggystyle

I thought living on my own would be a non-stop fuck fest. For the first time in my life I could finally be as loud as I want while simultaneously being as naked as I want. The ultimate dream. But I learned quickly that just because I no longer had human roommates, did not excuse me from disturbing my other roommate, my 9-year old, French Bulldog, Remy. 

Remy does not make it easy to bring people back to the apartment. As soon as a tongue goes in a mouth, as soon as a stare lingers just a little too long, you can count on Remy to get in the way. He immediately acts out. He demands attention. He’ll decide an ant trap that has sat untouched for months is his new favorite toy. He’ll thrash his bed around at your feet, tearing his own precious pillow to pieces until taken away and hidden from him. I live in a society where paying for sex is illegal, yet I’ve been paying for it in the form of doggy beds for years. Go ahead, arrest me. 

From an outsider, Remy seems like a hot, jealous mess that needs to be locked in a crate and dog whispered. But I’ve known this puppy for 7 years. I know why he does what he does and why I forgive him every time. Remy makes it hard for me to fuck because, well, I fucked him up. 

I got Remy on Labor Day, 2012. I decided on my day off that instead of relaxing, I would get a dog. I never had a dog. Whenever I was sad as a little girl, I would want so badly to have a little puppy face come up to me and lick my tears. The lizards and hamsters I did have couldn’t do that and looking back, neither could the man I lived with at the time. At least not with an argument moments later. 

So, I had been emailing with Remy’s previous owners and decided Labor Day would be the day I meet (and possibly keep) their 2-year old Frenchie.

My boyfriend, who was supportive but less excited about this decision, drove with me to Brooklyn from South Jersey (Yes, my dog lived in Brooklyn before me!). I barely remember my first moments with Remy. I remember him being at the top of the steps super excited visitors were there. I remember playing with him for a little and I remember his owners tearing up when we left together. I remember looking back at Remy as he sat panting in the backseat of my red, Ford Focus. There was my new dog! I was super excited and with Remy’s adorable, smiling, panting face, I thought he was too.

However, despite Remy’s first night with me being wonderful (I accidentally dropped a huge stuffed mushroom from Wegmans), Remy’s first year with me was not easy. He was plopped into the middle of an unhealthy, dying relationship. Remember how awkward you felt when you overheard your parents argue? Now imagine that except you’re a dog with ears bigger than your face. Intuitive yet confused. Tuned in yet clueless. 

Remy and my ex quickly clashed. They had their loving moments but my ex was a big man with a noticeable anger problem. Remy was an anxious dog torn away from the only life he’s known. I felt stuck, unequipped to deal with the situation as productively and maturely as I would have liked. The one side of me was a woman trying trying to make it work with her lover, the other was a little girl who wanted to desperately bond with her dog. I wanted to give Remy all the love and attention but was demanded to give it to my failing relationship. One hour I’d be teaching Remy to leave visitors alone as they entered, the next hour I’d be escaping myself.

And finally I did escape. To Brooklyn. But Remy didn’t join me right away. Subletting and going on interviews wouldn’t be easy with a dog, so for almost three months, Remy remained in South Jersey with my parents. I know this was the right decision but I also know I, for the third time, shook up Remy’s life. Sure, he had a big backyard and ‘grandparents’ who would make him a scrambled egg every now and then, but I was not there. Seeing him on Facetime made me happy but provided nothing to him. What good’s a human without a scent?

I was excited when Remy could finally join me. Especially now that I had two male roommates who could provide an energetic aggression with Remy that was playful, not fearful. I was so lucky that despite Remy being a somewhat difficult dog, Greg and Aaron adored him.

Remy certainly still had his moments of being a hot mess (peeing inside, jumping up on visitors, hating the landlord), but we were finally creating a stable life and relationship with each other. The mom/pup bond was getting stronger. 

And then there was ‘the incident’. Oh yes. I thought since Remy and I were finally grooving, he should start grooving with his own species. In my one (and only) attempt to find Remy canine friends, Remy got himself into a scuffle with a neighbor’s dog. He walked away from it seemingly fine until the next night when he started making noises I had never heard in our time together. X-rays, MRIs, and a ruptured disc surgery later, my Remy now had the physical scars to match his emotional ones. 

Remy may have recovered just fine from his surgery (thank you doggy diazepam!), but I admittedly gave up on scheduling any more pup playdates. And frankly, so did Remy. To this day, any dog that wants to play, Remy either straight up ignores or wants to murder. I’ve seen dogs ‘puppy bow’ with the grace and dignity of a Buckingham Palace visitor only to be met with my avoidant, ‘couldn’t give less of a shit’, Mr. Bean-like Remy. 

Which brings me back to the start. I got Remy 7 years ago. The Ford Focus and boyfriend have come and gone, both ending terribly. One on Thanksgiving Day on the side of the road in Staten Island, the other over a 5-year time period sprinkled with intensity, anger, and name-calling. Guess who was there for both?

Remy doesn’t make it easy for me to bring guests home, just like I didn’t make life easy for Remy. His panting face in the backseat of my car 7 years ago may have looked cute, but I have grown to recognize that expression as anxiety. I believe my trauma, our trauma, still lives in Remy in a much different way than it lives in me. As I slowly healed through therapy and long talks with friends and sweaty dances, Remy remained a dog. Remy’s old owner once warned me that Remy was shook by the noise of a storefront gate being opened as a puppy and it is still a noise that gets him running.

So no, I don’t think it’s that Remy is anti fuck fest. I don’t think it’s that Remy senses bad vibes from certain lovers (that would be a blessing) and I don’t think it’s that Remy disapproves of my kinkier preferences (although I will say, it is very hard to be submissive while discipling your pet). Remy is doing the best he can. 

I hope Remy senses I’m not going anywhere, we’re not going anywhere. I would love for him to let some of his anxieties go, to let people into his world, ultimately letting them into my world. Because I know I struggle with that too. I love my cozy existence with Remy and often wonder if I love it too much, if I’m shutting myself out like the friend who disappears after they start dating someone new or in my case, the girl who’s settling into solo adulthood. In the meantime, I’m trying not to be too hard on myself or Remy. He’ll always be my number one, no matter what I scream in the bedroom. 

In fact, I think Remy’s distracting behavior may actually prove to be for my benefit. When Remy knocks the passion and spontaneity out of sexy moments, it forces me to ‘break character’ and simply be Carolyn. I have to bring a very real part of myself to a situation where I was maybe playing pretend. Perhaps this is Remy’s litmus test. If it doesn’t feel right to be vulnerable, be embarrassed, be myself with a person, what’s the point? Less bullshit, more regular shit.