Laurence M. Levin - Oogy: The Dog Only a Family Could Love

Copyright 2010 by Laurence Levin

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Grand Central Publishing

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First eBook Edition: October 2010

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ISBN: 978-0-446-57487-7

the only a family could love

LARRY LEVIN

New York Boston

To Jennifer, Noah, and Dan, whose love has kept me alive and whose confidence in me has sustained me. The joy they have taken in their own experiences as well as their delight in and appreciation of our time together has imbued me with a sense of wonder.

To Oogy, of course, who has shared so much devotion, affection, and strength, and has trusted us so unhesitatingly and completely that it became another reward. Our spirits have been commingled, and we are all the better for it.

For all people who strive to comfort and help suffering animals: the lost and the frightened, the abused and the hunted, the abandoned and the captured, and those that should be in a better place than where they are.

Thanks to:

My family and friends, who always knew I could do this and without whose loving support I couldnt have;

Those encountered along the way who contributed to the marvelous adventures in which I have been lucky enough to participate;

Those who shared their wisdom so that I had at least a fighting chance to understand how and why my life has unfolded as it has;

Dr. James Bianco and Diane Klein and the staff at Ardmore Animal Hospital, who made this possible and were never too busy to answer my questions;

Kent Wolf, my agent, who believed in this story even when he had no idea if I could tell it; and,

Emily Griffin, my editor, who challenged me and taught me and helped me say what I wanted to say and, in so doing, made me a better writer.

This book would not have been possible without any of you.

W hen the alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m., it is still dark outside. Lying there, I take a quick mental inventory of what lies before me this morning. The boys dont have to be at school early for a team meeting or to see any of their teachers. They dont have to finish any homework or cram last minute for a test. As seniors in high school and already admitted to college, they are coasting to the finish line. In a way, they have already passed it. The breakfast table to raise money for the lacrosse team does not start until tomorrow, to coincide with the opening game of the season. So with both my morning and afternoon committed tomorrow, I have lots to get done today. But it also means that, right now, I have the luxury of hitting the snooze button for another ten minutes sleep.

The alarm seems to go off again in about fifteen seconds. I force myself to sit up. It feels as if Im underwater, struggling to surface. I wriggle my toes and fingers, which I once read helps to keep you awake; I run my hands over my face and rub the sleep from my eyes. I nudge Jennifer, who without turning over asks for another fifteen minutes of sleep. Groggily, I push aside the comforter on my side; I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and drop to the floor. Stumbling around and over barely visible mounds of towels, sweats, T-shirts, socks, and athletic wear, I pass through the laundry room into the bathroom. There, I turn on the light, brush my teeth, and throw cold water on my face. Back in the laundry room, I pull off the T-shirt I slept in and put on a clean one from among the piles of clothing stacked up everywhere on the built-in bench, atop the radiator cover, along both windowsills, and in front of the radiator. After a bit of a search, I pull out a pair of clean socks and sweatpants and lean against the dryer to pull them on.

I walk out of the bedroom, leaving the door halfway open behind me. From the landing on the second floor, I can see that the downstairs light is on. There are four couches on our first floor. On rare occasions, Noah and Dan will sleep on the same couch down there; sometimes they sleep in different rooms; but usually theyre both sacked out in the family room, one on the old couch, the other on the futon sofa bed, alternating each night. Theres no way to predict which one of the boys Oogy will have chosen to sleep with, but hell be next to one of them.

At the foot of the stairs, I first glance to my right into what used to be the living room. The doors are wide open, and no one is sleeping there. The lights in the family room, to my left, are controlled by toggle switches on the wall in the hallway; I turn up the rear bank of lights ever so slightly and peer inside. I think I see Noah stretched out on the futon opened up on the floor, wrapped in two blankets, which would mean that Dan is on the old couch adjacent to the rear glass wall. Behind Dan on the couch, stretched lengthwise, one paw draped over Dans shoulders, Oogy is barely distinguishable from the white comforter covering Dan. No one so much as stirs. I toggle the lights back down and click them off.

In the kitchen I put cold water into the coffeemaker, measure out coffee into the filter, and press the on button. The amber light comes on, the water roils, and the aroma of brewing coffee begins to waft through the air reassuringly. I turn on the radio to get a weather update that I can pass on to the boys. This radio must be at least forty years old; it used to sit in the kitchen of the home I grew up in, and I have no idea how I have it still. The reception is poor, scratchy and thin, as though the voices inside are being played from an old phonograph record.

I return to the family room and turn on both the front and rear sets of lights halfway. This time, Oogy lifts his head and looks at me. He is still somewhat distant with sleep, but welcome shines in his eyes like candles. His tail thumps softly against the back of the couch. Smiling, I walk over to him and sit on the arm of the sofa, trace my fingers against the thickness of his neck. I touch the well of power just behind there, high on his back between his shoulders. His strength never ceases to amaze me. It seems almost incompatible with his gentle nature.

Hello, doggy boy, I murmur. Youre a lucky dog, youre a good doggy. Youre a good boy. A good boy. Thank you for protecting the boys last night. Im glad I dont have to worry about that anymore. I bend over him and touch my nose to a spot just behind his neck. He makes that grunting sound that signifies absolute contentment; when I lift my face from between his shoulders, he raises his head and licks my nose. In return, I nuzzle the side of his face that still has an ear.

Ive got to get everyone going, I tell him. You and I will go out later, okay?