Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner

that his father had disowned him after catching him in a compromising position in the hayloft with one of the stable boys, and banished him to America.
    â€œMaybe he worked as a window dresser,” Bruce had mused, cupping one hand over my head.
    â€œHand hat,” I cooed, and snuggled into him. “I’ll bet he hung out at Studio 54.”
    â€œHe probably knew Truman.”
    â€œAnd he’d wear custom-made suits, and carry a cane.”
    Nifkin looked at both of us as if we were nuts, then strolled off to the living room. I tilted my head up for a kiss, and Bruce and I were off to the races again.
    But as much as I’d rescued Nifkin from the sportswriters, the classified ads, and the pound, he had rescued me, too. He kept me from being lonely, he gave me a reason to get up every morning, and he loved me. Or maybe he just loved the fact that I had opposable thumbs and could work a can opener. Whatever. When he laid his little muzzle next to my head at night and sighed and closed his eyes, it was enough.
    The morning after my appointment at the weight management clinic I hitched Nifkin to his extend-o-leash, tucked a plastic Wal-Mart bag into my right pocket, four small dog biscuits and a tennis ball into my left. Nikfin was jumping about crazily, caroming from my couch to his couch, down the hall to the bedroom and back again at warp speed, pausing only to dart a lick toward my nose. Every morning, to him, is a celebration. Yay! he seems to say. It’s morning! I love morning! Morning! Let’s go for a walk! I finally got him out the door, but he kept prancing at my side as I fished my sunglasses out of my pocket and put them on. We proceeded down the street, Nifkin practically dancing, me dragging behind.
    The park was almost empty. Just a pair of golden retrievers sniffing at the bushes, and a haughty cocker spaniel in the corner. I unleashed my dog, who promptly and without provocation made a beeline for the cocker spaniel, barking frantically.
    â€œNifkin!” I hollered, knowing that as soon as he got within a foot or two of the other dog he’d stop, give a deep, disdainful sniff, perhaps bark a few more times, and then leave the other dog alone. I knew that, Nifkin knew that, and it was more than likely that the cocker spaniel knew it, too (it’s been my experience that other dogs mostly ignore the Nif when he goes into his attack mode, probably becausehe’s very small and not all that menacing, even when he’s trying). But the dog’s owner looked alarmed as he saw a spotted, sneering rat terrier missile streaking toward his pet.
    â€œNifkin!” I called again, and my dog for once listened to me, stopping dead in his tracks. I hurried over, trying to look dignified, and scooped Nifkin into my arms, holding him by his scruff, looking into his eyes and saying, “No,” and “Bad,” the way I’d learned in Remedial Obedience. Nifkin whined and looked disgruntled at having his fun interrupted. The cocker spaniel wagged his tail hesitantly.
    The cocker spaniel guy was looking amused.
    â€œNifkin?” he asked. I could see he was getting ready to pop the question. I wondered if he’d have the nerve. I made myself a bet that he would.
    â€œDo you know what a nifkin is?” he asked. Score 1, Cannie. A nifkin, according to my brother’s fraternity friends, is the area between a guy’s balls and his ass. The sportswriters had named him.
    I put on my best puzzled look. “Huh? It’s his name. Does it mean something?”
    The guy blushed. “Uh, yeah. It’s, um … it’s kind of a slang term.”
    â€œFor what?” I asked, trying to look innocent. The guy shuffled his feet. I looked at him expectantly. So did Nifkin.
    â€œUm,” said the guy, and stopped. I decided to have mercy.
    â€œYes, I know what a nifkin is,” I said. “He’s a secondhand dog.” I gave him the abbreviated