I’ve spent nearly every morning for the past two weeks at a veterinary cancer center.  Bazooka has been coming in for radiation treatments, which take several hours.  While she is back there going through what I can only imagine is her worst nightmare, I sit in the waiting room and work.  It seems, at first, an unlikely place to work.  It is overly-air conditioned, there are no proper tables or desks on which to work, and people are constantly coming and going with dogs—and sometimes cats, but mostly dogs—for chemo, radiation, consultations, follow-ups.

It is actually, it turns out, quite a suitable place to work.  I wear a sweater despite the infernal February heat outside (so wrong, this heat.  God, I miss winter this year).  I balance my laptop or notebook on my lap—no big deal, and it turns out that the stream of people and dogs is actually an enjoyable and often much needed distraction.

People are funny with their pets, particularly their dogs.  I am including myself when I say “people,” obviously, but because the ego is so super terrible at looking at itself with anything like distance for perspective, I don’t know where I fall among those observed.

I’m learning, I think, that our dogs are a proxy for ourselves.  It is very common, for example, for us to apologize for our own shortcomings via our dogs:

“You weren’t afraid of the scale yesterday, Pearl!”

“You are so nervous, Bear!”

“He never barks at home!”

“You put on weight, Nugget!  You know you’re not supposed to do that!”

Versions of these words are spoken at decibels unnecessary for communication with the staff member standing inches from the speaker.  The words are spoken with anxious giggles and too-loud, like I said.  “I’m sorry,” we seem to say through our dogs, “I’m not perfect.  It’s embarrassing to you and me, and I’m sorry.”

I wonder if this is the reason, subconsciously, that we get dogs.

We are aware of our fallibilities and fear that they make us unlovable—abandonable—so we are attracted to these cute, friendly, loving, loveable animals.  They will present a much more acceptable face to the world.  We can give voice to their flaws loudly in a crowded, overly-air conditioned cancer vet waiting room:

“Lily can fly all the way to Europe without a peep, but then we get to this place and…Stop it!  Shhh!”

“You see, everyone?” we say, “I am well aware that this is a problem.  Don’t worry, everyone.  I am aware.  I apologize.”

And everyone understands, everyone accepts our apologies.  Why?  Because our proxy is so goddamn cute!  Because our proxy is an innocent who deserves understanding, acceptance.

“Kiwi loves to be scratched behind the ears.  She just loves attention.  Such a big baby!”

“Love me.  But if you can’t love me because people are complicated and untrustworthy and risky, then love Kiwi!”

Bazooka comes out of radiation relaxed and happy.  She eats Milk Bones.  Tomorrow she’ll come in trembling and unhappy.  I will walk in and out with a smile on my face, light on my feet, as if none of this is any big deal.

Is this what I use Bazooka for?

Do I let her show the world what it feels like to be scared so that I don’t have to admit that I feel sad and fearful somewhere deep down inside; fear and sadness being unacceptable and requiring apology?  I get to come and go outwardly unchanging, leaving Bazooka to deal with the burden of the normal, socially-unacceptable expressions of extreme fear and extreme relief?

Probably…

“No problem, Bazooka.  Here we go!”