responsibilities, and costs, including a
move to a larger, more expensive dog-
friendly apartment. The list of reasons
to say no was inarguably long. Even
so, over time, that little feeling tugged
harder. I weighed all the pros and
cons and then disregarded the cons.
On May 9, 2016, I was on a plane to
Phoenix.
Y
ou sound scared.”
I’d called Kitts as soon as I
heard Dyngo growl. He coun-
seled me through that first night, in-
tuiting that what Dyngo needed to
feel safe was a crate. My friend Claire
had a spare one and helped me put it
together. We’d barely put the door in
place before Dyngo launched himself
inside, his relief palpable and pitiable.
The next day, and during the rest of
the first week, I had one objective: to
wear Dyngo out. I chose the most ar-
duous walking routes, the steepest leaf-
laden trails. The pace was punishing.
Other challenges presented them-
selves. Dyngo had arrived with scabs
and open sores on his underbelly.
Tests revealed a bacterial infection that
required antibiotics and medicated
shampoo baths. Since I could not lift
Dyngo into the bathtub, I would shut
us both into the small bathroom and
do the best I could with a bucket and
washcloth, leaving inches of water and
dog hair on the floor.
Then there was Dyngo’s nearly
uncontrollable drive for toys—or
anything resembling a toy. Instilled
in him by the rewards he’d received
during his training, this urge sent
him after every ball, stuffed animal,
or abandoned glove we passed. The
distant echo of a basketball bouncing
filled me with dread. My desperation
grew when Dyngo began to twist him-
self like a pretzel to clamp down on
the fur and flesh above his hind leg,
gripping himself in rhythmic bites, a
compulsion known as flank sucking.
Struggling for order, I set up a rigid
Groundhog Day–like routine. Each
day, we would wake at the same hour,
eat meals at the same hour, travel the
same walking paths, and sit in the
same spot on the floor together after
every meal.
I don’t remember when I started to
sing to him, but under the streetlamps
on our late-night walks, I began a
quiet serenade of verses from Simon
& Garfunkel or Peter, Paul & Mary.
I have no idea whether anyone else
ever heard me. In my mind, there was
only this dog and my need to calm
him.
One night that summer, with the DC
heat at its most oppressive, I called my
father. I told him things weren’t getting
better. “Give it time,” he said. “You’ll
end up loving each other, you’ll see.”
When Dyngo would pull away from
me, straining against my hold on the
leash, I found that hard to believe.
Sometimes, when Dyngo stared at
me from behind the bars of his bor-
rowed crate, I wondered whether
he was thinking back to his days ofrd.com 91Drama in Real Life