I sat across from him in an anonymous neighborhood at a table in a bistro that shall remain nameless. We had been on a few dates and he evidently felt that things were serious enough to now educate me on the finer points of fiscal conservatism. My mind quickly retreated to a happy place, sea otters, endangered snow leopards, and penguins. Despite my best intentions to actively engage, a slow and familiar process of a Planet Earth blackout was beginning. As I resisted this familiar escape, praying for the moment when he would leave the monetary topic and jump to something at least mildly more entertaining, like the weather or his recent trip to the dentist, I heard a word that piqued my interest … “Dogs” … What? What is this you speak of? Dogs? Ah, dogs, the sweet four-legged angels hailing from the most premium realms of heaven. I came back into the conversation just as he was proving in a bullet point lecture format how dogs were, in fact, luxury items and as such, were a ridiculous thing for the average American to own.
So many things were going wretchedly wrong in that moment. It would seem to the innocent bystander (me) that he believed that talk of financial security was somehow a romance-inducing, date appropriate subject … it has quite an opposite effect on me … ranking the highest among topics for making me feel impossibly claustrophobic and wanting to rip my hair out, follicle by artificially blond follicle. He also seemed to have something against dogs, one of my favorite things in life, and evidently lacked a soul, but that, unfortunately, like most crucial factors, took me longer to figure out.
Yesterday, as I sat in the Fountain Veterinary Clinic, in Bellingham, Washington, looking in the eyes of my sweet Cooper, who was about to leave Earth to head home from whence he came (the most premium realms of heaven), I thought back on that conversation and laughed.
If there is one thing I’m confident of in this life, it’s that no one … ever … would describe my Coop as a luxury item.
The summer of 1995 was most poignantly described by Charles Dickens in his novel, A Tale of Two Cities … indeed, “it was the best of times and the worst of times.” The worst of times in that my Jesse, my older sister, had just recently died, I was an awkwardly lanky thirteen-year-old with teeth far too large for my face (no exaggeration, they would later be cut down by my orthodontist to what he deemed a “rational” size), hair that never fell right, and having generally exited real life the year before, lived in a constant state of terror for the day I would once again have to return to middle school (Take me now, Lord) and a social order I had left happily in the dust when my world stopped. However, it was the best of times, in that one beautiful day of that summer, Grandpa George would take pity on me, packing me into the car, telling me that it was about time I get a puppy. Hallelujah.
Ah Narnia. I sat among a pile of newly weaned Lhasa Apso puppies, hardly the size of guinea pigs, fluffy, squirmy, playful and perfect. This was truly heaven. I was giggling uncontrollably and attempting to figure out how I would ever choose just one, when one of those angelic puppies, black, brown, and white, crawled into my lap, up my shirt, and put his tiny paws one either side of my neck, embracing me as best he could. Game was over. I was head-over-heels in love.
We took him back to the lake house dressed in a red bandana and matching leash, the first of many outfits … he became “Cooper” and the new sixth member of the Schuette clan later that day. Cooper and I had each other, and for the first time, someone needed me. He followed me blindly and depended on me to give him a lift across surfaces he disliked walking across himself, including, but not limited to grass, moss, gravel, wet sand, dry sand, tile, linoleum, concrete, carpet, and hardwood. The focus on my own grief dissipated in a desire to best take care of this new little soul that I so adored.
Now, not to send a false message, please understand that the Schuette’s have always been an animal happy people. There was State-Puff Marshmallow, the kitten that we had saved from a disturbed, dumpster-diving child neighbor, Kenya and Poppy, rabbits that belonged to Jesse and I … Kenya (Jesse’s) mild-mannered and perfect, Poppy (mine) depressed, belligerent, and aggressive, who habitually attempted to sink her pointed, bunny teeth into my carotid artery every time I freed her from her pen … I don’t think I’m being dramatic when I say that I honestly believe that rabbit was trying to finish me off. Later, Alley, the runaway Welsh Corgi joined the family. When she was home, she was attempting to herd us, by nipping at our heels, (especially Taylor, he looked the most sheep like) and when our backs were turned she was constantly escaping through minor gaps in our picket fence or through a lazily closed front door. After the 13th time my mom was forced to bail her out of doggy jail in one month, we accepted an offer for her to move to a greener pastures (literally) better suited to her athletic tastes. There was Opie, the opossum, the three blind baby squirrels, and “Taffy” the demon-possessed hamster, but those are lengthy stories better saved for another time. Finally, there was Bender, an overrated, consistently matted, black, reject Himalayan a neighbor had decided was better than a sympathy card. (Epic Fail)
So, while we had had, in our possession, other animals, Cooper was new territory for us; a pet, unlikely to run away, have rabies, completely ignore us, or go maniacally bunny suicide on us. Novel.
