The Youth In Asia by David Sedaris
In the early 1960s, during what my mother referred to as "the tail end of the
Lassie years," my parents were given two collies, which they named Rastus and
Duchess. We were living then in New York State, out in the country, and the dogs
were free to race through the forest. They napped in meadows and stood kneedeep in frigid streams, costars in their own private dog food commercial.
Late one January evening, while lying on a blanket in the garage, Duchess gave
birth to a litter of slick, potato-sized puppies. When it looked as though one of
them had died, our mother placed the creature in a casserole dish and popped it
into the oven, like the witch in Hansel and Gretel.
"Oh, keep your shirts on," she said. "It's only set on 150. I'm not baking anyone.
This is just to keep it warm."
The heat revived the sick puppy and left us believing that our mother was capable
of resurrecting the dead. Faced with the responsibilities of fatherhood, Rastus
took off. The puppies were given away, and we moved south, where the heat and
humidity worked against the best interests of a collie. Duchess's once beautiful
coat now hung in ragged patches. When finally, full of worms, she collapsed in
the ravine beside our house, we reevaluated our mother's healing powers. The
entire animal kingdom was beyond her scope. She could only resurrect the cute
dead.
The oven trick was performed on half a dozen dazed and chubby hamsters, but
failed to work on my first guinea pig, who died after eating four cigarettes and an
entire pack of matches.
"Don't take it too hard," my mother said, removing her oven mitts. "The world is
full of guinea pigs. You can get another one tomorrow."
Eulogies tended to be brief, our motto being, there's always more where this one
came from.
A short time after Duchess died, our father came home with a German Shepherd
puppy. For reasons that were never fully explained, the privilege of naming the
dog went to a friend of my older sister's, a 14-year-old girl named Cindy. She was
studying German at the time, and after carefully examining the puppy and
weighing it with their hands, she announced that it would be called Maedchen,
which apparently meant "girl" in what she referred to as "Deutsch."
When she was six months old, Maedchen was hit and killed by a car. Her food
was still in the bowl when our father brought home an identical German
Shepherd, the same Cindy christened as Maedchen Two. This tag-team
progression was disconcerting, especially for the new dog, who was expected to
possess both the knowledge and the personality of her predecessor. "Maedchen
One would never have wet on the floor like that," my father would scold. And the
dog would sigh, knowing she was the canine equivalent of a rebound.
Maedchen Two never accompanied us to the beach and rarely posed in any of the
family photographs. Once her puppyhood was spent, we more or less lost
interest. "We ought to get a dog," we'd sometimes say, completely forgetting that
we already had one.
During the era of the Maedchens, we had a succession of drowsy, secretive cats
who seemed to share a unique bond with our mother. "It's because I open their
cans," she said, though we all knew it ran deeper than that. What they had in
common were their claws. That and a deep-seated need to destroy my father's
golf bags. The first cat passed into a disagreeable old age and died hissing at the
kitten who had prematurely arrived to replace her. When, at the age of nine, the
second cat was diagnosed with feline leukemia, my mother was devastated.
"I'm going to have Sadie put to sleep," she said. "It's for her own good, and I don't
want to hear a word about it from any of you. This is hard enough as it is."
The cat was put down, and then came the anonymous postcards and phone calls
orchestrated by my sisters and I. The cards announced a miraculous new cure for
feline leukemia, while the callers identified themselves as representatives of Cat
Fancy magazine. "We'd like to use Sadie as our cover story and we're hoping to
schedule a photo shoot. Is tomorrow possible?"
After spending a petless year with only one child still living at home, my parents
visited a breeder and returned with a Great Dane they named Melina. They loved
this dog in proportion to its size, and soon their hearts had no room for anyone
else. In terms of family, their six children had been nothing more than a failed
experiment. Melina was the real thing. The dog was their first true common
interest. And they loved it equally, each in their own way.
Our mother's love tended towards the horizontal, a pet being little more than a
napping companion, something she could look at and say, "That looks like a good
idea. Scoot over, why don't you." A stranger peeking through the window might
think that the two of them had entered a suicide pact. She and the dog sprawled
like corpses, their limbs arranged into an eternal embrace.
My father loved the Great Dane for its size, and frequently took her on long,
aimless drives, during which she'd stick her heavy, anvil-sized head out the
window and leak great quantities of foamy saliva. Other drivers pointed and
stared, rolling down their windows to shout, "Hey, you got a saddle for that
thing?" When out for a walk there was the inevitable, "Are you walking her, or is
it the other way 'round?"
Our father always laughed, is if this were the first time he'd heard it. The
attention was addictive, and he enjoyed a pride of accomplishment he'd never felt
with any of us. It was as if he were somehow responsible for her size and stature,
as if he'd personally designed her spots and trained her to grow to the size of a
pony. When out with the dog, he carried a leash in one hand and a shovel in the
other. "Just in case," he said.
"Just in case, what, she dies, and you need to bury her?" I didn't get it.
"No," he'd say. "It's for, you know, it's for her business."
My father was retired, but the dog had business.
I was living in Chicago when they first got Melina, and every time I came home,
the animal was bigger. Every time, there were more Marmaduke cartoons
displayed upon the refrigerator, and every time, my voice grew louder as I asked
myself, "Who are these people?"
"Down, girl," my parents would chuckle as the puppy jumped up, panting for my
attention. Her great padded paws reached my waist, then my chest and
shoulders, until eventually, her arms wrapped around my neck and her head
towering above my own, she came to resemble a dance partner scouting the room
for a better offer.
