Scout, Always

An ode to the best dog there ever was

Ten years ago I poured my father a cocktail. As he took his last sips of a rye Manhattan, I was all too quick to say, “Let me get you another one!” Immediately, he put the glass down, looked me straight in the eye and asked, “What do you want?” I told him about the dog mom and I had met that afternoon at the Humane Society, an Australian shepherd / husky / something or other mix that we instantly fell in love with. My schmoozing worked, but also: Scout’s natural instinct was to fawn over every new person, so within minutes of Dad meeting her, credit cards were swiped and papers signed. She was ours.

We named her Scout because she was just such a Scout — no other name was ever considered. I have never connected with and loved so deeply an animal the way I have spent the past decade adoring Scout. She was the center of our family, the one we all wanted to charm, and never disappoint. An extra piece of chicken there, three more treats tossed in the air, another spin around the block to bark at the poodles.

She was Mom’s constant companion. Together they’d walk the neighborhood and run errands, chit chat with friends and acquaintances and each other. In the evenings, Scout would notice the light changing and demand to be taken to the beach. I’d go for six o’clock swims and emerge from the water to see Dad and Scout sitting together at the same corner picnic table, quietly taking in the breadth of the Bay. We’d watch the light change further, hunger usually bringing us back home, always with Scout requiring a bribery of treats to leave the beach. For her winters-in-Florida lifestyle, the fading light cued a demand for a golf cart ride, a leisurely spin around the neighborhood at twelve miles per hour, early sunset light dancing upon her fur.

Looking back at the photos of her lifetime, it’s an examination of my own as well. All that has happened in ten years flying past as I scroll for yet another image of Scout sunning herself on the deck, walking along the shoreline, nestled next to me in bed. The long hair I had the summer we brought her home, tanned skin that still didn’t give much regard to sunscreen, arms wrapped around a wiggly rescue with an abundance of energy. Scout splayed over my torso on the couch and in bed as I was sick one summer, and again two years later, still with sunburned noses in each. On her hind legs looking out the window, her front paws resting on the wooden chair in my room, three swimsuits splayed over the side, all now rotting in landfills but with patterns recorded in paintings made years ago. Countless variations of Scout smiling on the deck, in the sand, in the woods, under a chair, on an armrest, in a lap, pressed against legs, splayed on the couch, lying on her back, twisting her body to and fro.

I was eating lunch at the Palais de Tokyo café when Dad’s text arrived saying today would likely be Scout’s last. I didn’t know what to do with myself beyond crying in public. It was the first few minutes of the phase I’ve been in for the past twenty-six hours: utterly listless and untethered, struggling to focus on my immediate surroundings. I donned my headphones and headed next door to the Musée d'Art Moderne, trying my best to accept the fact that Scout was an ocean away, in the process of dying, and here I was staring down Matisse, Delaunay, and Arp. Pay no mind the recurring groups of French schoolchildren wearing berets who kept trying to talk to me about the paintings. I have never been in such a comically awful dilemma as telling yet another small child wearing a fucking beret and holding their crayon interpretation of a Fauvist painting, please do not talk me.

Grief is a sticky thing. It makes me an asshole to museum-going French children and has a way of bringing up other losses alongside the freshest one. I wasn’t expecting to think about Mae-Mae’s passing, but there it was. In the Tuileries, memories of a grandmother’s unconditional love. Undoubtedly the only person on the planet who saw me as someone who could do no wrong. Who never failed to answer the phone without a singsong hello. Tissues and Starlight mints, always in abundance. In a shallow dish, nestled in a drawer, tucked up a sleeve, falling from a pocket.

She was a month shy of her 98th birthday when I saw her last. Her goal was 100, but 98 it was. We talked about school and what my new home would be like, that I was sure I had everything I needed. I tried to be present but kept getting distracted by her incredibly thin skin, how she kept looking at me like she knew it was going to be the last time we’d ever see each other. I understood it too, but didn’t dare speak the truth out loud. I was ashamed that I couldn’t witness her further deteriorate. I couldn’t witness death. I never have, and I wasn’t going to start with her. Instead, she passed away with her daughters by her side, though not really — the hospice nurses insisted that she held on far longer than anyone expected because she just wanted to still be in their presence, like they were at a neverending cocktail party. They encouraged my mother and aunt to leave the room, and when they did, Mae-Mae went too.

My father spent yesterday morning sleep deprived, petting Scout, and was by her side when her heart stopped. He said he was glad to be there with her, that he believes she went peacefully. Still, it’s impossible for my eyes to not well up every time I think of this scene. And to feel so painfully far away throughout it all. I knew in making the decision to move abroad that there would be moments when I would feel alienated and alone, but I expected them to arise from dealing with a rude Frenchman who didn’t have the patience for my shy speaking habits when ordering food. Turns out every waiter and barista I’ve crossed paths with is kind and patient and maybe even a bit charmed by my formality and composure of and now I’m going to speak French. And so, I’m in Paris on a blindingly sunny day not knowing what to do with myself other than buy a baguette and write about my feelings.

There’s the void left behind in Scout’s absence — the joy she was capable of stirring, the devoted companionship, the thing we could all agree upon obsessing over. And then there’s the worry of the daily routine suddenly swept out the door: gone are the rituals around walks, meals, errands, golf cart rides, and sunset viewings. The inevitable gaze from the pavement, the bench, the backseat that couldn’t say anything else but isn’t this just great?! To know that this summer I’ll return to the woods of Northern Michigan and Scout won’t be barking on the stairs announcing my arrival is something I just haven’t gotten around to accepting. In time, I surely will. There were nearly three decades spent there before her. But it’s the afterglow, the abundant warmth she brought to our lives that made the past ten summers some of the very best.