I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship (10 page)

I like the
idea
of dogs very much. I like the idea of a constant companion, an intelligent, playful friend, the unconditional love you get from a dog, and I am not unfamiliar with dogs.

I grew up with Stanley, a standard long-haired dachshund. He was gorgeous to look at, rather grumpy, completely obsessed with my mother, and entirely uninterested in the rest of us. I wasn't hugely interested in him, either, but he proved invaluable as an excuse to go and chat up boys in the local pizza joint. I do remember showing up at said pizza joint one day, and Number One Crush asking what I was doing there.

“Just walking the dog.” I feigned nonchalance.

“Where is he?” Number One Crush, not unreasonably, asked, poking his head out the door and looking up and down the street, expecting to see a dog tied to a lamppost.

I had forgotten him. Stanley was at home.

I like dogs like Stanley. Fluffyish is good, scruffy even better. I have a particular penchant for sighthounds; Scottish deerhounds and the rather more elegant Russian wolfhound, the borzoi, are my favorites. I like dogs with hair.

That day, after walking past Landlord's car, then leaping up in terror as the thrashing canine mass tried desperately to break the windows and get out to wrap his huge jaws around my delicate neck, I went running inside, heart pounding as I leaned breathlessly against the door.

“What the
hell
is that?” I heaved.

“That? Oh, that's Baron. He's a mush.” Landlord grinned, inviting me out to meet the other great love of his life.

Baron is a Doberman pinscher. He is not just any old Doberman pinscher; he happens to be a genetically modified freak of a Doberman pinscher, who is thirty percent oversized. This means he is actually far more similar to the size of a Great Dane. He is very handsome, with a regal ridge on his head, and, unless you are walking past Landlord's car, which Baron happens to be guarding, he is enormously loving.

A Doberman pinscher, however, was not in my future.
He is not my dog,
I said to Landlord in no uncertain terms, as he navigated the complications of splitting his time between his New York City apartment and our house in Connecticut, making the dreadful commute by car, with Baron tucked up in the back. I liked Baron very much, but I did not want him full-time.

A thirty percent oversized Doberman pinscher, who has spent his entire life ruling the roost, is not an easy dog to inherit. He is so large he can climb up and reach anything. Loaves of bread wedged onto high shelves are nothing for Baron. Fruit pies cooling on wire racks at the very back of the stove disappear in seconds.

Before I came along, Baron spent his nights sleeping alongside Landlord, his huge weight—120 pounds—pressed against his master's side, their breathing in sync as he laid heavy paws on Landlord's sleeping body, emitting evil smells as gas became an increasing problem.

Before I came along, Baron had a dog runner who collected him every day and ran him in Central Park. I will admit, walking him in the city was fun, particularly at night, when our neighborhood on the Upper West Side loses something of its charm and the seamier side of life comes out to play. Crowds of sketchy-looking men in hoodies part like the Red Sea when Baron and I come to pass, and I clutch him tight, as if he would, at any moment, lunge for their hearts.

They do not need to know that if he were to lunge, it would likely be to lean on their legs, pressing his giant head against their stomachs for a long pat.

I did not want Baron full-time. But Landlord became Husband, and slowly, despite my best efforts, I got Baron. First, for a few nights at a time, then it seemed silly for him to go back and forth to his city apartment, particularly when we have a huge yard, and live by the beach, and have children at home, who love nothing more than playing with him.

As in all good stepfamilies, we have a complicated relationship. I am lucky in that he doesn't resent me for taking his father away from him, nor does he scream that he hates me and I have ruined his life. In fact, he adores me for being the one who usually feeds him, the one who opens the door for him, the one who allows herself to be dragged along the beach for his “walks.”

They say the key to happiness is not getting what you want, but wanting what you have got. I would never have chosen Baron. He is too large, too unwieldy, too exuberant. And yet, over time we have bonded, and he is now part of this huge, chaotic, exuberant family. I may not want to admit it, but he fits, and I have grown to love him, and to love the joy he brings us.

At the end of every day, when the school bus pulls up at the end of the road, Baron sits up, ears alert, stub of a tail wagging, racing to the edge of the property and panting with excitement as the children climb off the bus. They drop their backpacks and race over to him, slipping small arms around his large girth and hugging him as he leans into them.

They grab balls and fling them across the yard for him. He bounds in circles like a puppy, collapsing at our feet with a smile—and yes, this Dobie actually smiles—laying his head on our shoes.

He is now almost nine, the last of his littermates to survive. He is becoming creaky, slower, less tolerant of men in trucks who do not have a healthy supply of dog biscuits under the dashboard. I, too, am finding myself becoming creaky, slower, and less tolerant of . . . everything.

Baron and I have found something in each other that neither of us expected. He went from living in a small apartment, being on his own for most of the day, to having a huge yard, people at home all day, hordes of children to play with. He knows what it is to chase squirrels, to be thrown dog biscuits by all the UPS and FedEx men, to have neighborhood dogs unexpectedly show up in the yard for impromptu playdates. He has discovered another, happier way of life.

I went from the loneliest of marriages to the unexpected joys of a second chance at love and life: a wonderful husband and partner, a huge blended family, a beach house filled with family, friends, and food. I know what it is to feel loved, and supported, and safe, to live in a community of wonderful people who drop in for cups of tea or glasses of wine. I, too, have discovered another, happier way of life.

And so, those moments when Baron tears through the house barking at the cats, who hide, scowling and hissing, under the sofa, or I walk into the kitchen to find he has managed to knock over the bread bin and has eaten a dozen everything bagels, fresh from the bakery (and really, who can blame him?), my irritation is minor.

