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Littermate

[Marga Gomez]

M
Y NOSTRILS BURN
when she licks them, but it’s either that or on my pursed lips. If I’m slow, my dog will slip me the tongue. It’s because she left her litter too young and wasn’t properly socialized. I’m not her only conquest. The singer Tennille (of Captain and Tennille) was so taken by the smooth coat, the brown spot on the butt, the floppy ears, and the naturally black-lined eyelids that she bent down on one knee to make friends. It was alarming. I wanted to shout, “Get up, Tennille! Move away from the dog,” but it was too late. Tabasco had already reared back on her Jack Russell haunches, aimed, and stolen another French kiss. I apologized profusely as we were led away from Tennille’s dressing room in the Tampa State Theater. She was starring in
Victor/Victoria.
I was working next door at the smaller Tampa State Theater Annex, which doubles as a storage unit most of the year. It wasn’t the greatest week of my career, but Tabasco liked the blistering sun and the fresh scent of armadillo outside our Holiday Inn.

I’d like to say that Tabasco was named after the town in Mexico, but really she was named after the hot sauce my girlfriend sprinkled on her eggs at a roadside diner on the way to pick up our puppy. Getting a dog was her idea, and we were so in love that I would have agreed to any name she liked, from Cornflakes to Decaf. If we merely had a baby instead of a puppy we’d probably still be together. But I quickly fell under Tabasco’s spell. Instead of bringing my girlfriend flowers, I bought Tabasco a new squeaky toy every week.

I got custody after the breakup even though the dog clearly favored my girlfriend. When dogs sense fear, they may attack, but when they sense codependency, they pick you last. It’s not the worship I expected from a dog. She’s stingy with the tail-wagging, and getting a kiss from her is like pulling fangs. So when she affectionately swabs my sinus cavities, I tell myself it’s genuine, not because she wants something. Then I fix her food—half a cup twice a day, presoaked in spring water and not one kibble or biscuit more.

I wish I had somebody to control
my
meal portions. While my weight fluctuates, Tabasco’s compact form has never exceeded 13 pounds. She has the dimensions of a six-pack of beer, just small enough to slide under an airplane seat in her FAA-approved Sherpa travel bag. Some airlines offer two spaces per flight for pets small enough to remain confined under the seat for the duration of the trip—flight attendants go postal if they see a paw poking out from the blanket on your lap, trust me. No doubt they’re envious of the divorced, bankrupt former flight attendant who invented the Sherpa bag, became a millionaire overnight, and sent little dogs packing coast to coast. Tabasco and I have become versed in where to find trees and shrubs at JFK and LAX, and dog-friendly hotels in America. These seem to fall into two categories: the high-end establishment that caters to the Chihuahuas of the rich and famous or the going-out-of-business dump that will take anybody and their dog, cat, or ferret for an extra fifty bucks—in other words, the downtown Tampa hotel of our first road trip.

It was a rough road to single parenthood. Tabasco sniffed our dreary room from wall to wall and opted to spend the first night brooding under one of the twin beds. I lay awake wondering what she was thinking or if she was thinking. Was she homesick? Did she miss my apartment or my ex-girlfriend’s apartment? Or was she pining for something primal that no human could provide?

We got her from an old-fashioned country vet on a horse farm. He showed us her mom, long-legged and slim, hopping around the barn in a cast after being stomped by a horse. The dad dog was tied to a tree, all muscle and medium height like Tabasco. The vet claimed this dog enjoyed watching cartoons, which sounded cool but may have been another fabrication, like telling us Tabasco was eight weeks when she was only seven weeks. Finally, we were taken to the puppies. It’s impossible to feel like an adult at a time like that. I was clapping my hands and squealing like the six wild balls of fur at my feet. If I could design my afterlife, it would be populated with puppies, specifically Jack Russell puppies, no disrespect to the other breeds. The puppies would be born in heaven, not taken from earth, because that would be sad. Tabasco was the runt, getting tackled and sideswiped by the pack but persevering. We lifted her out of the melee and she wiggled joyfully in our arms. She was a happy puppy until we drove down the gravel road and past the wooden gate, at which point she let out a long mournful howl, followed by another. Aliens in a Volkswagen spacecraft were abducting her. Where were her brothers and sisters?

I’m no pet psychic but I
am
an only child, and I recognized alienation when I saw it under that bed in Tampa. There was only one thing that could draw her out. Food. Food changed everything for us. Tabasco got a bonus meal in the middle of the night. She looked up at me with love while she chewed. Not love for her master, because I fawned too much to ever gain that distinction. It was love for a long-lost littermate, a partner in play, a source of body heat for cold nights, and a really big dog that had her back and would never go away. It was what we both were missing.

