I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship (11 page)

I rescued Max. Literally rescued him from a shelter in the scary land of hipster Brooklyn and brought him safely to Manhattan, where he would be less compelled to drink Pabst Blue Ribbon beer while donning skinny jeans and shrunken blazers. And for the past ten years, Max has remained my steadfast companion through thick and thin, multiple moves between L.A. and New York, and a handful of ne'er-do-well boyfriends.

Speaking of . . . Colin and I began dating when Max was eight. It was a long-distance relationship that quickly became a short-distance relationship in the form of us moving in together. Colin and Max got along famously, but then again it isn't hard to get along with Max. Max loves everybody and everybody loves Max—that's just a fact, even if you're not a “smaller dog person.” Eventually, once exposed to the wonder that is Max, you will fall hard and fast.

This is because he's a giant beast of love trapped in a small dog's body. Don't get me wrong—he's not a purse dog, not that there's anything wrong with that. (A purse tarantula, on the other hand: not cool.) He's not a punting dog, he's not a yelping dog, and he's not one of those super-miniature dogs that looks like a big rat. Max just isn't large. In appearance, at least. His personality is gigantic.

And so began the love affair between Colin and Max. Colin would take him for walks. Colin would take him to have cigars with “his boys.” Colin would take photographs of him from every angle at every time of the day and share them with his family as if Max were our child. And, well, he
was
our child.

But only for as long as we were together.

This is the part Colin couldn't wrap his head around. When we broke up, he started to make demands.

“That dog is my son. My only child. I need to see him,” he'd argue at every conceivable opportunity. My friends would argue it was just Colin's way back into me—er, I didn't mean that quite the way it sounded. Honestly, I never doubted that Colin genuinely wanted Max time. I just didn't want any more Colin time.

“Yes,” I would explain. “He was
our
dog when we were together . . . but he is no longer your dog. Had we gotten Max together, I would see your side, but I had Max for eight years before you came along and I will now (God willing) have him for at least eight more.”

“Here's the thing,” he'd reply. “You make a point. However, it's not a good one. Max and I are close now. It doesn't matter when you got him. He and I have a bond. We've been through things together. Namely . . . putting up with you. We're like Vietnam vets, or Lady Gaga's parents. We've . . . suffered.”

“You mean you shared the
pleasure
of my company.” (I was never great at comebacks under pressure.) “Max was the bonus that came along with me. You blew it with me . . . therefore, you do not get to keep the bonus. There is no severance package.”

“You can't keep him from me,” he'd argue. “He wants to see me, too.”

That argument always got to me. Mostly because it was true. Max genuinely loves Colin. But, I reminded myself, he also genuinely loves to smell other dogs' poop. All things considered, Max may not have the best taste.

Sensing weakness like a jackass smelling . . . well, just a jackass, Colin would hammer at this line of thinking: “Max needs a positive male influence. Someone to teach him how to hunt and protect loved ones and lick himself. I can do that. You, on the other hand? I know for a fact you read
Twilight
.
TWI. LIGHT.”

“I read that for research! I'm a writer. I need to be in the know. I wanted to know what the fuss was.”

“Then explain your Team Jacob thong. (Which looks great on you, by the way.)”

I'd hike up my jeans and change the subject: “The point is, you've spoiled him. He was a confident, normal dog before he started spending time with you. Now when I leave him alone he whines and scratches at the door.
Exactly like you.
That never happened before. Not in eight years.”

“Don't act like you didn't spoil the crap out of that dog,” he'd counter. “Not to mention trying to set him up with that poodle next door. Come. On. I ain't sayin' she's a gold digger . . .”

“She's a Maltese.”

“I need that dog, Caprice.”

And there it was. Whenever my name came out I knew it was serious, the equivalent of your parents using your first
and
middle name. And this time it wasn't because I was fifteen and got dropped home at seven a.m. by a Mötley Crüe tour bus. Um, hypothetically.

