I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship (12 page)

Happily, Bozzie's bouts of terror only occur outdoors now. When Michael first brought him home to our tiny apartment—the size of a one-bedroom doghouse—whenever I used to walk through the door, Boz would retreat to the bed in fear. Now when someone rings our buzzer, Boz runs to the door, whimpers, and then barks to be let out in the hall so he can run down the steps and greet our visitor.

His transformation from scaredy-cat to tail wagger is primarily due to Michael's relentless nutjob-bananas love for Bozzie. Michael is not a morning person, and it's my job to take Bozzie out first thing every day. I honestly don't think of taking Bozzie out before coffee as a chore. It's a preventive measure to keep Michael from becoming a grouch. But, even when Michael wakes up grumpy, he always greets Bozzie with an ecstatic, “Hello, Delicious!” Michael's joy is contagious, and every time I hear him say it, I always feel the same elation Boz feels when I toss him a biscuit. Michael can be unreasonably hard on himself in a way he never is with Bozzie or me. I wish he could treat himself like he treats Bozzie. I'd like him to look in the mirror every morning and say, “Hello, Delicious!”

At the bottom of the stairs Boz stops to look out the inner glass door. I open it, but he's too scared to move. I lean down and pet him and he gingerly steps into the entryway. I open the outer glass door, and Boz leans his head out over the threshold to look around. If someone walks by on the sidewalk, he'll duck back in. If a truck rumbles, he'll try to hide behind my legs. I usually gently scoot him with my leg onto the stoop and step around him. Once I'm outside, he musters up the courage to step down to the sidewalk. Only recently did I grasp that helping Bozzie face his day gives me the courage to face mine. I'm terrified I'll lose my ability to walk, talk, and breathe. But every morning walking Bozzie down our two flights of stairs proves that I'm okay for the day. Every time Boz lifts his leg on his favorite tinkle tree, we both feel relieved.

Bozzie treats me like an elementary school student treats a substitute teacher. He can be bad and act out because he knows I lack Michael's authority. On the days when Michael's out and I stay home and write in our apartment, Bozzie feels free to poop in the kitchen in the morning. As I pick up the poop and spray the floor, I yell at him, “Bozzie Bad Boy!” and I mean it. Boz will bow his head and retreat to the bedroom, looking dejected—his jowls drooping like sad sacks filled with tears—and sit and wait until I cave in and come and rub his belly.

Later in the afternoon, he barks in the living room for a dog biscuit. He never barks for biscuits with Michael. I know I sound like every crazy dog owner handing out a Mensa membership to his Fido, but I truly believe Bozzie understands that I turn into a biscuit soft touch if he makes me laugh. He definitely puts on a performance. I'll be typing on my laptop on the couch, and Boz will come stand near me and go into the downward-facing dog yoga position, emitting a low grumble. I try to pretend not to notice how adorable he is, but then he'll whimper, and my heart overrides my head, and I instinctively turn to address his distress. Once eye contact is established, he'll stare for a moment and then bark. Barking is actually a new skill for Bozzie, as he had only barked about once a year for the first two years we had him. I'll say, “No,” but once I laugh—and he always makes me laugh—I get up and Bozzie races me to the kitchen.

Michael and I are usually attempting to do fifteen things at once, so on our walks we follow Bozzie's lead and try to find seven years of pleasure in each New York minute. Michael's a screenwriter and a playwright who's currently working on a musical scheduled to open Off Broadway. He's written and sold two screenplays in the past year, and he also teaches screenwriting at NYU. I'm always working on a new novel, running out to help stand-up pals write jokes for their acts, or helping other friends punch up the acts of big Las Vegas stars. I also teach a comic-essay writing class at NYU. And Michael and I have a play ethic that's as overdeveloped as our work ethic. We try to see well-reviewed films, plays, and art exhibitions, read important books, and spend time talking about all of them with our friends.

