Homecoming

Murphy refused to come out of his crate. The entire drive home from the airport, he stayed curled on top of the shredded newspaper, as far from the metal door as he could get. I talked to him softly, with words meant to comfort and coax, but he refused to make eye contact, choosing instead to watch the world pass outside the car window. An occasional quiver ran through his body, rustling the paper and making his floppy ears tremble.

I didn't know what to do. Here was a puppy who had his life completely uprooted; torn away from his mother, put in a car for the first time in his life, thrown into a crate, and hustled into the cargo space of some big commercial plane. At eight months, he was nervous and cautious and immune to my voice. I could comfort a small puppy, eight weeks into the world and happy for human contact. Murphy was older and unaffected. It made me, and my good intentions, useless.

I wondered if every first time owner felt this way, and if his behavior (and my ineffectiveness) was some ominous sign about the relationship I was going to have with my dog.

Two hours after arriving at Dulles, Mom and I pulled up to our driveway. The car rolling to a stop a few yards from the house and my stepdad, Frank, opened the front door. From the depths of a brightly lit front hall, I heard excited shouts and the pounding of running feet. The welcoming committee. If Murphy wasn't scared now, he would be soon.

My siblings burst out of the house, crowding the trunk as I threw it open. Frank pulled the crate from the car and carried it into the house, settling it onto the clean, white rug of our family room. Sandy came and sniffed the door and I pushed everyone back, asking for quiet and space. After a moment's hesitation, I reached towards the wire crate door and untwisted the lock. It swung open. The house fell silent. Everyone watched, and waited.

Murphy didn't so much as twitch.

We still waited.

Five minutes later, he still hadn't moved.

Eventually, I got onto my hands and knees and peered into the crate. Murphy wouldn't look at me. I tried to offer him a dog biscuit. Dog food. Peanut butter. Still, nothing. I didn't know what to do; I was afraid to try to pull him out, mindful of what I learned when we first brought home Sandy: never try to force an unfamiliar dog to do anything. Although Murphy was mine, I didn't know him. I didn't know his health or personality. He could have rabies, or some type of previously unknown mid-West disease, or just some really infectious bacteria lurking around the recesses of his mouth. He could be mean.

I turned to Frank, who was big and scary looking and could handle a small, possibly mean-tempered, Cujo-like puppy. He gave me a look, a kind of "are you kidding me, this is your responsibility" eyebrow raise, before wordlessly reaching down to pull the top off the crate. Later, he told me the idea was for Murphy to "fly out," like a bird. Murphy flew all right. Paws over ears, he burst out in an explosion of paper shreds and chocolate-black fur. He raced and jumped and panted. He peed. He pooped. Everywhere.

A few hours later, after the piles were picked up and his energy abated, Murphy fell asleep at my feet. I watched his paws twitch and called out his name. Part of me expected him to pick up his head, or thump his tail, but all the dog did, was snore.

The Beginning

Murphy arrived in a big crate on a breath-stealing, bitter cold afternoon, somewhere towards the beginning of February 2008. It was a Saturday, and I remember leaving early in the morning, sometime between eight and nine, before I could throw on a second pot of coffee. Mom came with me, the experienced dog owner, and the two of us spent hours making excited, nervous pit-stops at Petsmart and Petco and Starbucks. By the time we finally pointed ourselves in the direction of Dulles Airport, the temperature had dropped, and I ached all over.

I was sick again, bundled to my ears in home knit scarves and mittens that were two sizes too big. A potent combination of allergies and chronic sinusitis stripped the familiar comforts of living; among many things, the old family dog, Sandy, was suddenly out of reach. Her fur was the only reminder of stormy nights at the foot of my bed, and the amber-white strands were everywhere; embedded into the fibers of my carpet and comforter, stuck to the tissue box and television screen, and I responded to her tiny forget-me-nots with watery eyes and marathon rounds of sneezing. For the first time in my life, I was allergic to the dog. I was allergic to dogs.

There was no way I could ever own a Golden Retriever.

I could, however, have part of one. I wasn't seriously looking for a puppy when I stumbled across Murphy's picture on a Goldendoodle website, one evening at school. Three quarters Poodle, a quarter Golden, and one-hundred percent hypoallergenic, he was everything I ever wanted: big and floppy, allergen free, and an absolute heart-breaker. I contacted his breeder the next day and somehow, Murphy was suddenly and unexpectedly mine.

Two weeks later, I walked into Dulles entirely unprepared. The puppy didn't have a name. I had forgotten to bring food and water and poop bags. The Red Sox collar still hadn't arrived and I really needed to call the vet. And the groomer. And a dog trainer. In the blur of passing time, there were so many things I'd forgotten to get or do; the only real thing I had with me, besides my mother and a bag full of dog toys, was a jumble of nerves and the cautious beginning of a hopeful love.

It was enough.

Murphy rolled off of the plane and into my life, scared and fluffy and small, and food and vets and baseball collars ceased to matter. In that moment, all Murphy needed was me. It's taken a long time to realize that, in those first few moments, I needed him, too.