We may not have chosen each other, Baron and I, and I may not always have the time I would like to devote to him, but it is enough that we have become part of the fabric of each other's lives, part of the happiness that both of us, later in life, have been lucky enough to find.

Scratching at My Door, Tail Between His Legs

Caprice Crane

“He has my eyes.”

“I can't argue this with you,” I'd say.

“You can't keep him from me,” he'd reply. “He's my son. It's not
fair
.”

“I'm sorry you feel sad and alone, but you dug your own grave.”

“You're hot when you get angry.”

“You still don't get to have him.”

“Can I get visitation rights?”

“Maybe,” I'd finally give in—a bit. “When it's convenient for me.”

“So it's just like my visitation rights with your naked body when we were together.”

“Exactly like that, but more enjoyable for me.”

He'd add a final dig: “Well, there's another difference . . . Max is actually
fun
to be around.”

That's how the conversations would go.

And that's how they'd usually end.

Ugly.

But, truth be told, by the end, our love for Max was the only thing we had in common. And I couldn't blame Colin that much for seeking visitation rights. He'd fallen just as hard as I had. The problem is, during the time we were together, he'd also fallen for many other women. It took me a while to figure out the guy would fall more often than a one-legged man learning to ice skate. At least in Max's case, Colin didn't fall in love behind my back. Or delete his texts to Max so that I wouldn't find them. Or arrange to meet Max when I was out of town, or at work, or filling out my taxes, or painting the apartment, or asleep, or breathing.

Yes, Colin was a bit of a dog himself.

But I knew Colin's love for Max was genuine. How could it not be? Max has that effect on people.

Not that Max is what you would call a “good dog.” He's a Shih Tzu, which is Tibetan for
pain in the ass.
For as long as Max has been alive, he's been testing the boundaries of what is edible and what will result in a two-thousand-dollar vet bill coupled with an endless stream of my tears. If you look away for the briefest of moments, he will steal whatever is on your plate. And, sometimes, the plate. Once, I swear, he stole an entire bottle of ketchup from the table. I found it seven months later, empty, in the closed tank of the toilet. I didn't ask.

Max's unparalleled love for and commitment to playing fetch would make you think he was a retriever trapped in the wrong body. (Think Chaz Bono, age sixteen.) And Max's uncanny ability to MacGyver his way into my purse, the trash can, or an unreachable shelf makes me think that somewhere under his soft fur, there's a secret pair of opposable thumbs. Or maybe four pairs. I'm telling you, some of his antics are downright unbelievable.

Then again, those weren't the only unbelievable antics going on in my apartment. (I mean, Facebook was not invented for that purpose. Shame on you, Colin.)

If I added up the years' worth of vet bills and the price of replacement items I've been forced to purchase, Max has probably cost me a lovely vacation home on the Iberian Peninsula. But I can't get angry with Max. Oh, I've tried. But the truth is—unless you catch them right in the act of misbehaving—dogs don't know what you're mad about.

And when Max tilts his head and gives me that familiar “I don't understand you” look, kind of like how Sarah Palin looks when a reporter asks her a question, I just melt. (It's a cute look when it's a dog, and if you're a middle-aged, potbellied Republican from Kansas, you probably think it's a cute look for Sarah Palin, too.)

Anyway, how can I punish him? In his mind, wasn't the box of uncooked oatmeal that he tore open, spread around my entire apartment, and ravenously devoured to the extent possible before I returned simply a delicious (if a bit chalky) feast? It's not like he hasn't seen me tear into a pint of Ben & Jerry's.

Half the time I can't help but laugh when I walk into a room and find Max headfirst, hind legs off the ground, half buried (and now stuck) in a bag, backpack, or briefcase in which he was attempting to find a hidden snack. I can't count the times I've been packing a suitcase for a trip, left the room, and returned to find Max hiding in my luggage, avoiding eye contact and lying perfectly still so I won't notice he's trying to stow away. (Note to Max: The TSA won't allow a four-ounce bottle of moisturizer in my carry-on, so there's no way your Tasmanian devil ass is getting through JFK.)

So when I say he's not a “good” dog, I guess I mean he's one of the best dogs you'll ever have the pleasure to meet. That's even with all of his peculiarities, and probably because of them. Just as people fall for each other not because of the perfections but the imperfections, such is the case with this lovable scamp. Add his charm, his loyalty, his perfect heart, and his magnificent face (including the most stunning underbite you'll see this side of
Sling Blade
) and you have a perfect storm of awesome.

Admittedly, I've always been a dog person. I'm the type who harasses strangers with dogs on the street because I need to say hello to their dog.

Every
.
Single
.
Time
.

You know, like a child or someone with OCD, who may or may not be able to refrain from warning a stranger that she wants to “eat that dog's face.”

(Dog people understand this. At least the ones who don't walk away quickly, mumbling something into their phones about “911” and “devil eyes” and “please hurry.”)

That's not to say I dislike animals of other varieties—quite the opposite is true. When I was in high school, I had what could nearly qualify as my own personal zoo. I had two dogs, one snobby cat (she'd always look at me like I was boring her—I probably should have named her Colin), two mice named Sid and Nancy (Sid ultimately killed Nancy—I know, I should have seen that coming), a canary, a chameleon, and a fire-bellied toad named Hank.

While I adored each and every one of those other beings, none of them provided the joy and unconditional love that my dogs did. And none ever tried to stow away in my luggage or school backpack. (Well, maybe the chameleon did. It was hard to tell.) So as I grew up—look, just play along on the growing-up part—I ultimately gravitated toward dogs for my animal companions of choice.