Colin hung his head. “I need to see him. You left me, which—while completely baffling to all observers—means you left me all alone. Now you're robbing me of the only affection I have. How did you become so cruel?”

“Okay,” I would clarify. “Let's review the tape. You were trying to have sex with every girl you ever met that you could track down on Facebook. That is how I ‘became so cruel.' Call me crazy, but that's not what I expect of the man I live with.”

“Call you crazy?
Waaaaaay
ahead of you on that.”

“The dog is not yours. I'm sorry, but he's not. You don't get Max as a ‘thank you' for fucking me over.”

“How about for fucking you.”

“And there went your visitation rights.”

“He's my son!”

“He was adopted by me and me alone!” I'd scream for the umpteenth time. “You're just the creepy stepfather the kids would eye warily if they existed! Your sperm didn't make Max.”

“You don't know what my sperm can and can't do.”

“I made damn sure of that,” I'd respond, quite proud of myself. (In retrospect, our arguments didn't always make a lot of sense.)

“You're letting your own hurt feelings rob Max of something he enjoys. Max and I are buddies. Do you really want to be that petty? It causes wrinkles, you know.”

“I'll think about it,” I'd say, knowing full well that thinking, not being petty, causes wrinkles.

“I can't believe you left me,” he'd say. Not believing, even for a second, his very own statement.

“I can't believe what you were pulling on Facebook. You were treating it like your personal dating site.”

“Okay, it is possible I misunderstood their privacy settings . . . and how much slutty girls love to take pictures.”

“Clearly. Seems like every single woman over thirty is using Facebook to say, ‘You know that kid with the lazy eye and Gary Busey teeth I blew off in tenth grade? Maybe he wasn't so bad.' ”

“God bless 'em.”

Depending on the location of the jet stream that day, you could have heard my sigh of resignation along the ChampsÉlysées. Definitely at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Many of these arguments ended that way. With me sighing heavily and giving in.

At first, I let myself think I was relenting because I was tired of arguing about it. But ultimately, I gave in because I knew in my heart that Max deserves extra attention. He deserves extra hours of fetch time. He deserves extra head pats and stomach rubs and sweetness and affection and TLC from anyone who wants to provide it, no matter how big a jerk that provider has been to me. And I simply can't deny Max the pleasure of a new toy every time Colin visits.

“You can have Max on Saturday,” I'd say.

So, yes, it's not exactly comfortable setting up times for Max and my ex to get together. And I'm sick of putting up with the endless conversations and whining for even
more
playtime. And, yeah, I'd prefer to have nothing to do with a cheating louse of an ex-boyfriend. Ever.

But you know what? If I were a dog, I'd never hold a grudge. Or worry about one-upmanship. Or roll my eyes when a certain someone rings my doorbell with a new doggie toy. And if there's one thing I've learned from Max over the years, it's the idea of unconditional love. True, pure, unconditional love.

I guess I can put up with a little bullshit to make sure Max gets just a little bit more of the love and adoration he so freely gives to me.

Don't worry.

I still make it as miserable as possible for Colin.

Walking My Dog Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death Is a Nice Way to Start the Day

Bob Smith

Dogs are the only New Yorkers who aren't in a hurry. Schnauzers schlep, poodles prance, even manic breeds like Jack Russell terriers traipse through Manhattan. Instead of rushing everywhere and trying to piddle on four trees at once, dogs subscribe to the canine philosophy of life: Take time to stop and sniff the asses. I'm always aware that Michael and I are shirking our claims to be busy New Yorkers every time we take our dog Boswell for a walk along the Hudson.

As Michael gently leads our dog across MacDougal Street, we're both happy to give up a few hours for Bozzie. We New Yorkers have no problem wasting our own time—posting status updates about our first photography exhibition of naked clowns at a diner, inviting friends to our Monday night cabaret show built around the Minnie Riperton songbook, struggling for years to raise money for our indie film about a guy struggling for years to raise money for an indie film—but we bitterly resent
other
people wasting our time.

