Sara Gray

Of Love and Mutts

Summer 2000

Last year, Kristi Carl wanted a puppy for Christmas. She pleaded to her parents Joe and Lynn, but all they did was laugh. "A dog? While you're in school? It's too much responsibility for you," they said. Indignant frustration filtered through the myriad delicate freckles of Kristi's face. Kristi nearly always got what she wanted. Kristi was 21.

Last decade, Kristi Carl lived out her childhood in the green suburbs of Austin. It was the type of place Stephen Spielberg dreams about, with the neighborhood's children playing against a backdrop of not-too-identical houses and grassy backyards. Jackie, a Christian missionary who was a friend of the Carl family, would often leave her dog Pokey in their care while she was on mission to China. Kristi was 8.

The first boy Kristi Carl ever dated was Francisco. He was from Mexico, and he was the picture of suavity: blond hair, blue eyes, flashy clothes, self-assured smile. He was a friend of her brother's as well as a friend to many, for he was one of the more popular students in Lago Vista High School. She was very flattered that such a handsome, well-known guy had taken a romantic interest in her. Francisco was a senior. Kristi was16.

* * *

Pokey was a "cockapoo," a mix of a cocker spaniel and a poodle. Jackie had bought her that summer of 1987 from a stand on the side of a road. She was a tiny white puppy, and she would always be small; her adult height was just shy of a foot, and she was always fat. Pokey's fur was curly, the kind that required grooming--a sign of her poodle heritage. But a poodle's frequent temper had no hold on Pokey, for her spaniel blood made Pokey a friendly, tolerant, and very goofy puppy. Cocker spaniels also have a genetic history of congestive heart failure.

Kristi and Pokey had an instant bond. Their friendship became stronger as Jackie's work in China kept her from America for increasing weeks, months, and years. Though the Carls' already had two golden retrievers, Pokey was always Kristi's dog. When the cockapoo was still a pup, Kristi would bundle her up in her bicycle's basket--an E.T. with black eyes and paws--and ride her around the sidewalks. At other playtimes she was Kristi's baby, sitting curled in a doll stroller. Kristi occasionally received play make-up for birthday presents, as many little girls do, and she would dab Pokey's furry face with bright red-pink blush and eyeshadow. Pokey was very patient. At least until she ate the lipstick.

* * *

Adjusting to new situations takes a long time for Kristi. One can't blame her; what was to be her eighth grade year was instead a series of hospital beds, locked doors, and crack psychiatrists, the whole ordeal ending right before Kristi's freshman year. It is an old story now, one that Kristi has told and retold so many times that it holds no emotion or interest for her anymore. It doesn't need retelling here, suffice to say that high school must have been a daunting prospect. Having to deal with a whole new world of strangers and their cliques was very hard, not to mention that she was stuck in a fashion time-warp. For instance, Kristi discovered upon her first day of class that puffed bangs were suddenly out, leaving her stranded with the other unfashionable black sheep. Kristi was quiet her first two years at Lago Vista High and had few close friends except, perhaps, for Francisco.

Kristi, with her strawberry-blonde hair, trim figure, and freckle-kissed skin, was then as now an attractive person, something which was of definite note to Francisco. He asked her out to the prom her sophomore year, and for the few months following the two were an official couple. By day Kristi and Francisco would golf the sun-soaked green, and by night they would drink and party with Francisco's friends. She had never had fun like this before. It was nearly all they did.

* * *

The Carls took Pokey to the veterinarian often, both for check-ups and to get her teeth cleaned. It was on one of these visits that Pokey was diagnosed with congestive heart failure; her heart had been struggling for three days prior, and no one in the family had noticed. There wasn't much the vet could do, so they took Pokey home. She wasn't in any pain until days later, when her small body was wracked with deep, harrowing coughs. Her lungs were slowly drowning in their own fluid. The Carls took her back, where she was put to sleep. Pokey was 16.

Pokey's death devastated Kristi. The clinic sent the little dog's ashes back to the Carls' in a tasteful wooden box. "I keep meaning to spread the ashes in her favorite spots, but I haven't gotten around to it yet. But I can't open the box. I'm afraid to. I don't want to remember her like that."

* * *

That 1995 summer ended when Francisco left for a year of school in France. The two wrote letters to each other incessantly, and by herself she remained faithful...until the onset of summer's return. His letters suddenly stopped. She suspected the worst: cheating.

At the school year's end, Kristi's honors class took a field trip to Padre Island. There, Kristi became acquainted with Grant, an offensive lineman with the Vikings, the school football team. The two shared a lot in common: a flair for athletic competition (Kristi was on the golf team), an easy-going, affectionate nature, periods of shyness before acclimating to a social group. Already Kristi was one of the more popular students at Lago Vista High, and Grant was well acquainted with both the jock and intellectual circles. They became fast friends at Padre. It wasn't long before they shared a secret as well. Before Francisco returned, they were much, much more than friends.

* * *

Her voice is lilting, yet gravelly, either from her smoking habit or because of its own unique nature.

"I had to tell Grant 'We've got to call this off,' by the time Francisco got back, and he was pissed, but he did it anyway. Francisco didn't find out until a month later, and even though he had cheated too, I was so guilty. I was so mean to the both of them. I two-timed them. I was so awful. And he took advantage of that. He made me do lots of things, and I did them because I felt I had to make it up to him.

