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Dogma

[Neva Chonin]

“He has a look that pierces the soul.”

—K
AREN
B
RUNEAU OF HER
G
REAT
P
YRENEES,
F
AME, AT
W
ESTMINSTER.

I
HAD SWORN
to avoid the 129th Annual Westminster

Kennel Club Dog Show.

Please understand. For the likes of me—a woman who stalks dogs to the point of illegality—watching two nights of television filled with 2,581 wagging tails is the equivalent of a junkie playing guest of honor at an opium harvest. This is crazymaking stuff, people. A one-way road to lunacy and lithium.

So I tried to watch the Grammy Awards, instead. By the time Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony hit the stage, however, I began tasting vomit in the back of my mouth. Am I imagining it, or is la Lopez literally sucking the life out of the former salsa king? With every appearance, she grows more robust; he withers. Ach. If this is the pinnacle of human achievement, I’ll go with the dogs.

And that’s just what I did: Both nights of the Westminster wagathon found me planted in front of my television, soothed by the company of my pale friend M. Pinot Gris. (OK, took an hour off to watch Detective Stabler remove his shirt on
Law & Order: SVU;
I’m still human, after all.) In truth, I had more company than I realized. Dog shows have grown trendy since Christopher Guest chronicled their special brand of psychosis in the 2000 film
Best in Show,
and Westminster sold out for the first time this year, packing in more than 18,000 spectators to watch thousands of placid dogs and their wild-eyed owners compete for puppydom’s Holy Grail.

No beauty contest, this, but a sanctified ritual, each dog a pilgrim seeking perfection of spirit and form. I, for one, was on a spiritual high. By the time a waddling Pekingese named Jeffrey won in the toy group, I was besotted (hey there, M. Pinot Gris!), drooling, and speaking in tongues—a kind of cooing gibberish that roughly translated into, “Who’s a fat little dog? Who? Who’s my wheezy little sweetheart? Whose toes need to be kissed? Who’s your mommy? Who?”

Ah! Rapture. How I raved at the sight of the Neapolitan Mastiff named Sirius Black. The nobility. The expression of prescient sorrow. The bags and wrinkles. (“Whose face needs to be stretched? Whose?”) How I genuflected before the vision of a French Bulldog trotting across the ring, bat ears at alert, and a Brussels Griffon doing that inevitable Ewok imitation. In the end, a German Shorthaired Pointer named Carlee won best in show. I dutifully worshiped this triumph, but must admit I was rooting for Coco, a Norfolk Terrier who took time off last year to raise three puppies named Tom, Dick, and Harry. I like the little dogs. They’re fierce.

Dog shows are a blessing and an addiction, no doubt. But in truth, every dog is a good dog simply by virtue of his dogginess. Anyone who’s ever noted the uncanny resemblance between the eyes of Jesus and those of a Golden Retriever knows there’s an air of the holy, of the uncanny and blessed, that hovers over the canine world. Go. Look into your dog’s eyes, and it’s there. It says, “I forgive you. I forgive you everything you’ve ever done and will ever do. I forgive you my empty water bowl and the night you went home with that accountant instead of coming back here and walking me. I forgive you for failing the bar exam the first time around. I forgive you your crooked teeth. I am your dog, and my love is unconditional, man.”

It’s no coincidence that “God” spelled backward is “dog.” And now a final confession: Westminster was grand, and I love me a good Shar-Pei. But I believe the holiest of dogs is, beyond a doubt, the mutt. Preferably a mutt with lopsided ears, a missing eye, and one gimpy leg. Sui generis muttology rules! When will we have a dog show celebrating the wonders of the wholly unique? (Cut to: Neva weeping while a Dachshund/Terrier mix grants absolution.)

As you’ve doubtlessly guessed from the depth of my obsession, I am currently dogless. I do have resources to feed my habit, however. I will now share my favorite with you, because canine evangelism is a good thing. Go to virtualpetadoption.com and admire the gallery of four-footed wonders. Marvel at Tutti Frutti, the grinning quasi–Pit Bull. Do a Snoopy dance over Carson, the Basset Hound/Retriever mix. Coo at Maddie, equal parts Chihuahua, Dachshund, and Terrier. Scrutinize Ponzo, who is listed as a black Lab but looks more like an amalgam of seal and Martian. Revel in the pleasures of all things dog and, if the mood takes you and circumstances permit, adopt one or more of these glorious specimens. Remember: all dogs go to heaven, and if you work it right, they might take you with them.

