Lincoln

To be clear, I didn't choose him. HE chose ME. I will admit, I visited him twice while he was locked up. The first time, I took my son and then in an audacious move, my husband. That was a fateful meeting. My husband watched our interaction carefully, took a deep breath and conceded, "You two belong together." And so, when we walked through the bell-clanging door for the third time at Uncle Bill's Pet Store, he was waiting. No, waiting is not an accurate description. He was splayed, all four pounds of him, up against the front bars of the cage, much like the starfish to the aquarium in Finding Nemo. And howling, good gravy was he ever howling. This did not cease until we had paid the ridiculous fee and he was in my arms, tucked safely inside my coat.

The name was already picked. He was stately with his contemplative brow, he had a beard, he was my favorite and so he shall be called "Lincoln," I announced. In retrospect, I should have given this more thought. I am unaware of any record of our sixteenth president splaying or howling. Of course, to be forthright, I haven't yet seen, Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Slayer. The biggest challenge, early on was keeping him alive. He was not as big as Paul's foot. Schnauzers are exceptionally intelligent, but notoriously curious. This combination is what led to "the incident."

The menfolk were in the garage, piling into the car, headed for work and school. Lincoln was in potty training boot camp and things were going swell. He and I were in the front yard on this cool, spring morning; I, barefoot in my pale, pink nightgown, sipping a freshly brewed cup of French Vanilla Gevalia.   Without warning, the garage door lifted and out backed the silver vehicle at an alarming pace. The next sequence of events is rather murky, probably due to the PTSD, but I will do my best to chronicle them for you.

As it turns out, weighing four pounds puts you at a significant, aerodynamic velocity advantage. As I watched the furry blur dart toward the shiny car, I knew this would be a defining moment for me. Its difficult to comprehend, but time moved at warp speed and in slow motion simultaneously. I can vividly see my face, my mouth contorting into the word, "NO!!!!" My leg lunges forward, bulging and determined like Arian Foster on first and goal. The right arm flails outward, upward sending coffee and cup hurling through the air, different trajectories. Lincoln is nearly to the driveway and Paul clearly doesn't see him. There is no other choice. I dive headlong for the save, all undisclosed number of pounds landing squarely on the tiny creature.

His cry was otherworldly. "I've killed him," I thought. "I have crushed every one of his internal organs and I have killed him." The dive ended in a forward roll out, in the yard, complete with a panty flash salute and freshly mowed, wet grass clinging to my bare legs. The coffee mug laid on its side at the foot of tree, yards away. Paul and the boys emerged from the now-stopped car, wide-eyed in disbelief. "Are you okay?" Paul finally managed. Lincoln was now chasing a butterfly and the boys were unsuccessful at stifling laughter as I spoke softly, "I thought I killed him." Our neighbors to this day deny witnessing any of this, but I have my suspicions.

He was certainly no worse for the wear. Soon he was taking on frogs, squirrels, chipmunks and even birds, leaping and swiping them clean out of the air. I will never forget the look on my youngest son's face when he came in from the backyard, terrified and paler than usual on the Saturday morning of Easter weekend. "Mom, Lincoln just bit the tail off of the Easter Bunny. What does that mean for us tomorrow?" Sure enough, I found the poor, little guy trapped in the corner of our yard, now relieved of his tail. Later that day we colored Easter eggs.The boys marked their names with a crayon on them. My son asked if he could make one for Lincoln. As I was putting them away, I couldn't help but notice a blue one, with the name "Killer" inscribed on it.

We tried to lay down the law. No going upstairs. No sleeping in anyone's bed. Absolutely NEVER to be on the leather furniture. He is sprawled next to me, taking up most of the scratched, worn leather couch as I write this. I'm not sure who he slept with last night, but I can promise you it was in a bed.

Last Christmas season, when Paul was still working and living in another city, I noticed I wasn't sleeping all that well. I had recently started doing yoga in the mornings, limiting my caffeine and sugar intake and then it occurred to me, the dog in the bed might be contributing to the insomnia. That night, I got my breakfast prepped for the following morning, laid out my raspberry yoga mat in front of the television, put a sturdy board up in front of the stairwell and commenced up to bed without my faithful companion.

Wouldn't you know it? It was a fabulous night of sleep. I slipped into my yoga clothes and headed downstairs. Behold, Christmas had come early. My dog had left me a present. Two "turtledoves" right there, smack dab in the center of the yoga mat. "That'll teach ya, lady. Mess with the bull, you'll get the horns," smirked his scruffy face.

Upon moving to an apartment in Alabama, letting him out to do his business became less simple than just opening a sliding glass door. There was a leash and child labor involved. The twins take turns every other day performing these duties. Half of the time I cannot remember whose day it is. But Lincoln knows. Oh, does he know. At the beginning of the week, Luke came down with a sore throat and fever. When Monday morning rolled around, he was in no shape for school and so he stayed in bed. Of course, I didn't remember it was his day. Not until I heard "Mom!" bellowed from his room. Christmas came early for Luke. There, right beside his bed, atop the clothes he had cast off the previous evening were five, not so golden rings.

Lincoln is not a fan of other children, which is sad because he's so darn cute. I think he views them as midget infiltrators trying to breach the kingdom walls. His reflection of his name contrasts sharply with the peace broker image portrayed by Daniel Day Lewis. So if not Lincoln, then what should we have named him? He is an avid hunter; perhaps Roosevelt or Reagan. Nah, too much of a rascal. He does sleep around a lot. Maybe Clinton. I don't know. I should think outside the box. Could it be, he's not American at all? He is deeply tenacious. My husband works for the federal government so I can't very well go around yelling Stalin or Mussolini in public. Hey, wait. Now that's not half bad.... Netanyahu has a nice ring to it, don't you think?