My town is better known for its Royal Poinciana trees and Spanish architecture than for homicide. But then our dog, Zeus, a 75-pound husky, rushed out of our garage and breached the fence. He ran straight to our neighbor Gus’ house — well, Gus and his cats’ house — where six or seven cats spent their days napping in the front yard. Zeus knew this.
I charged after Zeus, who couldn’t be bothered to slow down as I yelled, “Zeus, stop!”
The cats scattered. Zeus ran after them into the backyard. While I was rounding the side of the house, Zeus appeared with a gray, striped tabby in his mouth. He dropped the cat and gave me a look like, “Hey, I got this for you.”
I grabbed Zeus and held tight while the cat scurried up a tree. The cat sat on a limb with a puff of Zeus’ hair stuck to her chin. She looked rough. The three of us panted.
I walked Zeus over to Gus’ door and knocked, but Gus wasn’t home, so I called the fire department.
We’d been living in our house for 15 years when Zeus killed the cat. We loved the house, a 100-year-old queen, with the tree that rained mangoes every June, the original Florida pine wood floors and the claw-foot tub.
Our son, Sebastian, was 1 year old when we moved in. Our oldest was 6. They did their homework on the kitchen island. They carved pumpkins on the side patio. The lines on the height chart on the pantry wall climbed to 6 feet, 2 inches.
Zeus, a giant, white teddy bear who lets me spoon him at night, was a full-grown dog when we adopted him two years earlier from a college kid who left him alone all day. The kid told us huskies are bred to pull sleds and that Zeus needed two long walks every day. It was a commitment we didn’t think through — we just took him home.
Turns out hunky firefighters really do climb ladders to rescue cats. When they got the cat down, I rushed to the vet. I said, “Please do whatever you can to save her.”
Then I went back and left Gus a note.
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Hours later, Gus paced outside my front door, crying. Zeus had broken the cat’s shoulder, causing internal injuries. She could not be saved. Gus described how he couldn’t stop shaking the moment they put her down. He told me his cat was named Connie after his mother. He said, “Connie was my family.”
I was so sorry.
Gus came back the next day and the day after that. He didn’t seem OK, and not just because he’d lost his cat, but I listened because I understood and felt like I owed him at least that.
He repeated how he shook during Connie’s final moments. He cried and thanked me many times. He told me that according to Pet Emergency, no one had ever brought in a cat who wasn’t their own.
“I know you’re a good person,” Gus said. Then he snapped. His watery eyes darted left to right. His face turned red within seconds.
“You gotta put that murderous animal down. He killed Connie.”
My wife, Vicky, and I talked about putting up another fence to seal off the front yard, but I knew getting a fence approved would take a year or more, given the famously difficult permit process in my town.
We put up signs in English and Spanish: PLEASE KEEP GATE CLOSED. DOG WILL ESCAPE. Still, whenever anyone came into our yard — to mow the lawn or check the electricity meter — they waltzed in and out with their earbuds in and left the gate open.
A week later, Gus and I bumped into each other on the sidewalk. He talked a lot about his parents, who had both died several years before. He talked about his cats and how he named each one. He confided in me, and I got the sense he considered me a friend.
Gus said, “I have to tell you this because I know you’re a good person. I don’t know what’ll happen if your murderous animal comes on my property again. I have a temper problem ... and a gun.”
I walked home shaking. I couldn’t get his last sentence out of my head. Maybe this was how Gus felt when they put his cat to sleep. I thought the worst. I couldn’t believe I was thinking it, but in my mind, there were no other options. I told Vicky I wanted to find another home for Zeus. She cried as if I’d said I wanted to find another home for Sebastian.
Instead, we got an electric collar and installed an invisible fence. We had two barriers now. But still, for months, I was so afraid every time someone came to the door, I could barely focus on my work. During those months, Vicky and I fought. We’d been together 17 years, but suddenly the foundation of our family was cracking.
Vicky and I had our usual struggles, like every couple, but we’d never considered whose needs were more valid. Ugly conversations came down to my daily discomfort versus her heartbreak.
We’d always had the patience to talk things through until we reached a truce. But now Vicky said I was cruel. I said she was overdramatic. When I insisted we find Zeus another family, Vicky said, “How can you give away one of our children?”
Then, someone opened the gate just as I opened the back door and Zeus was out. The electric shock did nothing to stop him. Sebastian and I both bolted after Zeus. Sebastian, 15 now, was a colt, just like Zeus. I screamed, not at Zeus, but at Sebastian, “DO NOT GO INTO GUS’ YARD.”
They both galloped ahead of me. As afraid as I was for the cats and then for Zeus, I was terrified Sebastian would fly into Gus’ yard to protect his dog and then ... “I don’t know what’ll happen if your murderous animal comes on my property.”
Zeus took a detour. Maybe he smelled a different cat. Sebastian followed. I watched as these two animals crashed through bushes and darted past each other. Finally, Sebastian lunged and pinned Zeus, then dragged him home.
That night, Vicky and I talked again, but instead of falling into our usual corners, I told her I loved Zeus too, and Vicky softened. She said, “Let’s move.”
I couldn’t believe she suggested uprooting the life we’d created with our family. I couldn’t believe that one strange incident could upend everything or that I’d ever be confronted with this type of choice.
And then we started looking at houses. Little by little, moving just seemed to make sense.
Six months ago, we left the house we loved. Some days I miss it. A few weeks ago, Sebastian had his 11th-grade physical, and he’d grown an inch. On the way home, I thought about adding another line to the growth chart and then remembered our chart in our old pantry had long been painted over.
For some reason, our new refrigerator doesn’t magnetize, and I miss the old one covered with the kids’ school portraits and family pictures — a mad hodgepodge of our lives. I miss the room with the TV where Vicky and I watched movies and shows she collected for us in her list of favorites.
Moving was a giant pain. I packed and unpacked millions of boxes, and I still have a headache from all those address changes. At the same time, I’m amazed at how quickly I’ve gotten used to turning west off of the highway instead of east.
Now, we’re settled in at the new house. There’s a perfect place for the quilt my mom made that Vicky and I stood under when we got married. There’s a perfect place for our books on the shelves that a carpenter crafted out of wood from old University of Miami stadium seats. There’s a perfect place for Zeus, with a fenced-in backyard and a fenced-in front yard.
Now, I’m so relieved and everyone is safe, including Gus and his cats; including Vicky and me in our marriage.
Was it crazy to move for a dog? Maybe. Is a pet equivalent to a child? For Vicky and Gus, yes. For me, I don’t know. But I do know that old expression feels true in a way it never did before: Home is where the heart is.
The names and some details of individuals in this essay have been changed to protect their privacy.
Andrea Askowitz is the author of the memoir “My Miserable, Lonely, Lesbian Pregnancy.” She’s written for HuffPost, The New York Times, Washington Post, Salon, Glamour, The Rumpus, NPR and PBS. Andrea hosts the podcast “Writing Class Radio,” which has been downloaded more than a million times. She’s at work on a memoir and a new live storytelling series called “All Sides of the Story.” Find more at writingclassradio.com, andreaaskowitz.com, @andreaaskowitz and @writingclassradio.
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