Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
ing Megan. He looked tired, but then he had looked tired most of his life. I tried to keep
Solo—the inverse of what Dad liked in a dog personality—exhausted and as far away from
the three of them as possible. We plied Dad with David's home-baked bread, black tea at
three P.M ., a Scotch on the rocks at five P.M ., and long political conversations. Dad was proud
that I had settled down with my own Ph.D. and a fine, loving husband. It had taken me
longer than it should have, over forty years. But—and I know that Dad thought this with
the noblest of intentions, because we talked about it—he had great hopes that I could get
down to the business of deep academic thinking. Now that smart, funny, dependable David
was in my life, Dad no longer had to worry about what the vampires of loneliness might
do to me. Now that I was an academic, my father no longer had to worry about my taking
risks, as I had when I was a newspaper reporter, covering chemical leaks, natural disasters,
and criminal trials. Dad had raised us in Corvallis, Oregon, recently judged the safest city in
the United States: no earthquakes, no hurricanes, no twisters, no extreme weather. Nothing.
He was pleased that my life was almost as predictable as when we had lived there, except for
a hurricane every now and again.
I must have turned my back. That was when Solo leaped. Blood welled on the back of
Dad's hand from one of his huge blue veins. He dismissed it with a shrug. Even if he was a
German shepherd, Solo was just a puppy. I put Solo in his crate with a goat knuckle bone to
gnaw. The weeklong visit was ending. Dad and I walked slowly one final time around the yard
before he and Angie left to fly back across the country. he two of us looked at the new blue-
berry bushes, strains developed for North Carolina temperatures and humidity. We admired
the male cardinals that dropped like red explosions from the willow oaks to the ground with
their distinct cries of “Chew! Chew! Chew!” We talked about how good the future looked for
both of us. Dad's undiagnosed cancer was probably well on its way to metastasis that June.
• • •
My simple commands to sit or heel or “settle” didn't interest Solo. His crazy energy reigned.
For him, it wasn't enough to walk into the mudroom, lie down, and wait for dinner. He had
to launch himself, twist in midair, plié, and crouch like a gargoyle, lips pulled back in a grin.
By braking hard a few feet before the door, he attempted to slide and somersault. He had a
great sense of humor.
Solo adored David and me—and even Megan. He was an unpredictable sociopath with
other dogs. Solo thought they were hostile aliens. Especially shepherds or other dogs with
pointy ears. He developed a reputation early: he moment he smelled an unfamiliar dog, he
bristled and growled. That made veterinarians' offices a challenge. One vet put in her notes
that I was on the way to having a mean dog. Solo was ten weeks old. I quit her. Another re-
commended expensive acupuncture and homeopathy. I quit her. Puppy classes weren't a good
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