My roll-aboard suitcase became her exclusive dog bed for the week. I pimped it out with a pillow and threw in my dirty socks for that lived-in aroma dogs crave. I moved the easy chair and ottoman to the window, giving her a two-hop viewing stand of the occasional bird flying by. We enjoyed many walks along the nearby creek and an up-close armadillo encounter that stirred her killer instinct and made her tail quiver with excitement. But for Tabasco, nothing compared to kissing Tennille in that special way reserved for the Captain. It was a bold move from a creature of habit turned adventure seeker. Tampa was our territory. Now we roam new lands as a small but fierce pack of two, masters of our destiny. She anticipates each voyage before I start packing. She sits by the suitcases before the airport shuttle arrives. Howling is in the past. All we hear is the call of Tennille.

I will, I will, I will, I will

Be there to share forever

Love will keep us together

[
In antique photos, only the dogs still seem alive.—Dan Liebert
]

Dog Mad

[Lee Harrington]

W
ELL, IT HAS
finally happened, as I feared it would. I have officially become a Crazy Dog Lady. How can I say for sure? Well, just last weekend, at the local dog run, I was chatting with my fellow dog parents about the usual subjects—anal sacs, diarrhea, undescended testicles, and the like. And I thought it perfectly fine—even appropriate—to announce that my dog’s breath had begun to smell like urine. “I follow that Berkeley-water-conservation rule, to, you know, not flush every time, unless it’s necessary, and I forgot to put down the lid. With Ted gone, there’s no one to crab at me about putting it down. So when my dog came up to give me a kiss, there was this awful smell, and I knew what he had done. I knew he had drunk—”

Slowly, my fellow dog parents backed away.

Even the man who was just, not minutes before, describing, in excruciating detail, the contents of his Terrier’s most recent Riverside Park vomit (“Cigarette butts! Part of a Cuban sandwich! Even some partially digested human feces”); even he put his dog’s leash on and hurried off, stiffly, like Charlie Chaplin, as if I were a disease he might catch.

I was left standing alone, in a cloud of dust, wondering how it had happened. And so quickly! I was only in my third decade, and had had my dog only four years. I didn’t even get a chance to tell them that the urine drinking was a onetime incident. That I had learned my lesson and now flushed. But it was too late. I had been pegged.

Meanwhile, far, far away, from across the run, I heard someone bring up the subject of bull pizzles. And I thought: What separates me from them? Where does one draw the line between Normal, Paranormal, and Crazy Dog Person?

I mean, before I got a dog, I had a definitive, admirable style. I knew how to pair vintage sweaters with the latest Tuleh sundress. I wore platforms from the seventies a year before they came back into style. And the extra-long-hem-over-stiletto-shoes-and-jeans trend? That was me who started it. The tank tops under mesh? Me again. A real downtown chick.

But now look at me. Open my closet and you’ll find all the feather boas and leather skirts pushed neglectfully to the far reaches. And front and center are mom jeans. With pleats. To accommodate all the liver treats and poopie bags in my pockets. And then there are T-shirts (which say things like
LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG
or, of course,
DOG IS MY CO-PILOT
) covered with paw prints and drool. I never bother to wash these T-shirts, because why bother? There’s a Sisyphean quality to having a dog that says, for every hair you brush off your black velveteen jacket, twenty more will appear. And speaking of hair, mine, which I never have time to style anymore, is always pulled back in a hurried “the dog has to go to the bathroom” ponytail, and I barely bother to color it any more (or “enhance” it, as we say here in New York), because who sees me but the dog? And a bunch of other Crazy Dog People?

My one comfort is that I suspect I am not alone. Oh, you know who you are. You have two, three dogs, and you volunteer at the animal shelter. You like dogs more than people. And you are no longer loath to admit it. Come on, ’fess up. And don’t be ashamed.

There are loads of us out there. And it seems that no matter how educated you are, no matter where you stand on the corporate ladder, no matter how intelligent or savvy or well-read—if you have a dog, you are at risk of contracting this degenerative disease.

And how do
you
know when you have contracted Crazy Dog Lady Syndrome? Perhaps this little quiz I devised will help. So put down your bull pizzle, pour yourself a gin and tonic, and grab a pen. The pen that says “I
Cockapoos” on it. Or the one with your vet’s address.

The following seven questions will help you determine where you stand.

When asked a simple question, such as “How are you?” do you:

1) Say, “Fine, thank you, and you?”

2) Say, “Fine, thank you,” and then tell the person who inquired how your dog is?

3) Immediately launch into an extended monologue in which you prattle on about the consistency of your dog’s stool?

Does the term “heavy petting” conjure up images of:

1) Being groped in the backseat of an Impala by your first high school boyfriend?

2) Worrisome images of the kind of thing your prepubescent son is viewing online? Right now, as you read this!

3) Your dog?

Where do you store your liver treats?

1) In your pockets.

2) In your mouth.

3) I don’t carry treats! My dog loves me for me, not my freeze-dried animal products.

You’ve set some money aside for your children’s college education. You:

1) Actually send your children to college.

2) Donate most of it to your local animal shelter.

3) Blow it all on cosmetic dentistry for Willy the Weimaraner when he chips his incisor on a bone.

Your children complain that you love your dog more than them. Do you:

1) Say, “That’s not true”?