Now, if you’re prepared, the ultimate in muttology and species fusion: www.humandescent.com. I lack the adjectives to describe this site, operated out of Sussex, England, by a guy named Martin. Let’s just say Martin likes beer, salted nuts, potato chips, and creating animal images that are…well, they’re…hmmm. Let’s just say opposable thumbs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, and leave it at that.

Let the Heeling Begin

[Bill Scheft]

E
NOUGH.

I was about to enter my third decade of psychotherapy when my nutritionist gave me a cheap calculator for Hanukkah. I began crunching the numbers. Conservatively: 45 sessions a year at an average of $80 per session over 20 years. Adjusting for inflation and global warming, I came up with a figure that contained more zeroes than the house on
Big Brother.

Freud once said, “The best therapist is the one inside ourselves.” Spoken like a guy with a lousy HMO. But the man was not wrong. That’s why I decided to rid myself of all the couch jockeys and start seeing someone who would only listen, not judge, and always be happy to see me. My neighbor’s dog, Trotsky.

So, for the last six months, once a week, faithful as the Latin I definition of “Fido,” I let myself in to Norman Spiegel’s junior-4, sit opposite Trotsky, and speak my conscious mind for fifty minutes. Trotsky’s technique, while unorthodox, has yielded unquestionable results. I feel the need to share excerpts from my postsession journals in the hope that others will benefit, and, as I have, be able to reintegrate themselves into society. A humane society.

18 January 07

My first session went incredibly fast—at least for me. I spoke mostly of my privileged upbringing and I was afraid Trotsky, part Border Collie, part Harrier, would not be able to relate, being the product of a decidedly working-class background. But I mistook his docility for confusion. Hardly! He was especially attentive when I spoke of my half-year at Park Country Day, a school for bronchially challenged boys. In fact, every time I mentioned “Park,” or used the phrase “coughing boys,” Trotsky excitedly jumped to his feet. I was only at Park for four months, but it is suddenly clear to me that this is an emotional field that has lain fallow too long.

1 February 07

I think I was given my first test today, and I’m afraid I failed. For over half the session, Trotsky stared at me, while a clump of something that looked like potting soil and Russian dressing hung from his usually kempt white goatee. I said nothing, so desperate for his approval that I would risk the uncomfortable silence. Finally, Trotsky got up and walked out of the room. Just walked out. I looked at my watch. Only thirty-six minutes. I sat for the remaining fourteen minutes, then left. I said nothing. I did not call out. I did not yell. I did not complain. I did not stand up for myself. Again.

8 February 07

Session cut short when Trotsky got sick on the kitchen floor. Took exactly fifty minutes to clean up, so I guess that counts as free association. Only theme we picked up on from last week was when I wiped up under the oven and found an empty bottle of Russian dressing.

8 March 07

Steady progress, which I attribute to one of two things: My growing sense of trust in Trotsky, and the realization that my abandonment issues have more to do with
me
leaving
people
than with
people
leaving
me.
It’s either that, or the dried pig’s ear I bring every week and lay at my feet, which takes Trotsky over an hour to chew through.

Of course!
I need to chew on the tough issues!
Even after my fifty minutes are up! Such understated blatancy.

(Note: Bring dipping sauce for pig’s ear next week. Russian dressing?)

17 April 07

Okay, I’ll say it. Trotsky is wise beyond his eighty-four years. In the past, I thought his constant fang-splayed yawns were rude rather than constructive, and his herding me into the less comfortable straight-backed chair was gratuitously obstinate rather than what it was, a practical demonstration of boundary setting. (One Collie’s border is another man’s boundary.) But today, he outdid himself. When I started in on how I found it irksome that my super is letting himself into my apartment every afternoon to take naps, Trotsky kicked a tennis ball at me. When I tried to pick it up, he grabbed it in his mouth. We struggled off and on for the next twenty minutes, until I began mimicking the sound he kept making.
Grrrrr. Grrrr. Grrrrr.
Suddenly, the ball was gone, but I was still making the sound. And I have not stopped, even as I write this.

I am NOT irked. I am NOT miffed. I am NOT not thrilled. I AM angry. I need to experience my anger. And I need to buy a tennis ball.

1 May 07

Well, it finally happened. Trotsky fell asleep in the middle of the session. Did I say middle? Ten minutes in, Trotsky’s breathing got noticeably heavier, and his extra-dry cappuccino ears flopped over his eyes like a night mask. He was out. Twice, I woke him with a sharp yelp of “Kitty!” (My new attempts to experience anger can lapse into cruelty.) Both times Trotsky’s eyes only stayed open for the amount of time it took to adjust his squirrel-chasing-toned torso. I then tried rousing him by doing an impression of an electric can opener, which was not only unconvincing, but aggravated a canker. The whole process exhausted me, which I know now was the point. Trotsky was encouraging me to probe my subconscious in his presence. I dropped off deeply for a solid half hour, and when he subtly buried his snout into my groin to nudge me awake, we still had a bit of time left for me to tell him the dream I had while under. I’m sure we’ll delve further next week, so I’ll just give broad strokes now: It’s me, in a lingerie store, trying to buy a bowl of soup, when Trotsky walks in on his hind legs, tail cinched at his waist, blond highlights in his ears, leading former Attorney General John Ashcroft around on a leash.

