Stepdog (5 page)

The Big Galoot

I
arrived at Jim's town house in Los Angeles all frazzled. It was a hot summer evening, and I had just spent four hours crawling north from San Diego on the freeway. On that hellish Friday I had been attending, again, the National Association of Hispanic Journalists conference. The traffic was not the only thing making me sweat. I was about to meet Jim's gang for the first time.

Jim invited two good friends his kids liked, Angel and Michael, as buffers so the focus wouldn't all be on this new “friend.” I had invited my own little security blanket too. Rose drove in half an hour from Long Beach. At his front door, I took an anxious breath, and pushed the doorbell. And there he was, my smiling boyfriend along with Greeter #2—the Barker. Jim had mentioned Eddie in passing so he wasn't a complete surprise. The dog seemed excited to see me, barking in a nonthreatening tone as Jim and I kissed chastely. At the touch of lips, Eddie jumped on his master, his big paws reaching to Jim's waist, seeking his attention.

“This is Mia. She's nice,” Jim said, using the tone most of us reserve for toddlers.

Woof-woof-woof.

“You big galoot,” Jim cooed as he held his pooch to keep him from leaping on my silk blouse.

“Hello, doggie,” I said, careful not to touch him just in case he was overdue for a bath.

Eddie was covered in dark spots interrupted by a wide brown saddle wrapped around his muscular back and rump. He had a cute boxy face, but the spots were by far his most distinctive feature—not uniformly smallish spots like a Dalmatian's, but smallish, medium, and big patches, like a fabric print with defects. Any of his victims (more on this later) could easily pick him out in a lineup. He calmed down after a few seconds, took a few quick sniffs around me, and looked up at Jim for his next cue. A scratch-fest involving impressive contortion followed.

“What's a galoot?” I asked as the dog monopolized precious moments.

“A big tough guy,” Jim said.

As he petted Eddie, the dog lay down and turned over with no sense of decorum to reveal a pink belly and God knows what else. With his four paws in the air, squirming from side to side as Jim rubbed away, Eddie didn't look so tough to me. I was relieved when Jim finally moved us on to the galoots that really mattered—Arielle and Henry. At eleven and nine, Jim's kids were still little, shy, polite, and monosyllabic to my questions. I felt as shy as they did under the circumstances. Everything was okay. The point of this visit was to familiarize ourselves with one another, to put faces to names. I hoped we'd have a lifetime to know one another. That night I had no expectations other than sheer success or utter failure. My friends' kids always said I was “cool.” But winning over the children of the man you are falling in love with is fraught with danger. Would they be welcoming or would they be jealous? Would they help our budding relationship or try to torpedo it? Would they warm up easily or really make me work for it? I had no clue, mostly because loving from three thousand miles away shields you from everything except what the other person tells you. Jim was unflinchingly positive and cheerful about our bonding prospects.

Jim lived in a two-story town house he owned deep in a canyon in ritzy Pacific Palisades, home to the likes of Steven Spielberg, Kate Hudson, and Hilary Swank. His house was in the less glamorous area of the Palisades, in a neighborhood called the Highlands that could claim only singer John Mayer as its resident A-lister (and a visiting Jennifer Aniston when she later got involved with him). But Jim's cozy home was sun-soaked and inviting, and next to trails of the Topanga State Park system. It had space to spare compared to my eight-hundred-square-foot Manhattan apartment. Much of it was taken up by Arts and Crafts–style furniture and Japanese art and pottery that Jim had accumulated from his years in Asia. He also showed a fondness for some Japanese traditions. At his townhome, shoes were left at the entrance.

“It helps you unwind when you enter your home,” he explained.

The place was neater than mine, very metrosexual. There was a high-ceilinged, roomy living room on the first level and a dining room overlooking the living area from a second level. Upstairs, the master bedroom was big enough to double as an office. Arielle's bedroom was upstairs, Henry's was off the kitchen near the dining room, and Eddie slept in a crate in the living room at street level. As the kids went off to do their thing and the adults chatted in the kitchen, Jim grilled some salmon on his postage stamp–sized patio and served it with asparagus and white rice—sticky, Japanese-style. I felt comfortable and relieved as that first evening proceeded harmoniously.