Now, not to put an unattainable doggie halo over my new canine’s head, in fact, while I realize I’m risking sounding extremely “Marley and Me,” I might go as far as to describe Cooper as “the worst dog ever,” but in quite an opposite fashion from the standard most “worst dogs” adhere to. He didn’t run for the door when you opened it, he didn’t jump on people, chase cats, or lick … anything. He couldn’t hurdle high enough to sleep on the furniture or sniff our guest’s unassuming crotches, rather than eating everything, he was extremely picky, driving my mom at some points to cook him personalized lamb dinners. He was less dog and more lazy, choosy teenage boy, happy to lay about, watching reality television while munching on buttery, homemade (not microwave) popcorn.
That first summer, we learned out that Cooper was terrified of fireworks and loud noises… in addition he hated the rain, other dogs, the snow, children, the outdoors, strangers, and moving … any and all distances. If you were to throw a ball in his general direction, it was much more likely to hit Coop in the face leaving him with a concussion that was worthy of a several hundred dollar veterinary bill rather than the standard chasing said ball, retrieving it, and engaging in your delightful and completely asinine game. I used to flatter myself that my incredible training skills and Cooper’s divine intellect taught him to understand “sit” and “lay down”. I realize now, however, that his eagerness to follow these commands were born solely out of a desire to no longer be upright, rather than an aspiration to please me by following direction.
A few years later we learned that Cooper had bad ears due to probable inbreeding, a cardiac condition, dental issues, and was most likely allergic to humans … a circumstance that gave him horrible skin allergies, requiring frequent baths and regular trips to the groomer. On one said visit, we were charged an extra thirty dollars because of his “aggressive” nature. Had the groomer known that Cooper’s teeth would have fallen out had he followed through with the assumed crime, mayhap she would have been less likely to see our sweet ten-pound pup as such a threat, but that is neither here nor there.
For all that Cooper wasn’t, mostly dog, he was everything stable and rational in a life that usually swayed toward the opposite. He experienced and somehow survived the excessive squeezing and forced sleepovers of middle school. Throughout my high school career, he bit every single one of my friends, my siblings, my cousins, and other strangers, completely unconcerned for anyone’s opinon or affection, but mine. And for reasons I still can’t imagine, our little Ewok was consistently returned to us after we attempted to give him away to charity or Young Lifer’s playing “Bigger or Better”. While away at college, I always had Cooper to come home to. No matter how catastrophic the date, how devastating the exam, or how impossible the trial; Cooper was there, ready to listen. Regardless of how far I wandered, who else I devoted myself to, or how long I chose to stray from the comforts of my parents cottage, Cooper was a constant presence, waiting for my return, his attitude toward me steadfast and unrelenting. He loved me.
Last Monday was a day like any other, as I walked up to the house, Cooper rose from his pillowed palace, cozy by the fireplace, and wagging his tail, struggled to strut over and meet me at the door. Despite being mostly blind, deaf, dealing with chronic heart failure, and suffering from daily seizures, he still knew my step and was unwilling to give up tradition. Seeing him exhausted from the small feat, and so clearly with little life left, I collapsed to the floor in tears and he, taking my cue, shrunk into my lap and fell asleep.
The next morning I sat in Fountain Veterinary Clinic, and looking into Cooper’s sweet tired eyes, held him in my lap and kissed his head in a peaceful farewell as he left my world. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve said goodbye to Cooper, I’ve been giving him “just in case” kisses for the last three years, but it would be the last. In that tear-filled moment, I realized that throughout our years together, despite the mixed and negative messages I had received courtesy of personal doubts, a sometimes harsh world, and fiscally conservative boyfriends, solid proof of what was good and true, that I was worthy of love and capable of loving back, had been greeting me at the front door, tail wagging, all along. That fact alone made my dog perhaps the greatest and truest luxury item I will ever be blessed to know. And for that, my sweet Coop, I am forever grateful.
Rest Peacefully.
L
Jake: Lilo, Don’t be dark.
The five of us (The Couples and I) had just narrowly escaped an epic post-wedding throw down at the local dive bar between the bride’s cousins from Cleveland, Aretha and September*, who despite being previously involved in serious relationships, had simultaneously decided to pursue a one-night stand with the best man, “The Wad**” following his sappy, yet touching toast to his brother, whom he noted now had a new best friend that was forever going to change the most important relationship in his life …
far less jaded Lindsay Schuette would attempt, I had followed a boy to Skagway, Alaska figuring that moving to a remote town of only 800 (who were mostly male) would increase my odds of nailing down a relationship. After a terrifying day of small (when we say small, we mean mini-van sized) aircraft travel, I walked into my new home and was greeted by Anna. Two people could not have seemed more opposite to the naked eye. I was a constantly self-conscious cookie cutter, Abercrombie wearing, overly bleached, 21-year-old, who insisted on drinking wine coolers out of a straw. Anna on the other hand, was independent, stylish, confrontational, brilliant, and unbelievably sure of who she was and what she wanted. Where she was pessimistic, I was optimistic, she drank beer and shot whiskey, I could hardly stomach an entire Blue Hawaiian, she would wake up ten minutes before we needed to leave the house, throw a hat on and go, I needed an hour and a half minimum to make sure that my hair was curled, my mascara was generously coated on, and my tiara was perfectly placed. (Yes, I wore a tiara … I don’t want to talk about it) That first summer, it seemed we had nothing in common except an affinity for animal associations and small dogs.
