Welcome home, Jib - #123

A new friend in the dark.

There’s a dog in the house and his name is Jib. He’s about seven months old. We found him across the state, past his puppydom prime and waiting patiently on a farm for someone to adopt him. When he’s unsure and his ears are pressed flat against his softball-sized head, he looks like a meerkat. It helps that he perches on his back legs, his front legs hanging bent against his puffed chest, investigating the world around him.

Jibbernaut’s farm was home to many dogs. The farmers owned 12 of them, most of which were working dogs. And when I sat on the floor saying hello to them, Jib got on the bench behind me, making up for his small stature and aggressively licking my ear anytime I got too close to someone else. They say the dog picks you.

An hour later, Ben carried Jib to our dirty old Subaru and showed him the backseat, outfitted with a wool blanket, pillow, and the oldest and smelliest of Cooper’s old dog beds. Jib spun around and looked at Ben. “Where are we going?” 

“Has he ever been in a car before?” I asked. 

“Just once, for his shots,” the woman said. She was a vet tech. Jib’s coat shone like tempered chocolate. 

“Well, here’s hoping!” Hoping that he would like it. Hoping he wouldn’t get car sick. Hoping he wouldn’t howl for his friends or his farm or his life before us. Hoping we’d made the right choice.

We turned out of the dirt driveway just south of the Wyoming border and started the eight hour drive to the mountains, hoping. 

Before we could merge onto the freeway, Kimmy Jibler had both front paws on the center console, his long back legs stretched to the backseat as he turned from side to side to kiss Ben, then kiss me, kiss Ben, kiss me. His breath was still gamey from his breakfast of rice, carrots, and elk. 

For all eight hours, he would complete his rotation: a nap in the bed, a nap on our puffys stuffed in the backseat, and then a climb up front to get some pets and additional kisses before starting the routine all over again. He did not whine. He did not have accidents. He did not seem to remember or care about a life before us. We were now his people, and he was determined to be our dog. 

Ben and I were not ready for another dog. Cooper’s loss hangs heavy, a storm system caught between our mountain ranges. He comes to me in my dreams, tactile and real from his fur to his scent to his weight against my chest, and I miss him in the way when I imagine the rest of my life, it stretches like a void, stretching me with it, each point further and further from his breath on my cheek in the morning. 

I am still not ready, but life prevails. Our kittens are still young enough to bond with a dog, and my pregnancy is still early enough that I can train one. Laying in bed in the quiet hours of night, Ben and I looking at each other over the crook in our pillows where Cooper used to sleep, I kept asking, how can we bring a baby home to a house without a dog? 

Of course most people would say: quite easily, with having slept very well every night until the baby arrives. There’s an entire Reddit thread about this very topic, but of course I resonated with the only comment embracing the chaos. Life is not for convenience and ease and groceries delivered to your doorstep. Life is for loving, is it not? 

Jibediah was greeted by three prophets as he faced the stairs from the woodshop to the main floor. The first was Banzet: long and lean, his sleek coat and wild eyes giving away his leopard ancestry. Banzet the bengal mix from the deserts of New Mexico jerked into a low crouch at the sight of Jibbles and told him the truth: this house is a jungle. You can climb on anything and then you’re here and then you’re there and then you’re on every floor at once! There are scrunchies and balls and boxes to chew on! There are bones and milk caps and chairs for ruining! 

And before Jibster could ask, the bengal bolted back up into the dark. 

The second was Link: stout and deformed with his butt too big and his eyes too close, a fluff of ash and cloud. Link the absurd, come all the way from Florida on the axle of car, flopped on the stairs and told him the truth: this house is a dream. There are pillows and blankets and beds of every size. There are sunspots and heaters and sweaters of all kinds. There are faucets for drinking and treats for the taking and all the belly rubs you could want.

But before Jibbernaut could ask, the cloud floated into the dark.

Mr. Jibbs eyed the stairs, and the stairs eyed him back, two glowing orbs at the very top, looking down at a Jiblet so small. Jibbie stayed still and the eyes slowly blinked. 

“I am the third, and I am the first. I am the oldest and I am the biggest. I am the chorus, bridge, and verse.” He licked a paw slowly, deliberately, framed in darkness. Finn, the loyal, the slashed-eye tabby from the streets of LA. Finn who’d been with the girl when she’d met the dog. Finn who’d been with the dog when the girl wept beside him. Finn who lived when Cooper and Snoots did not. Finn who would decide if he’d protect you or let you rot. 

“And who are you?” he asked, taking one step down into the light.

Jib, small and harmless, Jib from the farm, Jib just awake after falling asleep on my arm took one step up, closer to Finn.

“I’m Jib. Can I come in?” 

And Finn told him the truth.

“You can.”

Jibberman Meerdog slept in the bed that night, in a crook just a little too big. He laid flat on his side and sighed, rolling this way and that for kisses and a goodnight pat. Link slept on the headboard, floating just above. Banzet draped himself over ankles and knees like a stretched out monkey up in the trees. Ben and I slept face down, each with a hand on the dog, and Finn prowled the house, keeping watch on them all.