Though he's a beagle-basset mix, Bozzie's not superlong and low-slung like most bassets, and he's not yappy or pointy-faced like some beagles. He's barrel-chested and floppy-eared with the double sweetness of both breeds. Spending time with Bozzie is always a pleasure. He never tells stories that are dull, long, or too self-involved. He's never invited us to come see his untalented boyfriend play Fleance in
Macbeth
, and, to his credit, Bozzie has never expressed any artistic ambitions, so he's never going to put us on the spot and ask what we think of his work.

When Bozzie does become annoying, all I have to do is give him a treat. God, I wish that strategy worked at cocktail parties. The next time some writer specializing in gay Neolithic romance novels begins droning on about the hot Stonehenge sex scene in his latest self-published book, I'd promptly drop a rawhide chew stick at his feet.

Boz is a rescue dog. He was found wandering in Sullivan County and had worms, fleas, and a host of other problems, both mental and physical. The green number tattooed in his right ear made us suspect he might have been a lab dog. Boz hates all loud noise, but is particularly spooked by the sound of metal banging or scraping, which causes him to jump or shake, almost as if it brings back memories of cage doors. Bozzie has made me aware that New York's a clanging city. People are always opening or closing security gates on storefronts, stepping on the metal cellar doors on sidewalks, or throwing bottles or cans in trash bins. Even church bells terrify him.

Since Boz is prone to debilitating bouts of fear that cause him to plop down on the sidewalk shivering in terror, Michael and I always take the same route to the river, hoping that, guided by the familiar sidewalks, he'll keep his nose to the ground, tracking the comforting smells of pigeon poop, rat piss, and shit-faced NYU student vomit.

We approach an elderly woman walking a brindle-coated dachshund. A dachshund in motion always appears comical, as if the tail is wagging the dog. We stop and share forced smiles as our two dogs intimately nose each other. We're like parents on a play-date pretending not to notice their children playing doctor in front of them.

“How old is your dog?” she asks. Michael admits we don't know his exact age, but he thinks Bozzie's nine or ten. I suspect he might be a few years older. Though he's perfectly healthy and active, Bozzie's muzzle has grown whiter in the four years we've known him and gray is starting to show up in the black hair on his back. I try not to dwell on his mortality because it only makes me dwell on my own mortality. Three years ago, I was diagnosed with ALS/Lou Gehrig's disease. I'm doing well, but in order to stay well I need to keep moving, stay busy with my writing and active with my friends and family. I'm afraid if I focus on my plight, I'll end up “pulling a Bozzie” and have a meltdown on the pavement in an intersection.

On Carmine Street, Our Lady of Pompeii Roman Catholic Church reminds me of a conversation I recently had with my mother in Buffalo. “I've been praying for you. If God doesn't do this for me, I'm through with Him!” You gotta love a mom who's not afraid to write off the creator of the universe if He messes with her kid. I can't say my diagnosis has made me more spiritual. I've always had a supernatural sense of being alive, but when I contemplate any religion it only reinforces my agnosticism. First of all, I can't believe in any God who's meaner than I am—which rules out 99 percent of all faiths. I believe God should treat people as well as people treat their pets. When any religion says God has his reasons to make people suffer, I immediately think of Bozzie suffering: Would that ever be acceptable? No. Never. And it isn't acceptable with people, either. Who can ignore a dog yelping in pain? Well, God has ignored people yelping for millions of years.

The other dubious argument for God's mysterious disinterest in human pain is that He will reveal His reasons to us in the afterlife. As a writer, I can't buy that. It turns God into a hack who tags on a happy ending to every sad story. As a New Yorker, I refuse to believe in a God who's less talented than I am.

But Bozzie's also undermined my doubts about the existence of God. Often on our walks, children see Bozzie and their parents ask us if it's okay to pet him. We reassure them that Bozzie doesn't bite. He has never growled or snapped at anyone in the entire time we've known him, making him, clearly, the most pleasant New Yorker in history. Bozzie and Michael are my proof that love exists, and since science can't prove that love exists, I have to accept that there might be other unverifiable forces out there.