But somehow, throughout the following years, despite our many differences, Anna and I became joined at the soul. She became my greatest cheerleader, my protector, my provoker, my confidant, my travel guide, and my best friend. We laughed together, we laughed AT each other, we cried, we danced when no one else was dancing, and I knew with unprecedented confidence that as long as I had Anna in my corner, I was safe. Together, we lived in smaller than orphanage-sized spaces, drove buses full of old people, climbed mountains, dreamt of life anywhere but where we were, formed campaigns, and built parade floats. We fought boys (usually verbally), dissected my failed relationships, accidentally killed one of Stimey’s goons under the house, frolicked on glaciers, suntanned on a cloudy days, stayed inside listening to records on sunny days, cruised Cape Horn, and browned out on the lawn of 14th and State. We survived two weeks in an interior cruise ship cabin (a true feat), led dance parties through diesel spills, and have correctly predicted the end of hundreds of reality TV shows. Together, we wandered the streets of South America, ate millions of calories in greasy breakfasts, found out Lance Bass was gay, and for the love of travel, existed on solely Siracha and rice crackers.
something completely irreplaceable, built in us a necessity for one another that was rare and profound. She has been the Taylor to my Rachel Zoe, the Oprah to my Gayle, the Courtney Cox to my Jen Aniston, the ALo to my Lilo. When I think of people who have fundamentally aided the formation of the person I am today, Anna ranks at the top. She has known me as completely as someone can know me and has loved me regardless.
I glared at Carlee again, then realizing rather than giving me pity points, she was about to get out the mace, I got up from the table, and in honor of my newly married friend, who would dance with me regardless of who was watching, I danced … and danced and danced … to the cover music of an awkward jazz guitarist in a small bistro on Orcas Island. Finally inebriated enough, some local hippies took pity on me and joined in. My misery slowly subsided in a fog of interpretive intensity and I accepted that this was my future … dancing alone, laughing alone, reading celebrity gossip alone, being rank alone, being brilliant alone, obsessing over Bravo television alone, and pondering the issues that come with having a collared sea otter and a diapered monkey as imaginary pets, alone. It was my fate and my future to simply figure out how to survive an existence without Anna … because after all, she was married. Everything was different. I left the bar exhausted, walked home, and crawled into my recently vacated twin sized bed.
As my best friend, my cheerleader, my confidant, my travel guide, my protector, my provoker, and the only person who will read trashy magazines out loud to me when I can’t sleep began to recall the story of the sisters from Cleveland who woke half of Orcas Island at 2AM after both going after “The Wad” in his hotel room, my heart and mind were flooded by a genuine peace. Maybe a quick and nasty annulment wasn’t what I wanted, after all. Perhaps all I needed was a reality check, some concrete reassurance that there are ties that bind deeper than lace and diamonds and flowers, that regardless of circumstances, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, for single or for married, some things would never change.
I love a guarantee. While to many I may seem to adhere to a more flighty side of life, deep down Lindsay Schuette truly enjoys the stability of a guarantee. If I were a man, I would shop at the Men’s Wearhouse. Why? I would like the way I looked. After all, they guarantee it. As a woman, it compels me to shop at Nordstrom. There is a beautiful security in knowing that if the unthinkable happens, and those perfect True Religion’s and I don’t work out for whatever reason, I can guarantee that the salesperson in T.B.D. will be crying right alongside me; her at the loss of commission, me at the loss of something true and beautiful. And finally, it is why when I’m trying to convince you of something I’ll often use phrases like, “well … the bottom line is …” or “the reality is …” or “at the end of the day …” I offer up certainties to people like lollipops at the bank.
“Sería un honor para usted a matar a nuestro pollo.” 
“No Lucy …. We’re not playing this game tonight. Please, please go to bed.” Pat Schuette, a football playing, Carhartt wearing, giant of a man’s man looked down at me with exasperated, tired eyes. “Please Lindsay … Go back upstairs. I can’t do this tonight.” I looked back at him with frightened tears streaming down my cheeks and stated fact, “I can’t go to bed, Daddy … What if the robbers come for me tonight.”