Take time to stop and sniff the asses. Iâm always aware that Michael and I are shirking our claims to be busy New Yorkers every time we take our dog Boswell for a walk along the Hudson.
As Michael gently leads our dog across MacDougal Street, weâre both happy to give up a few hours for Bozzie. We New Yorkers have no problem wasting our own timeâposting status updates about our first photography exhibition of naked clowns at a diner, inviting friends to our Monday night cabaret show built around the Minnie Riperton songbook, struggling for years to raise money for our indie film about a guy struggling for years to raise money for an indie filmâbut we bitterly resent other people wasting our time.
Though heâs a beagle-basset mix, Bozzieâs not superlong and low-slung like most bassets, and heâs not yappy or pointy-faced like some beagles. Heâs barrel-chested and floppy-eared with the double sweetness of both breeds. Spending time with Bozzie is always a pleasure. He never tells stories that are dull, long, or too self-involved. Heâs never invited us to come see his untalented boyfriend play Fleance in Macbeth , and, to his credit, Bozzie has never expressed any artistic ambitions, so heâs never going to put us on the spot and ask what we think of his work.
When Bozzie does become annoying, all I have to do is give him a treat. God, I wish that strategy worked at cocktail parties. The next time some writer specializing in gay Neolithic romance novels begins droning on about the hot Stonehenge sex scene in his latest self-published book, Iâd promptly drop a rawhide chew stick at his feet.
Boz is a rescue dog. He was found wandering in Sullivan County and had worms, fleas, and a host of other problems, both mental and physical. The green number tattooed in his right ear made us suspect he might have been a lab dog. Boz hates all loud noise, but is particularly spooked by the sound of metal banging or scraping, which causes him to jump or shake, almost as if it brings back memories of cage doors. Bozzie has made me aware that New Yorkâs a clanging city. People are always opening or closing security gates on storefronts, stepping on the metal cellar doors on sidewalks, or throwing bottles or cans in trash bins. Even church bells terrify him.
Since Boz is prone to debilitating bouts of fear that cause him to plop down on the sidewalk shivering in terror, Michael and I always take the same route to the river, hoping that, guided by the familiar sidewalks, heâll keep his nose to the ground, tracking the comforting smells of pigeon poop, rat piss, and shit-faced NYU student vomit.
We approach an elderly woman walking a brindle-coated dachshund. A dachshund in motion always appears comical, as if the tail is wagging the dog. We stop and share forced smiles as our two dogs intimately nose each other. Weâre like parents on a play-date pretending not to notice their children playing doctor in front of them.
âHow old is your dog?â she asks. Michael admits we donât know his exact age, but he thinks Bozzieâs nine or ten. I suspect he might be a few years older. Though heâs perfectly healthy and active, Bozzieâs muzzle has grown whiter in the four years weâve known him and gray is starting to show up in the black hair on his back. I try not to dwell on his mortality because it only makes me dwell on my own mortality. Three years ago, I was diagnosed with ALS/Lou Gehrigâs disease. Iâm doing well, but in order to stay well I need to keep moving, stay busy with my writing and active with my friends and family. Iâm afraid if I focus on my plight, Iâll end up âpulling a Bozzieâ and have a meltdown on the pavement in an intersection.
On Carmine Street, Our Lady of Pompeii Roman Catholic Church reminds me of a conversation I recently had with my mother in Buffalo. âIâve been praying for you. If God
As Michael gently leads our dog across MacDougal Street, weâre both happy to give up a few hours for Bozzie. We New Yorkers have no problem wasting our own timeâposting status updates about our first photography exhibition of naked clowns at a diner, inviting friends to our Monday night cabaret show built around the Minnie Riperton songbook, struggling for years to raise money for our indie film about a guy struggling for years to raise money for an indie filmâbut we bitterly resent other people wasting our time.
Though heâs a beagle-basset mix, Bozzieâs not superlong and low-slung like most bassets, and heâs not yappy or pointy-faced like some beagles. Heâs barrel-chested and floppy-eared with the double sweetness of both breeds. Spending time with Bozzie is always a pleasure. He never tells stories that are dull, long, or too self-involved. Heâs never invited us to come see his untalented boyfriend play Fleance in Macbeth , and, to his credit, Bozzie has never expressed any artistic ambitions, so heâs never going to put us on the spot and ask what we think of his work.
When Bozzie does become annoying, all I have to do is give him a treat. God, I wish that strategy worked at cocktail parties. The next time some writer specializing in gay Neolithic romance novels begins droning on about the hot Stonehenge sex scene in his latest self-published book, Iâd promptly drop a rawhide chew stick at his feet.
Boz is a rescue dog. He was found wandering in Sullivan County and had worms, fleas, and a host of other problems, both mental and physical. The green number tattooed in his right ear made us suspect he might have been a lab dog. Boz hates all loud noise, but is particularly spooked by the sound of metal banging or scraping, which causes him to jump or shake, almost as if it brings back memories of cage doors. Bozzie has made me aware that New Yorkâs a clanging city. People are always opening or closing security gates on storefronts, stepping on the metal cellar doors on sidewalks, or throwing bottles or cans in trash bins. Even church bells terrify him.
Since Boz is prone to debilitating bouts of fear that cause him to plop down on the sidewalk shivering in terror, Michael and I always take the same route to the river, hoping that, guided by the familiar sidewalks, heâll keep his nose to the ground, tracking the comforting smells of pigeon poop, rat piss, and shit-faced NYU student vomit.
We approach an elderly woman walking a brindle-coated dachshund. A dachshund in motion always appears comical, as if the tail is wagging the dog. We stop and share forced smiles as our two dogs intimately nose each other. Weâre like parents on a play-date pretending not to notice their children playing doctor in front of them.
âHow old is your dog?â she asks. Michael admits we donât know his exact age, but he thinks Bozzieâs nine or ten. I suspect he might be a few years older. Though heâs perfectly healthy and active, Bozzieâs muzzle has grown whiter in the four years weâve known him and gray is starting to show up in the black hair on his back. I try not to dwell on his mortality because it only makes me dwell on my own mortality. Three years ago, I was diagnosed with ALS/Lou Gehrigâs disease. Iâm doing well, but in order to stay well I need to keep moving, stay busy with my writing and active with my friends and family. Iâm afraid if I focus on my plight, Iâll end up âpulling a Bozzieâ and have a meltdown on the pavement in an intersection.
On Carmine Street, Our Lady of Pompeii Roman Catholic Church reminds me of a conversation I recently had with my mother in Buffalo. âIâve been praying for you. If God
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