Joey Pepperoni

On feeling incapable, adopting a dog, and pondering motherhood

My boyfriend is great with kids. It’s so natural for him. He looks like a Folgers commercial; the dad carrying the two-year-old and handing his wife coffee, and making breakfast all at the same time. Effortless and giggly.

I, on the other hand, have always been awkward around children. Maybe it’s because I’m the youngest child of two parents who were also the youngest children, making me consequently the youngest of 30 cousins. There was never a baby available for me to hold or practice goo-goo ga-gaing with. Maybe it’s an internalized belief that I’m incapable, stemming from my disability.

Whatever the reason, I am not naturally maternal.

I have always been insecure about this.

The last time I was in proximity to a baby was at my boyfriend’s mother’s house, during a pool party. The baby’s mother asked if I wanted to hold him, and I panicked. I had no idea what to do, apart from support its head, which everyone knows. I looked down at my spikey acrylic nails and said I didn’t think it was safe.

I am fascinated with maternal instinct. To me, it’s magic. The ability to patch up, soothe, put back together. I don’t mean this in a stereotypical gender roles way, I just mean to say that women and their ability to create, sustain, and nurture are so powerful.

I’ve always felt like I was missing that magic.

I am more of a tough love kind of girl. When I’m in a rut, I respond more to someone telling me it’s time to snap out of it, not ifs, ands, or buts. Once, during a bad breakup, I was living in my depression laundry. My roommate peeled me out, took me to the grocery store, and said enough is enough. I was recovered by check out.

But I don’t think I am cold. I think lateral nurturing is equally important. I love giving personalized gifts and writing letters to my friends. I am grotesquely sentimental. I just prefer a kick in the butt to a swaddle.

There’s a certain pressure to want kids, at least one, by the time you’re 28. No one really asks you, they just assume. Entering the gates of a nearly fully developed brain at age 24 comes with an ever-present reminder that the clock of life is ticking. Doctors who assume you’re biggest goal is to procreate are particularly notorious for enforcing this reminder.

So, I’ve always just felt a little weird about all of this.

In September, I adopted a dog.

I grew up with three dogs, and there’s nothing more comforting to me than the pitter-patter of paws around the house. I told the shelter I wanted a small dog who was calm and good on a leash. So naturally, I took home a 60-pound pitbull who tugs. I couldn’t help it, he chose me.

The shelter, Renegade Paws Rescue, coordinates with potential adopters to schedule meet and greets, and if interested, the dog can be taken for a weeklong sleepover to see if it’s a good fit. The shelter director suggested I meet Joey. Even though he didn’t match the description I gave, she had a good feeling. Joey was rescued from a hoarding situation when he was a puppy and had been at Renegade ever since, for over a year. He had been overlooked because of his breed and a condition he had called cherry eyes.

Baby Jo

He was living with a foster mom, Nancy, who took great care of him and loved him dearly, but wanted to find him a forever home. Nancy described him as extremely nervous and distrustful. During the meet and greet, Joey and I sat outside the shelter for a while. I let him sniff me. Since he wasn’t the size I was looking for, I figured I’d come back another time to meet and greet a different dog. But when I got up to leave, he followed me to my car.

“Do you want to sleepover?” I asked. He pawed at the backseat.

Joey in my lap, one hour after I brought him home

For the first three days at my apartment, he slept. In my bed, on the couch, on the bath mat while I was in the shower. Wherever I was, Joey was within two feet. He even let me bathe him on day 4.

I bought him lemon verbena dog shampoo, a rubber brush, a dog robe, and coconut oil for his skin and paws. I laid out his bath materials and filled the tub with a few inches of warm, soapy water. I played “The Lord of the Rings peaceful ambiance” on YouTube because I find it comforting, and thought he might too.

Sitting on the toilet next to the bathtub, I guided his front half into the water using the powerful persuasion of cheese. At this point, he got stuck, half in, half out, so I wrapped my arms around his midsection and lifted his back legs up and over, into the tub.

I had no idea my body was capable of this.

My disability causes severe atrophy, so most of the time I avoid bending down because it’s strenuous. When I put him in the bath, it was instinctual. I didn’t realize I was doing it until I already had.

After his bath, I dried him with a towel and put on his robe. I placed a warm blanket, fresh from the dryer, over his bed, which he immediately nuzzled into. While he was sleeping, I texted the shelter director that I’d like to officially adopt Joey. I then issued him the middle name Pepperoni.

Joey Pepperoni changed my life by challenging my belief that I’m incapable.

He reminds me every time I fill his water bowl, give him a treat, or tell him he’s a good boy, that I’m doing a great job.

Sometimes, on bad mobility days, I fall from fatigue or loss of balance. Usually square onto my butt, or on my knees with a dull thud. On worse days, onto my hip with a sharp sting of pain, and a bruise that lingers yellowy brown. There have been times when a fall ruins my day, or even my whole week, because it initiates a “why me” spiral. But since Joey’s arrival, the spiraling is quickly halted by a smooch and a wagging tail. He thinks I am on the floor to play.

When I am shackled to my bed sheets because I’m grieving the ability I used to have, and wondering which part of my body may stop working next, Joey whines, reminding me to go outside.

It’s kind of funny- I guess I’ll put this mental breakdown on pause because my dog has to shit.

I always feel better once I feel the fresh air, and look down at his wiggle butt, trotting next to me.

Two weeks ago, I went home for a few days for my grandmother’s funeral. At the reception, I met my cousin’s two-year-old little girl. She stood in front of me and handed me her tiny purse. I smiled at her and said, “It’s important for girls to have a good purse for all their trinkets.” Then we exchanged little giggles and explored our respective purse trinkets.

Oh my god, I wasn’t weird. I was normal, actually.

That was the first time I ever felt confident talking to a child.

I love being Joey’s mom, but what he has taught me is not just that I could be a good mother; raising a human baby is something I won’t be thinking about for quite some time.

What Joey has done is show me that I am capable, in general, of whatever I want to be. In return, he gets booty scratches and treats shaped like churros.

Thank you, Joey.

My sweet boy!