Bozzie likes our friends almost as much as we do. He adores our neighbors Michael and Susan. Susan is Bozzie's best friend, and anytime I open our door he runs to her door and cocks his head and stands motionless, listening. If Boz hears her speaking, he whimpers, barks, and literally tries to dig his way through the door. Next up is our friend Eddie, who once cared for Boz when we were in London. When he sees Eddie on the stairs, Boz goes berserk, and I suspect that Eddie must be an even bigger biscuit pushover than I am. Then there's Jaffe, Michael's screenwriting partner. Jaffe is one of those small-dog-carrying gay men. Jaffe's also cared for Boz, and since Jaffe is so besotted by his dog, we've always felt confident he'll also spoil our dog. It's easy to mock a gay man who carries his dog like a purse, but people misunderstand the relationship. Buster isn't Jaffe's accessory; it's the other way around, and Jaffe knows and relishes it.

Turning right on Seventh Avenue, we cut down Leroy Street, a lovely strip of Greenwich Village shaded by large ginkgo trees. There's a pool, library, and park on one side and a row of brownstones on the other. A commemorative plaque on the library says the poet Marianne Moore wrote there. I'm guessing only a handful of people have read the plaque since its installation. The minuscule, hard-to-read inscription and bronze patina make it indistinguishable from the brickwork. Michael pointed out, as a memorial, it seems designed to keep Marianne Moore obscure.

We're especially observant on Leroy. Michael heard Arthur Laurents supposedly lives on the block. So far we've not seen the famously opinionated writer and theater director, but I like to think someday our wish will be fulfilled, and he'll condemn or congratulate us for letting Bozzie pee in front of his house. Either would thrill Michael and me, but Bozzie would likely give him a cursory sniff, as he's only impressed by celebrities bearing biscuits.

We always pick up coffee at a restaurant on the corner of Hudson and grab an empty coffee cup for Bozzie's water. As we approach the West Side Highway, Bozzie walks faster. He loves the river.

Across the highway, we sit on the park benches facing the water, sipping our coffees as I comment on the passing joggers.

“He's hot! I love the way his bicep looks like it's testing the tensile strength of his Celtic tattoo.”

“Wow! He's got guts—literally and figuratively—to be jogging shirtless.”

“Hmmm. Why would someone jog pushing a stroller? Isn't that teaching your kid to be a layabout?”

My judgments, though borderline catty, are only designed to make Michael laugh, and my tone is never harsh, as it's impossible to forget, while they exercise, I'm the bench potato.

We don't sit for long, quickly losing interest in watching New Yorkers using their leisure time to run. It's like fish making an effort to swim three times a week. We walk out onto the pier—a plank of park jutting into the river. It has trees and a lawn, benches and tables, and architecturally designed canopies offering shade. On summer days, the pier feels like New York's gay backyard, filled with shirtless hotties tanning on the grass. For me, it always evokes the Janus-like sensation of being a middle-aged gay man. One face looks back and remembers my strong jaw and tight body, while the other face looks forward to a double chin and the love handles that dare not speak their name. Despite my generosity with the biscuits, in the four years Bozzie's lived with us, he's lost weight and looks fit, and I like to think he holds his head high as he parades past the buff-eteria.

We take a different route back to our apartment, but to make the trip easier on Bozzie, it's always the same different route. We cut down Barrow Street and cross Hudson and enter my favorite block in the Village. Commerce Street curves into Barrow, and at the junction of the two are a pair of matching town houses with mansard roofs separated by a yard. They're my favorite houses in Manhattan, and I want to live in one of them.

I once said to Michael, “If I had a billion dollars, I'd buy both these houses. We'd live in one and the other would be for visiting friends.”

Michael looked at me as if I were an idiot. “No,” he said. “You'd live in one. I'd live in the other.”

This was a comment on my housekeeping.

Michael's nickname for me is Slobola, which to my ear sounds like the surname of an obscure depressing Romanian writer that Susan Sontag once championed and whom I dutifully read and hated in college. Though Michael is an unabashed animal lover, he hates dust bunnies. He vacuums them up with the ruthlessness of a fur-greedy brute clubbing seal pups, and he's unamused when I suggest he should regard them affectionately as Bozzie's hair puppies. Michael's right, of course. I am the messy one. He's pointed out that I'd never leave a scrap of litter in the millions of acres of wilderness of my beloved Alaska, but I'll happily live amid a temperate rain forest of papers in our apartment. Michael is a pessimist and sees our apartment as half dirty, while I always see it as half clean. Every time I leave a pair of black socks on the floor and Michael picks them up, I feel as guilty as Bozzie after he's pooped in the kitchen. If only Michael would yell, “Bad Bob! Bad!” and then a half hour later come in and pet me.