"That's just her way of saying hello," my mother would say, handing me the towel
used to wipe up the dog's bubbling seepage. "Here, you missed a spot on the back
of your head."
The dog's growth was monitored on a daily basis, and every small
accomplishment was documented for later generations. One can find few pictures
of my sister Tiffany, while Melina has entire volumes devoted to her terrible twos.
"Hit me," my mother said on one of my returns home from Chicago. "No, wait, let
me go get my camera." She left the room and returned a few moments later.
"OK," she said. "Now hit me. Better yet, why don't you just pretend to hit me."
I raised my hand, and my mother cried out in pain. "Ow!" She yelled. "Somebody
help me. This stranger is trying to hurt me, and I don't know why."
I caught an advancing blur moving in from the left, and the next thing I knew I
was down on the ground, the Great Dane tearing holes in the neck of my sweater.
The camera flashed, and my mother squealed with delight. "God, I love that
trick."
I rolled over to protect my face. "This isn't a trick."
My mother snapped another picture. "Oh, don't be so critical. It's close enough."
With us grown and out of the house, my sisters and I foolishly expected our
parents' lives to stand still. They were supposed to stagnate and live in the past,
but instead, they constructed a new "we," consisting of Melina and the founding
members of her fan club. Someone who obviously didn't know her too well had
given my mother a cheerful stuffed bear with a calico heart stitched onto its chest.
According to the manufacturer, the bear's name was Mumbles, and all it needed
in order to thrive were two AA batteries and a regular diet of hugs.
"Where's Mumbles?" my mother would ask, and the dog would jump up and
snatch the bear from its hiding place on top of the refrigerator, yanking it this
way and that in hopes of breaking its neck.
"That's my girl," my mother would say. "We don't like Mumbles, do we?" I
learned that we liked Morley Safer, but not Mike Wallace, that we didn't like
Mumbles or thunder, but were crazy about Stan Getz records and the Iranian
couple who'd moved in up the street. It was difficult to keep straight, but having
known these people all my life, I didn't want to be left out of the "we."
During the final years of Maedchen Two and the first half of the Melina epic, I
lived with a female cat named Neil. My mother looked after the cat when I moved
from Raleigh, and flew her to Chicago once I'd found a place and settled in.
Neil was old when she moved to Chicago, and then she got older. She started
leaving teeth in her bowl and developed the sort of breath that could remove
paint. When she stopped cleaning herself, I took to bathing her in the sink, and
she'd stand still, too weak to resist the humiliation of shampoo. Soaking wet, I
could see just how thin and brittle she really was. Almost comic, like one of those
cartoon cats checking her fur coat at the cloak room of the seafood restaurant.
Her kidneys shrank to the size of raisins, and though I loved her very much, I
assumed the vet was joking when he suggested dialysis.
I took her for a second opinion. Vet number two tested her blood and phoned me
at home, saying, "Perhaps you should think about euthanasia."
I hadn't heard that word in a while and pictured scores of happy Japanese
children spilling from the front door of their elementary school. "Are you
thinking about it?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "As a matter of fact, I am."
In the end, I returned to the animal hospital and had her put to sleep. When the
vet injected the sodium phenobarbital, Neil fluttered her eyes, assumed the nap
position, and died.
A week after putting her to sleep, I received Neil's ashes in a forest green can.
She'd never expressed any great interest in the outdoors, so I scattered her
remains on the carpet and then vacuumed her back up. The cat's death struck me
as the end of an era. It was, of course, the end of her era, but with the death of a
pet, there's always that urge to crowd the parentheses and string black crepe over
an entire 10- or 20-year period. The end of my safe college life, the last of my 30inch waist, my faltering relationship with my first real boyfriend. I cried for it all
and spent the next several months wondering why so few songs were written
about cats.
My mother sent a consoling letter along with a check to cover the cost of the
cremation. In the left-hand corner, under the heading marked Memo, she'd
written, "Pet Burning." I had it coming.
When my mother died, Melina took over her side of the bed. Due to their size,
Great Danes generally don't live very long. My father massaged her arthritic legs,
carried her up the stairs, and lifted her into bed. He treated her the way that men
in movies treat their ailing wives, the way he would have treated my mother had
she allowed such naked displays of affection. Melina's parentheses contained the
final 10 years of his married life. She'd attended my father's retirement, lived
through my sister's wedding, and knew who everyone was talking about when
they mentioned the "M" words, Mom, Mumbles, and Morley Safer.
Regardless of her pain, my father could not bear to let her go. The youth in Asia
begged him to end her life. "Onegai desu," they said, "sugu." But he held out until
the last minute.
A month after Melina died, my father returned to the breeder and came home
with another Great Dane, a female like Melina, gray spots like Melina, only this
one is named Sophie. He tries to love her, but readily admits that he may have
made a mistake. She's a nice enough dog, but the timing is off.
When walking the puppy through the neighborhood, my father feels not unlike
the foolish widower stumbling behind his energetic young bride. Her stamina
embarrasses him, as does her interest in younger men. The passing drivers slow
to a stop and roll down their windows, "Hey," they yell, "Are you walking her, or
is it the other way 'round?" Their words remind him of happier times, of milder
forces straining against the well-worn leash. He still gets the attention, but now,
in response, he just lifts his shovel and groans.
Ira Glass
David Sedaris's story "The Youth in Asia" appears in his book, Me Talk Pretty
One Day. A version of this story also appeared in Esquire magazine.
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