“He's such a great guy,” my friend Rose whispered when we were alone in the kitchen. She was even happier that this romance could lead to my moving to California. That, of course, was where we were headed, since Jim was not as mobile as I was, but we were still in the getting-to-know-each-other phase. I had just met his kids and dog! My immersion in my boyfriend's life during the next couple days was remarkable for its ease. There was no miscommunication, no discovery of annoying habits, no surprises—although that dog was a bit peculiar. He wasn't exactly hostile, but he wasn't friendly either. If I called him, he wouldn't come. When he found his way to me out of boredom, he tolerated petting with no particular joy. There was no licking and only tepid tail wagging. The fireworks were strictly reserved for his master. For Jim, he jumped on hind legs and did the Mexican hat dance. He was usually confined to his crate in the living room when we left the house, so sometimes I'd do the honors of freeing him from his doggie prison. The thanks I got was a mad dash past me to Jim, who I could hear in some room talking his doggie-talk as he rubbed and scratched. I didn't see Eddie so besotted with anyone else, until one afternoon, when the doorbell rang and I answered.

“Hi. I'm Matilda's mom,” an attractive blonde said by way of greeting.

Matilda, a mixed breed, mostly a Rhodesian ridgeback, was Eddie's companion on his daily walks by the creek nearby. I had heard a whole lot about Mattie, but not much about the tall and pretty thirtysomething woman who owned her and who now seemed to be studying me from head to toe. Mattie's mom wanted Jim to pick up her mail while she was out for a few days. I could not believe my eyes. Eddie almost knocked her down as he greeted her effusively, temporarily forgetting about Jim as he jumped up toward her ample bosom. He wagged his tail so hard his butt swung side to side. She seemed to have expected the reaction and bent over to scratch him as Jim introduced us.

Hmm.

“Did you date Matilda's mom?” I casually asked Jim later.

“No, she's just a neighbor. She picks up my mail when I'm away and I pick up hers.”

“Are you sure? Because Eddie sure likes her.”

“She gives him biscuits on our walks.”

Okay.

Jim eventually fessed up to more than neighborly dealings. Apparently, at some point between the dog walking and mail exchanges, the two had been an item. So it seemed Eddie had made himself somewhat useful. At least he could raise red flags for me as I entered Jim's social circle. Good boy, Eddie.

The good vibes didn't last long. On a typically gorgeous Southern California Sunday afternoon, we all crammed into Jim's Volkswagen Passat station wagon and headed for Will Rogers Park ten minutes away. We hiked and played Frisbee. Eddie sat out the latter, since he wasn't a fetcher. Jim had once asked a dog trainer at the pet store how to get his dog to fetch.

“Oh, it's easy,” the guy said. “Take something like a tennis ball and just put some gravy on it and let him get the ball and then call him back and he'll bring the ball back to you. He'll learn in no time.”

Jim went home and slathered a tennis ball in some greasy leftovers and let Eddie sniff it. He went to the backyard and threw the ball. Eddie ate half of it and ripped the rest to shreds.

Eddie was a fighter, not a fetcher, as he promptly showed me. On our way back to the car, we came across a brown and black border collie wandering among the picnickers on a big lawn off-leash. We tried to scamper by, but the dog came at Eddie and Eddie at him. It was one of those scary growling moments. Cute Eddie was transformed into homicidal Eddie. Half his face had receded to bare an array of very yellow teeth and he didn't look so harmless—or attractive—anymore.

“Eddie, Eddie!” the kids called out in vain as the dogs squared off.

“Can you please put your dog on a leash?” Jim shouted at the owner as he grabbed Eddie and picked him up in his arms.

Really. There were dog signs everywhere. The guy gave Jim a fuck-you look, as if saying, “What kind of jerk are you that you think I need to follow the rules?”