On our return, when we turn down Bleecker, Bozzie picks up the pace. He knows we're close to home. In fact, he will pull against Michael if he tries to take a different route. Our walks always make me feel how blessed I am to have both Michael and Bozzie in my life. (If an agnostic can, indeed, feel blessed. When someone sneezes I say, “Bless you!” and repress the urge to add, “although I have strong doubts someone or something blesses any of us.”) Michael has been unshakably supportive, humorous, and patient about my illness, without ever letting me forget: coffee grounds left in the sink, not so supportive.

A dog's year is a long time for someone with Lou Gehrig's disease, and there have been moments of anguish since my diagnosis. My doctor wanted to put me on an antidepressant immediately, but I haven't felt depressed. I actually spend most days feeling happy. My contentment has astounded my friends, all of whom are on antidepressants. It's got to be rough for them. Who wouldn't be bummed out if a guy whose prognosis is three to five years is almost always in a better mood than you?

Bozzie and Michael have made me realize I've always led a dog's life. I'm messy and, according to Michael, leave my hair everywhere in the bathroom. I like a routine. I'm content to eat the same meals day in and day out for years at a time. (Right now, my lunch for the past eight months has been an Otto Goodness turkey sandwich and smoky tomato soup from Murray's cheese shop on Bleecker. The staff—Nina, Sydney, and Catherine—always say, “Hi, Bob. The usual?” which always makes my tail wag.) I'm intensely loyal to my friends and family. (I growl fiercely when my loved ones are threatened. When a friend received one lone bad review of his otherwise highly praised book on Goodreads, I became enraged and posted a scathing review of his critic's poor grammar.) I'm with dogs in ignoring all threats of damnation and never feeling guilty about having fun. If Bozzie wants to same-sex sniff another dog, he doesn't worry about some bigoted desert hick named Leviticus. (Many religions believe dogs don't have souls and won't make it to heaven. That reason alone would make me give those faiths the heave-ho.)

Like a dog, I don't have any doubts about what I'm doing with my life. Ever since I was sixteen, if I write every morning and think of something clever or funny, it makes me happy. I'm content if Michael lets me hump his leg once a week, and if you bring me a lime cornmeal cookie from Amy's Bread
,
I'll be your friend for life.

There has been one significant change in my personality since I began measuring my life in dog years. I no longer have any time or patience for mean-spirited idiots. If you profess support for Republicans, have doubts about global warming, show eagerness to drill in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, defend torture and marriage inequality, or oppose universal health care in my presence, you'll quickly discover that, unlike Bozzie, I bite.

It's not like dogs don't have fears. A dropped fork rattles Bozzie, and I'm afraid of dying horribly. But Bozzie doesn't let his fears rule him, and neither do I. Bozzie is proof that nightmares aren't always a life sentence. I remember when AIDS meant death and communism would last forever but, like a dog, I don't know what's going to happen. I've always possessed Bozzie's hard-earned optimism. It's nose-to-the-ground practical and not at all sentimental.

You won't get a treat every time you want one, but what's wrong with going through life believing you might get a biscuit?

A Courtly Soul

Rita Mae Brown

A gentleman makes a woman feel like a lady.

Even though most of us aren't bombshells, the little attentions bestowed upon us make us feel that we are.

A gesture as simple as standing when a lady enters the room flatters us. Being a Virginian, I am especially susceptible to such behavior. In fact, I crave it.

Idler always stood when I walked into the kennels. He'd walk on my outside if we stepped out. He'd wait for me to motion for him to jump into the truck first. Later, in retirement, when he moved up to the house, he never failed to rise when I blasted through the door.

Impeccable manners.

A big, tricolor American foxhound, he was a gentle soul, so industrious his name didn't fit him. Not pushy, he watched over me. If he thought another hound acted rudely, he'd bare his teeth. What woman can resist such protectiveness?