Louise Peevish
"Oh, Louise is being peevish again," we'd say. "Louise Peevish."
It was the move back to Maryland that did her
in. There were stories of other dogs that had
cracked after hearing the tests at
Aberdeen Proving
Ground, dogs that pushed their
way through second story window screens,
desperate to escape the sounds of the bomb
and munitions tests across the river. The
aural bombardment contributed to Louise’s
general nervousness, but now when a
thunderstorm blew through town, she was
absolutely inconsolable. No drug calmed
her. By the time you got the pill down,
the storm had passed.
One afternoon, my mother drove with Louise to
the local grocery store. Mom rolled the
windows down a safe distance, locked the
doors, and entered the market.
She was filling a plastic bag with green
beans when she heard a little girl’s voice.
“Look, Mom, there’s a dog shopping in the
Acme.”
“Not my dog,” thought Mom, as she weighed the
beans and continued to the toiletry aisle.
The little girl spoke again. “Look, Mom, the
dog is still shopping in the Acme!”
“Not my dog,” thought Mom again. She glanced
past the row of shampoos to the plate glass
windows – were those thunderclaps she heard?
– when she saw Louise, panting heavily, on
the run from one of our favorite check-out
guys, a kid who worked his way up from bagger
and always made friendly conversation. Louise
darted for the automatic doors, heading along
the sidewalk in the direction of the
Chat-n-Chew.
Abandoning her cart, Mom also ran for the
door. Outside, storm clouds were gathering
force. She watched Louise scatter a school of
carpenters, men in dirty jeans and mud-caked
work boots, as the dog passed the restaurant
and made a left into the hardware store. Mom
followed, pushing past customers, until she
found Louise in the back of the store,
trembling by the PVC piping.
My mother stayed there with her until the
storm passed, then walked her back to the car
and drove home, sans groceries. Apparently,
the dog panicked when she heard the
approaching thunder, pushed through an open
car window and went looking for Mom. We were
grateful that she wasn't hit by a car.
About two years after the Acme incident, I
came home from grad school for a visit.
Things were grim. Kevin, my mother’s
long-term boyfriend, had been diagnosed with
a rare bone marrow disease. My mother was
close to declaring bankruptcy. And Louise was
getting more peevish and skittish.
Her fits of panic weren't limited to
thunderstorms; now the dulled explosions from
Aberdeen were having a similar effect. She
was terrified. If no one was home, she would
attempt to escape -- Mom was afraid she would
force her way through a closed window,
pictured a return home to bloodied shards of
glass and no dog. If someone was home, she
would scratch and pace, pant and whine.
Louise was suffering.
I went with my mother to the appointment. We
sat with Louise, stroked her as the vet
depressed the needle. It was over quickly.
On the ride home, we didn't speak.