curled between his legs like an apostrophe. “Aw, he’s so cute.” Yeah, lady? Wait until he devours two of your knuckles. “Look at that face!” His head lowered, ears pinned back. “His eyes are so intelligent. What is he, a Jack Russell? I used to have a Jack, too.” They tried to pet his head. “They’re the best—” GRORWRERESRRR.
I yanked the furkid off with a breathy apology. “I’m so sorry! I told you—he really doesn’t like people.” Or dogs, or pigeons, or anyone but me. So listen to me when I say it, and stop molesting my Notorious D.O.G. No one asked these ugly Tevas-with-socks strangers to handle my toy fox terrier dog (thank you very much). Maybe I’d humiliate him soon with a T-shirt: CAN’T TOUCH THIS . M.C. Hammer would be proud.
“Linus, baby, I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t let her touch me either,” I whispered into his rose petal ears. “Now let’s go chase some tail.”
At the playground, it’s not like I strapped him into a swing or anything. I mean, I wanted to, but that’s as degrading as forcing him to wear a glamour gem collar with a jailhouse rock doggie tee. Oh, I’ve seen it. Way too many women in New York treat their dogs like surrogate children, right down to the wipes, bottled water, and booties come winter. They bring a blue bouncing baby ball and try to entice their canine to fetch it as though they’re encouraging first steps. The problem, of course, with balls at dog runs is everything is up for grabs. Any dog can swipe the ball from Linus’s jowls, leaving him flustered and vicious, picking fights with dogs that consider him nothing more than an amuse bouche. On occasion, though, miracles happen. Miracles like BooBoo.
BooBoo the Boston terrier suddenly pounced off her owner’s lap and sadistically raced Linus for the ball. “My God, BooBoo never chased a ball before!” Her owner, a tattered woman with a voice like Tevye’s from Fiddler on the Roof, exclaimed, suddenly on her feet, clapping, with the excitement of a new mother. “It’s a miracle, I tell you.” Clearly, she also smoked unfiltered cigarettes for a living. “A modern-day miracle.” Was she talking about BooBoo or Botox? Just as easily, I could have heard, “Bobby never went down the big slide on his own before.”
I smiled at her, one of those sympathetic, you poor sad sack smiles usually reserved for those who choose the wrong impressive vocabulary word at the right dinner parties. This is the best she’ll ever have, right here, in this moment. She was sadder than air guitar. I was suddenly terrified. What if this were me? What if this was it, a life revolving around dog accessories instead of making play dates and helping with homework? Living my life from the bench beside Burberry dog carriers and Swarovski-studded leads.
Linus was back, unexpectedly with a pack of other dogs, panting at my feet. “What? What is it, baby? You want me to throw the ball again?” Upon hearing me address him, he scampered off, clearly embarrassed by my baby talk now that he was runnin’ with the cool kids. It’s as if he forgets for those forty-five minutes that he likes to sleep under the covers with me and that his favorite toy is a stuffed frog. Instead his instincts kick in, and he’s suddenly one of the pack, asking me to drop him off around the corner from the movie theater. At that moment I understood why parents sob at weddings.
Just then my cell phone buzzed with a new e-mail message from Alexandra Geddes, a post-divorce girlfriend I’d met through Dulce, my pre-divorce friend. It’s amazing how significant events in life divide everything into “before” and “after.” Sure, doctors get a rap for having a God complex. Gabe was more like Christ. Everything was reduced to BG and AG.
“We’re going out tonight, cookieface! Markt: reseys at 9 P.M. sharp. None of your fifteen minutes of fashionable lateness crap.” We’d be going to Markt, a new restaurant in
I yanked the furkid off with a breathy apology. “I’m so sorry! I told you—he really doesn’t like people.” Or dogs, or pigeons, or anyone but me. So listen to me when I say it, and stop molesting my Notorious D.O.G. No one asked these ugly Tevas-with-socks strangers to handle my toy fox terrier dog (thank you very much). Maybe I’d humiliate him soon with a T-shirt: CAN’T TOUCH THIS . M.C. Hammer would be proud.
“Linus, baby, I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t let her touch me either,” I whispered into his rose petal ears. “Now let’s go chase some tail.”
At the playground, it’s not like I strapped him into a swing or anything. I mean, I wanted to, but that’s as degrading as forcing him to wear a glamour gem collar with a jailhouse rock doggie tee. Oh, I’ve seen it. Way too many women in New York treat their dogs like surrogate children, right down to the wipes, bottled water, and booties come winter. They bring a blue bouncing baby ball and try to entice their canine to fetch it as though they’re encouraging first steps. The problem, of course, with balls at dog runs is everything is up for grabs. Any dog can swipe the ball from Linus’s jowls, leaving him flustered and vicious, picking fights with dogs that consider him nothing more than an amuse bouche. On occasion, though, miracles happen. Miracles like BooBoo.
BooBoo the Boston terrier suddenly pounced off her owner’s lap and sadistically raced Linus for the ball. “My God, BooBoo never chased a ball before!” Her owner, a tattered woman with a voice like Tevye’s from Fiddler on the Roof, exclaimed, suddenly on her feet, clapping, with the excitement of a new mother. “It’s a miracle, I tell you.” Clearly, she also smoked unfiltered cigarettes for a living. “A modern-day miracle.” Was she talking about BooBoo or Botox? Just as easily, I could have heard, “Bobby never went down the big slide on his own before.”
I smiled at her, one of those sympathetic, you poor sad sack smiles usually reserved for those who choose the wrong impressive vocabulary word at the right dinner parties. This is the best she’ll ever have, right here, in this moment. She was sadder than air guitar. I was suddenly terrified. What if this were me? What if this was it, a life revolving around dog accessories instead of making play dates and helping with homework? Living my life from the bench beside Burberry dog carriers and Swarovski-studded leads.
Linus was back, unexpectedly with a pack of other dogs, panting at my feet. “What? What is it, baby? You want me to throw the ball again?” Upon hearing me address him, he scampered off, clearly embarrassed by my baby talk now that he was runnin’ with the cool kids. It’s as if he forgets for those forty-five minutes that he likes to sleep under the covers with me and that his favorite toy is a stuffed frog. Instead his instincts kick in, and he’s suddenly one of the pack, asking me to drop him off around the corner from the movie theater. At that moment I understood why parents sob at weddings.
Just then my cell phone buzzed with a new e-mail message from Alexandra Geddes, a post-divorce girlfriend I’d met through Dulce, my pre-divorce friend. It’s amazing how significant events in life divide everything into “before” and “after.” Sure, doctors get a rap for having a God complex. Gabe was more like Christ. Everything was reduced to BG and AG.
“We’re going out tonight, cookieface! Markt: reseys at 9 P.M. sharp. None of your fifteen minutes of fashionable lateness crap.” We’d be going to Markt, a new restaurant in
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