Later I saw that the photos on my mom’s desk of my twin sister and me had been replaced by framed shots of Carmel, posing with a ball in his mouth, jumping for a Frisbee. “Those pictures of you all were so old,” my mom said. “And Carmel is just so photogenic.”
The dog was quite handsome. Though he certainly was a mutt, he looked like a purebred, with foxlike slanted eyes the color of burned chestnuts and a silky orange-yellow coat. To my mother he was the newest, best breed. When she called the vet to ask about freezing Carmel’s sperm to preserve his bloodlines, I protested. “He’s a mutt, Mom, the bastard son of some slutty shepherd.”
“Please don’t talk about him like that,” she said.
Growing up, we always had litters of well-bred German-shepherd puppies tumbling around the yard like in those Purina Puppy Chow commercials. But Carmel was different from the dutiful shepherds, who obeyed my mom’s every command. Either Carmel was untrainable or my mom was a sucker for his breezy indifference. Either way, he won her love in a way the shepherds never could. Soon my sister and I had been dispatched to some distant kennel in my mother’s world view.
Carmel knew better than to acknowledge the competition. He ignored my sister and me, while he took my mother’s love and ran with it, knowing full well that with a few loving nuzzles he could get away with anything, like demanding to go for walks in the middle of “24.”
Problems arose when my mother tried to jump-start Carmel’s career. I was working as a lowly intern at a film company when she called in a favor. “See if you can put Carmel in one of your movies, would you?” she said nonchalantly, as if this were simple, like buying her some milk. She had no doubts he would make it, and had just signed him up for doggie acting lessons. I said she was being ridiculous, that she should at least start him in commercials, as any actor who was trying to break into the business would.
“He doesn’t need to start there—just look at him,” she said.
“But he doesn’t do anything—no tricks or surfing or rescuing people from burning buildings. Movie producers want dogs with skills,” I protested, “and he won’t even come when he’s called.” That was just it—Carmel’s disobedience worked for him. He was completely devoid of that inexhaustible desire to please that most dogs live by. I began to admire his indifference.
I drove with my mom one afternoon in Carmel’s car, the gold SUV she had bought to match his golden coat. He grabbed shotgun, stuck his head out the window and drooled long lines down the side of the window. Later, we went for a W-A-L-K (as my mother calls it so Carmel doesn’t recognize the word and go crazy). He jumped at the birds, rolled in the dirt and proceeded to sniff every leaf in the metropolitan area. There was something wonderful about watching him run and jump and simply be a dog. As we walked to the car, my mother called him. He ran the other way.
When Carmel was ready to leave, we drove home. Sitting in the back seat, I gained a new respect for the relationship my mother and Carmel had. They didn’t completely understand each other, but through their walks and talks and sniffing sessions, they developed a kind of idiosyncratic love, predicated on mystery and wonderment.
Later I joined my parents and Carmel on the couch—our new family unit. The show “24” was on. A few minutes into it, Carmel started barking and scratching at the door. I knew I was at a crossroads, a moment I might later regret, but I got up. “I’ll go, Mom,” I said. “I’ll take Carmel for a W-A-L-K.” Mom looked at me and smiled.
