The Defection of Basil

It’s inevitable: Eventually your kids leave home. I’d never expected Basil to do this at age seven. I know that seven is actually 49 in dog years but still…it’s awfully young.

I miss her.

I would have hoped she’d have given me some indication, some notice, that she was leaving so completely, but I got nothing. She just walked away from everything and moved west a few weeks ago. She left her cat, her two totes of dog toys (taking only the Blue Monkey and the Brown Monkey), her inlaid wood food bowl stand, her former favorite napping spot in the window seat, and a half box of MilkBone Training Treats.

I don’t think she ever looked back.

Basil now resides with Roy who ironically and by his own admission was not a ‘dog person’ when we met and who admitted he considered the fact that I had a dog at all more of a liability than an asset. This was said before they met. This was said somewhere in the last two months when she was still my Basil, my loyal devoted dog.

This was before she constantly wore not one but two bandannas, both from Roy, of course.

I know when I’ve been defeated, and clearly, I’ve lost her. Roy and I have reached a very odd shared custody arrangement whereby she lives with him for the majority of the time and comes ‘home’ to visit me only a day or so a week and full time when he travels.

I’m not sure how this happened, but I’m convinced my dog has been abducted. Surely, I explained to her, you could not have willingly left a loving parent who doted on you and indulged your every whim. I quickly listed my qualities, hoping to sway her loyalties once more back in my direction: I bought you bag upon bag of chicken jerky, I pet you a lot, I let you get up on the furniture, I took you on endless walks, and I fed you only the best Iams Mini Chunks.

She looked at me and shook her head sadly. Clearly, I just didn’t get it. She ticked off Roy’s winning qualities on her paws: He didn’t waste time with the chicken jerky, just divvied out the people food straight from the table, he maybe didn’t pet her so much but he had much bigger, ‘man hands’ so it felt like more, he let her up on his furniture and it wasn’t leather so therefore was much more comfortable and conducive to leaving behind pet hair and thereby marking it as her private territory, he had a fabulous yard with birds and bugs and grass and flowers, and a garden and just so much neat stuff it was an incredible sensory overload every time she went outside so walks on a leash weren’t necessary and I’d be kidding myself if I thought they were missed. Riding in my car with her head out the window might have been fun, but hanging her head out of his truck was much better, as she sat up higher and could see much further. He fed her Iams, too.

I had nothing to say in my own defense.

Being a grown-up, I’m mature enough to know that people who love you won’t necessarily love you forever. Unless, of course, they’re your parents and therefore have to, or your cat and don’t know any better. I’m mature enough to want the best for the people I love, and Basil is one of them. I want her to be happy. I am a calm and reasonable person, and I accept this. I will not cajole, plead, or resort to any devious means to win back her affections.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go buy a whole bunch of dog treats and maybe even some cheese slices. Roy is traveling next week so I have seven days to win her over.

I’m thinking my odds are good, when you consider that’s a whole forty-nine dog days.