22 May 07

Trotsky met me at the door, as always, but immediately ran into the hall and ducked into the elevator just before it closed. I ran down the stairs and beat him into the lobby, where he raced past me out onto Fifty-sixth Street, squatted, and left a rather large package in front of where Benihana used to be. I gave the super $10 and said if he cleaned it up I wouldn’t have his ass fired for taking naps in my bed.

When I walked back into the lobby, Trotsky was holding the elevator for me. He jumped up and hit the button for our floor. As I got off and waited for him, Trotsky looked up from orally scrubbing the loading dock of his digestive system and sighed. I let the elevator doors close. I knew.

My neighbor Norman Spiegel goes away every Memorial Day weekend to Brighton Beach. He takes Trotsky with him.

I don’t know when they’ll be back.

I don’t know when I’ll be back. We never made another appointment.

Hey, maybe I’m cured. If that’s the case, from now on, when I see him, it’ll be clear that our relationship is purely social. I’ll say, “Hey, it’s Trotsky!” and he’ll go back to licking me unconditionally.

Come to think of it, he never did respond when I called him “doctor.”

Recently Retired Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan Warns His New Puppy Against “Irrational Exuberance”

[Michael Ward]

MEMORANDUM

TO: Roark

FROM: Your buddy Al

DATE: October 21, 2006

RE: The Challenge of Stabilizing Your Exuberance Level Throughout Your Continuing Development

In the two months since I obtained you from the shelter, I have had ample opportunity to collect data on your behavior, and I have to report that I am, for the most part, quite pleased so far.

Although you initially had numerous problems with excessive liquidity, you have done an impressive job of developing internal controls, as well as external communications to provide others enough warning to take preventive action.

Your early problems of insufficient consumption also proved to be transitory. In fact, your consumption has grown so fast that we may need to switch to a stance of tightening our policy so you can avoid excess weight that might put unnecessary drag upon you. Another area where you have made admirable progress is your risk profile. Initially, I was worried that you had a distinct tendency to underweight situational risk. Whether it was wandering casually toward the freeway or nipping at the tail of a 120-pound Pit Bull, you displayed a distinct inability to assess potential threats. Fortunately, you seem to have made measurable progress in this area, even if it did take the claws of a large tabby to focus your attention on this matter.

All in all, I must applaud the upward trend of most relevant indicators for your development from puppyhood to maturity.

There is, however, one aspect of your behavior that does portend some trouble, and that is your continuing irrational exuberance. While it is understandable that immediately after your arrival you would find everything to cause the most extreme excitement, it seems like a threshold may have been crossed where your excitement must stabilize.

So that you do not think I am issuing this warning without cause, let me enumerate a few examples. When you enter a room, your current practice involves sprinting full speed to each person in the room in turn, jumping onto him or her, and then proceeding to the next one. Although this was laudable behavior in your earlier days, it is time to consider a more restrained entrance and greeting policy.

Another case where your exuberance occasionally crosses into irrationality involves flying objects. While there are many cases where flying objects in your vicinity are intended for your pursuit, this is not always the case. A less exuberant stance toward flying objects would allow you to discern more accurately which objects were not intended for your pursuit.

The final example involves ingestion. The enthusiasm you display upon finding any biodegradable substance within reach of your mouth creates a potential health hazard. Your current protocol of treating any substance that can be devoured as one that must be devoured exuberantly is unsustainable and should be revisited without delay.

Although I offer these examples and this gentle warning, it is not my intention to move you “dogmatically” to an entirely nonexuberant posture. Quite the contrary. Exuberance in a dog is frequently the appropriate demeanor. My warning applies only to situations where such exuberance is irrational.

I suppose that you could argue that my logic is untenable due to the incessant problem in economics of defining “rationality” and “irrationality.” You could claim that a strong definition of rationality requires that I make improper assumptions about preferences, and that a weak definition forces me into the tautology of declaring that all choices must be rational because they were chosen. You could make these arguments, but I do not believe you will, because you are a puppy.

Since corrective action is always less difficult and less complicated when taken early, I am offering you this mild warning to assist you in planning appropriate steps. Now let’s play fetch.