2) Say, “That’s not true.” And then, “Come here my little Muffy Wuffy and give Mummy a kiss” (and your child is not named “Muffy”)?

3) Say, “And your point is?”

Your husband leans toward the nape of your neck to kiss you. Does he smell:

1) J’adore by Christian Dior?

2) Notes of dog breath and liver (from being licked on the ear)?

3) Urine breath (from you-know-what)?

And finally,

At the movie theaters, when they get to that part where the heroine finally finds her One True Love, do you:

1) Grab your date’s hand and thank your lucky stars?

2) Scoff at the idea of a One True Love?

3) Think weepily of your dog?

Okay, now, put down that I
Cockapoos pen and tally up your scores.

If your score is 8, you’re fine. You’re at Stage I. You can hold your head high as you walk down the neighborhood sidewalks. You will be happily admitted to the Belmont Country Club and to any dog run in the fifty states. And feel free to help yourself to another glass of gin.

If your score ranges from 8 to 16, you are at Stage II and are what they call a High Functioning Dog Person. This is similar to the High Functioning Alcoholic, a problem drinker who still manages to keep himself together in public by performing admirably at his job and maintaining healthy relationships, et cetera.

Before the urine-breath incident, I myself was a High Functioning Dog Lady. I prided myself on the fact that I could attend a Junior Members reception at MoMA (looking fetching in my Pucci-print blouse and custom-painted Pumas), and, at my creative writing workshops, could wax poetic on the merits of the intimate third-person point-of-view. Meanwhile, back at home, I’d be singing little ballads I had composed about my dog to my dog. No one knew of my sordid underworld, and therefore, no one was harmed.

But then came the urine incident. And then it was time to acknowledge that I was weird. Smart, but not normal. I wondered if I had begun to look like my dog. Or if I smelled like one.
Did the people at work notice?
I began to wonder. The way they’d notice gin on a High Functioning Alcoholic’s breath?

And how could I be sure the smell was real, or acute, or if it was just my own paranoia? One can become desensitized to a chronic smell, after all (just ask a Cat Lady). But just to be sure, I called upon Chip, Ted’s bluntly honest friend. We invited him over for Appletinis, and I prepared by putting out the cheese plate and lighting a scented candle from the excellent French company Diptyque. And after we had exchanged our human pleasantries and taken our first sips of drink, I asked Chip, very directly, if our apartment smelled like dog. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even sniff the air. This meant the answer had been on his tongue for a long, long time. “Yes,” he said. “It always has.”

Which brings us to Stage III. If you scored 18 to 21 on the above quiz, you have contracted full-blown Crazy Dog Person Syndrome. But don’t worry. It’s not fatal, after all. And we’re here to help. Let us remember that life is full of milestones: birth, marriage, the day you find your first gray hair (on your pubis, no less). Dog people simply have additional milestones to contend with: puppy’s first play date, puppy’s first solid poop, the first time your adopted dog responds to his name. And perhaps the most significant milestone is the day you realize you have gone over the edge.

Mine, of course, was the urine-breath announcement. My friend Karen knew she was a Crazy Dog Lady when she canceled her long-dreamed of trip to Hawaii to take her Lab to a doggy summer camp instead. Another friend, Lisa, a devoted wife and mother of two, wears an antique locket on a chain around her neck that contains a photo of her new Malamute, not her kids. The list is endless. You see a man at Zoomie’s dog boutique buying an amethyst and garnet collar for his Bichon while his wife complains that they can never afford to go out to eat. You see a man at an outdoor café on Second Avenue who
can
afford to go out to eat and brings, as his date, his giant English Bulldog, whom the waiters allow to sit across from him at the table, in a chair. There is the woman at the office who communicates with her dog through a walkie-talkie; one that she keeps on her desk, the other that is fastened, back at home, around the dog’s neck. At four o’clock every day she buzzes the dog and asks him what he wants for dinner. The dog doesn’t say much, just as that Bulldog at the café doesn’t say much, but their guardians
know
just what they’d like to order that night.

So who’s to say whether these people are Stage II or Stage III? It’s all subjective, I suppose.

But isn’t the first step in changing a problem acknowledging it? There’s a technique in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy in which you wear a special string around your wrist to remind yourself that you are repeating bad habits. I have started to wear the string, to remind myself to wash my clothes once in a while, and not to use my screechy Crazy Dog Lady Voice while out on the streets. At the dog park, I try to limit my conversations to human topics, such as the unbearable heat waves, or the summer-in-the-city smell of festering garbage and molten tar. These subjects always lead to the dogs, of course—they hate the heat, they love the smells. And when it gets to that, I close my mouth and nod my head, wearing the tight, closed expression of a recovering alcoholic at a bar.

If people ask about the string, I’ll simply say I am a member of a cult. What cult that is they need not know. All I can say is there are no Madonnas or Britneys or Ashtons as members. At least not yet. Perhaps they simply have not yet come out of the Dog Closet. It takes a strong person to admit her weaknesses.

My name is Lee. I am a Recovering Crazy Dog Lady. And I am not ashamed.