"Eventually I couldn't take it anymore, so I left. At this time Grant sort of hated me, but we emailed each other a lot and that helped things. We got back together, and we've been together for two and a half years. We like to travel--we've gone to Scotland, Las Vegas, New Orleans, Lake Tahoe--and we golf. We can just sit around and watch TV. We do everything together, only he's gone now at Austin College in Sherman. Sherman's pretty far."

"I'm a very mean person. I loved both of them, and I was so lonely and didn't know what to do. I need lots of attention. I've been codependent for happiness; leave me alone for a week, and I have a new boyfriend. I've had boyfriends for six years straight, no break. I have a hard time saying no."

* * *

Cowering at the back of her cramped, boxy cage was Thumper, a year old half-and-half Australian shepherd and beagle mix. Kristi's apartment complex had just allowed residents to keep dogs, so against her parents' wishes, Kristi scoured Austin pounds until she landed at this particular Williamson County branch. It was early spring of this year. The attendant had some trouble pulling the fearful dog from her cage, which was only one of a wall's worth. Each identical cage held a different dog, and every dog was of a different size. The sight saddened Kristi. She had volunteered at humane societies before, and ever since she had wanted to adopt a dog, she planned to free one from a place such as this.

Soon Thumper was on her way to her new home in Indian Creek Apartments. Thumper shook the entire time; she wouldn't let Kristi near without barks and nervous snapping, though her biting was gentle and never broke the skin. She was a smallish, pretty dog, with the distinct white, tan, and brown-black splotches of a beagle and the long, soft guard hairs of a shepherd. It was obvious she was abused. Her skin wobbled freely around her slight, bony frame, and the dog's intelligence shone through her fear--she stood her ground with women, but hid her tail and cried at the sight of any man. Any sudden movement of the arms made her flinch.

Earlier that day Kristi had bought a small stuffed chicken as a toy for Thumper. She tossed it, hoping her new companion would be cheered with a game of fetch or tug-of-war. Confused, Thumper only blinked her brown, languid eyes. She didn't even know how to play.

Yet Thumper soon improved. She accustomed herself to Kristi fairly quickly, and regular visitors like Kristi's parents and her boyfriend were eventually welcomed with a wagging tail. Kristi had planned to change the dog's name to Coconut, but the continual thump-thump-thumping of her tail against sofa and floor seemed to fit better with her old pound name. Three months of food and sunny walks in San Gabriel Park unearthed Thumper's energetic, even silly personality; ready to play, she runs around in circles and "talks" with a series of yaps, hyper...and happy. One wonders what it is in a dog like Thumper that helps them forgive. Dogs are assuringly simple. In their doggish lust for life, they are content with uncomplicated things. Food. Water. A cat to chase. A bone to chew. A hand to scratch an itchy belly. But for many unfortunate dogs, even the promise of these things can't sway them from fear or lip-curling anger. Perhaps, in Thumper's case, it is a need for love; perhaps it is an inability to say no.

The tone of her voice is indistinguishable, between guarded sorrow and indifference. "I think dogs can sense emotion. They're smarter than we give them credit for."

* * *

Alone in her toy-strewn bedroom, Kristi cried. Her tears came for the many reasons they fall for children, be they from thwarted wishes, disillusions, a muscle or emotion bruised, a sight unexplained. She cried at many ages, at many times and in many ways. And Pokey was there, with her dewy black eyes and fluffy white fur. She did not beg to play. Instead, she snuggled next to her companion and waited quietly for the tears to go away.

Author's Afterword

I was more afraid of writing this article than any other one. My fear of getting Kristi wrong---unintentionally maligning her, misquoting her, etc--was shared by the rest of the class in this assignment. That said though, I was surprised by how well the article actually turned out. I actually liked it, which is rare.

I first got the idea when I was calling Kristi. I originally wanted to interview in her apartment, but she said "You may not want to come over, because I don't want to disturb my dog." I was surprised that someone was that concerned about their dog, which was the germ of my idea for the article. I wanted to compare the relationship Kristi had with people to the relationship her dogs had with her, so I asked her lots of questions about her boyfriends and, of course, her past dogs. She was very open and willing to answer any of my probably very strange questions, and for that I thank her.

I thought about this article incessantly, which I believe is one of the keys to it being successful. I played with the sense of time a lot here, and the only way I was able to do that and pull it off was because I planned it out in my head days beforehand. It's very easy to write simple, linear time and events, but veering from that can be both very hard and very exhilarating. I found myself wanting to write this paper, which is also a big part of its success.

Another thing that I pride myself about this article was what I didn't do. In her first article for class, Kristi wrote about a harrowing experience in a mental hospital, and it hurt just to read what she was put through. After reading it, I was sure that she had been interviewed too many times by the press about the event, so I wanted to make sure that I stayed far from it. It always annoys me when interviews in Rolling Stone or other media focus on one, singular event in a person's life, as if it were the only thing that made up a person. I wanted to get other, unseen facets in Kristi's life, which is why I picked something as seemingly mundane as a girl and her dog. My greatest reward for writing this was something Kristi said: "Thank you for not asking about the hospital." I'm glad I asked her about the rest of her life.