Decoding My DNA

"What's in a name?" Shakespeare asked. "It's not what they call you," W.C. Fields said. "It's what you answer to." Well, me, I answer to a lot of things. Gus, of course. Gustard. Gussy. Gustopher. Buddy. Bub. You Dog. Some other things that are not so nice, like Turkey or Jagoff (Pittsburghese for real jerk), are those names I just ignore. If my family only knew what I call them, right? 😁 Ok, I'll tell you, but keep it between us. Grumpy (you know that's Dad), Snoozy (Mom loves a good nap), and Selfish Smellfish (that's Big Brother when he won't let me sit with Mom or share his bedtime loveys). But I digress. My point was going to be that no one calls me a Caviston, although that's the kind of dog I'm supposed to be - a "hybrid breed" made from crossing a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and a Boston Terrier. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - I totally get that a dog of multiple breeds is not a breed itself, besides the Mutt breed. But it's all the rage now, guys, and the possibilities are endless! Cavipoo, Yorkiepoo, Shihpoo, Cavaschon, Shorkie, Chiweenie, Bojack, Jug, Dorkie, and the list goes on.

Now, before I met my family, Dad said he didn't want any dog whose name ended in poo. Between us, I've got enough poo going on without having it in my name, so I'm cool with that. But whenever we meet people, and Mom explains my "breed," there are inevitably those who feel compelled to offer suggestions for what else I might be. "He looks like he's got some Boxer in him for sure," or "He's definitely also at least a little bit Beagle." Mom and Dad give these fools credence most times with a, "Yeah, probably so," but Mom said that's all about politeness. What about you? If you met me, what would you say that I am, besides totally adorable, of course?

Well, after a while, the comments about what else I might be got the better of Mom and Dad. The fact that I was billed as growing to 15-25 pounds, and I'm tipping the scales at 40 these days, did not help the case for me being a combination of two smaller dogs either (and no, I'm not fat!). So, Dad ordered a DNA kit, and Mom got to swabbing my mouth, all the while saying, "You want to know what you are, don't you, Gussy?" Ah, Mom, I wanted to shout, I might not remember them much, but I have met my own dog parents, for Pete's sake! But humans, what can a dog do?

We waited on pins and needles for weeks - well, I use "we" flexibly, because, here again, I knew what the results would show. Those DNA people are smart, though. They really build up the drama - an email to say they received the DNA, an email to say they will look at it soon, an email to say they are going to look at it next, an email to say they are looking at it, an email to say they'll send results soon, an email to say they'll send health results soon, and finally, the big reveal. Drum roll, please. . . .

I said, "Duh!" Dad said, "Well, it's good to know," and Mom said, "There's $130 we'll never see again." I felt a little bit like maybe they were disappointed. Did they want me to be part Boxer? Mom still has pictures of a dog she used to love named Rocky, who was a Boxer. Dad's family used to have a hound - did he wish I was part Beagle, like so many people guessed? What was supposed to be a monumental and enlightening event for our family arrrived with a little bit of a whomp whomp, and I really had the blues about it.

Later that night, when Mom and I were snuggled up for nighttime relaxation, she said, "Well, Gus, aren't you glad about the DNA results?"

"Glad?" I replied. "What's there to be glad about? You obviously wanted some other kind of dog," I choked out between little sobs.

"Oh, Gus!" Mom said, snuggling me a little bit tighter. "Why would you say that?"

"You tell me," I said. "You're the one who was clearly disappointed with the results."

Mom was quiet for a moment. "You're right," she said. "I guess I was disappointed, but only because I was sure you were more than just a straight up 50-50 dog. I wasn't disappointed you were you. In fact, I'm glad to know that what they told us when we adopted you was true. I mean, we never met your dog parents, and there are a lot of dishonest people in the world, so there was certainly a possibility that they lied."

"I guess I could see that."

"Also," Mom said, "we were happy with the health results that said you're not prone to any major health problems, which is good news. Of course, none of it explains why you want to eat sticks all the time, but there's probably a dog psychologist for that." Mom could see I was unmoved. "Hey, I know!" she continued, in her 'I'm gonna pep you up' voice. "The results show other dogs who've done the DNA thing that have similar DNA profiles to yours! You wanna check those out?"

"Sure," I agreed. When Mom is making a solid effort to cheer me up, it's hard to stay bitter. She opened up her phone so we could scroll through some DNA matches.

"Wow! Look at her!" Mom cried. Look, I did, and whoa! It was like looking in a mirror! "You did have a sister," she said, clicking on the dog's picture. My sister. Yeah, I might remember her just a tiny bit, I thought. "Says here," Mom read from the site, "that this dog came from the same place as you! I think this is her, Gus!"

I sat up and took a closer look. Kimber, it said. Who knows. I can't really remember much beyond this year. "It could be her," Mom said excitedly. "We changed your name from Johnny to Gus, so her humans could have changed her name from Joanie to Kimber." Mom kept reading. "It says here the DNA similarities indicate a sibling!"

Huh, I thought. A sister. I wonder if dog siblings are that much different from human ones? I wonder if she would let me chew on her stuffed bunny rabbit? Pretty cool, though, to know I have at least one dog sibling out there. I didn't want it to, but this exercise was having the intended effect of cheering me up. Mom was still going on about Kimber. "Too bad she lives in Pennsylvania. It'd be awesome to meet her. Maybe she eats sticks, too."

She kept on like that for a while, and it was nice she was getting a bit jazzed about the DNA report. But still, I didn't want to let her off that easy, so when she asked, "Now don't you feel so much better?" I couldn't really just say yes. So I said, "I guess maybe a bit, but still, nobody got excited about the actual results."

"You know why?" Mom asked quietly, leaning her face in close to mine. "Because it doesn't matter what kind of dog the DNA says you are, Gus. You'll always just be 100% our Gustard, and that's 100% awesomeness and enough of a dog for us."

Aw. That Mom, I thought, wiping a paw across my eye. She does know how to turn my frowns upside down. And then I snuggled her right back and fell asleep the happiest Caviston in the world.