“I'm just trying to walk my dog,” Jim said. “Could you please restrain yours?”

“It's a Sunday. Chill out, dude,” the guy said.

“Chill” and “dude” are not calming words. Jim started to get as flustered as his dog.

“Do you see what's going on? It will not be good. I'm just warning you.”

“Oh, he's the nicest thing in the world.”

At that point, somebody yelled, “Yeah, buddy! Put your dog on a leash!”

The guy finally grabbed his dog and turned to Jim. “He's got cancer! Leave him be!”

So much for Sunday relaxation.

We all went back to the car, with Eddie supposedly banished to the trunk area of the station wagon but managing to make his way to the front, past the kids, to pant next to Jim's ear and close enough to my own to make me cringe. His breath was like a gust from a warm oven, but it didn't exactly smell like croissants. Jim offered ice cream, and the kids focused on that. But I was focused on what had just happened. I wasn't thrilled that Jim had picked up Eddie in the middle of the brawl. What if the other dog attacked Jim too? I kept my mouth shut, but Mr. Fourlegs's family trips were numbered, as far as I was concerned.

Eddie wasn't finished. That same day, in the excitement of my first sleepover at his house, Jim forgot to put him in the crate after the kids went to their mom's for the night. The next morning we found him lying outside the bedroom door, next to a little wet yellow present. I later figured he peed because Jim had banned him from his bedroom at my request, even though Jim swore the dog never slept with him.

“He snores,” he said by way of proof.

I didn't believe him. I found dog hair everywhere in the bedroom. Eddie was simply dismayed that I had taken his place. From what I could tell, Eddie in fact appeared to have the run of the house. He could lie on beds and sit on the sofa. He shed short, white pine needles that floated aimlessly throughout the house until landing on sweaters, shoes, even food. He had obviously soiled some spots where the carpet, never touched by dirty shoes, looked discolored.

As if I weren't disgusted enough, Eddie was allowed to lick the dishes and utensils as Jim loaded them into the dishwasher. It was something Jim's mother apparently had allowed Shayna, the family's rescue dog that looked like a big black Chihuahua, to do. Somehow it had become a custom passed on to younger generations. Even Hank, Jim's father, spoke of the licking ritual fondly. I found myself taking a deep breath every now and then. Don't be so fussy, girl. You've lived alone for far too long. Pick your battles. It's just a dog!

One night after dinner, Jim and I sat on the sofa, comfortable and romantic, having a glass of wine. All of a sudden, Eddie jumped on us as we were about to kiss. He put his wet snout between us, whimpering like someone had smacked him.

“Get back, back!” Jim shouted as I screamed, and he shoved him back down to the floor. I wiped my face with my hand and tried to regain my composure. Eddie plopped down by Jim's feet with a long whimper. It felt like he was throwing daggers my way. I was slightly spooked but also mightily bothered. Listen, galoot. There's a new sheriff in town and she ain't bearing biscuits.

I needed to gather some intelligence.

•   •   •

H
ow did you two meet?”

Eddie's Cinderella story began with a father's promise to his daughter. She would get a dog when she turned ten, Jim's mom told Arielle and then told her son. Jim had no choice in the matter, but at least he could make sure the dog met a long list of qualifications. Not intimidating or hostile. Puppylike, energetic and fun. Preferably a female, maybe a twenty-pound terrier. Short-haired, so she wouldn't shed a lot. Responsive to basic commands. House-trained.

How in the world did this spotted beast get the job?

“And you got Eddie?”

“Well, our first stop was a rescue society whose only power in life is to deny people a dog. We went through this process, which was like getting into Harvard. They interviewed us, checked out our house. Every time there was a promising candidate I'd say, ‘Fine, I'll take the dog.' But they kept saying, ‘No, I don't know if this dog would suit you. No, it's not perfect for you. This dog isn't good with kids. This dog needs five hundred acres. This dog bites runners.' It was just ridiculous.”