I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship (6 page)

Oh, we tried to stem the tide of naughtiness, but it turns out I'm not the disciplinarian I thought I was. When I'd point accusatorily to the wet spot on the rug, all it took was a baleful look from Maisy's liquid chocolate brown eyes and suddenly I found myself apologizing to her for making her feel bad. When I'd correct Loki for getting pushy over a bite of my cheeseburger, all he'd have to do was lower his ears and crouch his shoulders. I'd turn into putty in his paws and he'd become the burger king. And Fletch? Although he flatly denied it, Fletch was equally permissive. Perfect example? Cooking them hot breakfasts “because they prefer it.”

Years passed and our financial situation improved.

The dogs' attitudes, however, did not.

One night six years into our collective lives together, we were watching an episode of
Last Comic Standing
. Fletch and I were shoved into our respective corners of the big couch, while Maisy spread out in the middle and Loki took up the entire love seat. Midway through the show, a comic did a bit about having previously been a teacher's aide. He talked about the effort it took to find something positive to say about children who were
positively
horrible—for example, telling parents their kids had “a lot of energy,” which really meant, “Put Junior on Ritalin, stat!”

The bit was funny and we laughed in all the right places, particularly since we continued to find other people's poor parenting a great source of amusement.

We quietly high-fived ourselves on not being responsible for having brought any demon spawn into this world. I sat there ensconced in my smug sense of superiority until I remembered something. Specifically, I recalled how a look of relief washed over the vet tech's face when we announced we were there to claim Maisy and Loki on Saturday after returning from a night out of town.

Now that I think of it, the tech wasn't
smiling
so much as she was gritting her teeth as she practically water-skied behind the tugging, leashed dogs.

When I asked the tech how Maisy and Loki had behaved, she hesitated before she said, “They . . . they felt right at home.”

So . . . if the dogs felt right at home, that meant they ignored any attempts at discipline, they jumped on guests, they slept on all the beds and couches, they stole the cats' food, and they peed on the rug in the front hallway.

Oh.

Oh, no!
¹¹

I then rooted around in my purse to find the paperwork the tech handed me as we were leaving. They'd prepared a report card of our pets' behavior. At the time, I was proud of the dogs for sailing through their stay, receiving high praise. But upon rereading, I saw that the kennel employed the same practices as the hopeful comedian's old school district.

What I think this actually meant is:
You need doggie Ritalin. Or an exorcism. Possibly both.

That's when it hit us—we'd turned our dogs into the kind of spoiled, entitled, ad hoc children we'd spent so many years rallying against. And our tidy, orderly home was not only always chaotic, but often coated in a thin film of fur and slobber. Plus, we never got to sleep in and had to make all our plans around the dogs' needs. Maisy had me so well trained that I knew exactly which yip meant she wanted more water and which meant she was ready for her snack. Strangers and friends alike would raise disapproving eyebrows at our dearth of discipline and co-sleeping habits.

Essentially we'd morphed into the very kind of parents we were always so quick to judge.

We'd become exactly what we promised we'd never be.

And as it turns out,
we didn't care.

This made us wonder, if we were able to become so cavalier and adaptable about the way in which we raised our dogs, what else were we capable of doing?

And maybe, just maybe, was it possible that our combined DNA
wouldn't
spawn a supervillain?

Of course, we still didn't get neck tattoos.

Because those just look stupid.

Oedipus Rex

Stephanie Klein

I wanted to have a baby, which made my husband shit kittens.

“I want one, too,” he said, chasing it quickly with a, “But, first, how 'bout a dog?”

And with this I became convinced that the term “housebreaking” referred not to the act of training a pet to urinate outside, but to the broken home that ensues when a husband defecates on your dream.

For the better part of that week, he continued his “Baby Steps Toward Baby” campaign, reasoning that raising a pup would be an opportunity to break in our parenting skills and establish a division of labor. We'd navigate teething, separation anxiety, and loose stool, all without stretch marks or any need for sex. He assured me the experience would make us strong, united, one—ready to procreate the hell out of each other. And he was right. I hate to admit it, but once we welcomed home Linus, a Toy Fox Terrier pup, everything he'd promised worked out just as planned. You know, aside from our savagely heinous divorce.

Once the husband became my wasband, I moved across town with our surrogate love child, Linus, explaining that my broken home would always be his broken home.

Then I pointed to the hallway that was my New York City kitchen and told him to poop where he liked. “We're in this shit together now, kid.” And that's exactly what the Lineman became, my furkid.

I fell in love with him the way you do at the beginning of things—in the details. I'd mute the TV just to listen to him crunch his kibble in the other room. I loved the smell of his corn chip paws, his proclivity for Dutch ovens, how when his nails got too long his little cleats marched across the wooden floors of our home. I practically shat rainbows over a dog I hadn't even wanted. Funny how it took the dissolution of my marriage for me to find true love, puppy or otherwise.

The Lineman and I became inseparable, hopscotching our way to the West Village in search of choke collars, harnesses, and coordinating leads. Then, we shopped for Linus.

After stocking up on his cable-knit sweaters, we threaded our way to Pastis, grabbing sustenance beneath a red awning on a cobblestone street. It was there, as I cut my steak frites into tiny chewable pieces
for a dog
, that I recognized that the wasband was right. Puppies are exactly like babies. Only cuter.

Aside from the feedings, squeaky toys, vaccinations, and bills, with both dogs and kids, you've gotta air 'em out and run 'em ragged, just so they'll piss off long enough for you to take one. Enter: Puppy Kindergarten.

I laid out Linus's clothes a week before school began. Didn't want the poor thing having nightmares of showing up to school naked. But when his first day arrived, and the forecast threatened rain, I insisted we swap out his fringed suede moccasins for the reflector booties. The Burberry trench was a bit excessive, but Linus begged.

Puddle-jumping across Columbus Avenue, we arrived for his first day at Biscuits & Bath—a multi-floor Shangri-la for the pampered pooch. I removed Linus's booties, handed off the lunch I'd packed, and asked the staffer if she wouldn't mind taking just one last photo.

“Linus, Mama wants a good report,” I threatened behind a sad smile. Then the staffer dragged him away, his cleats digging into the turf, the both of us in tears. I watched from a window as he grew smaller in the distance, the whole time his wet face turning back to look for me. In concert with his tears, his knit brow said it all:
Woman, how could you?
The rest of the day, I sat on the toilet.

In time it got easier for him, not me. After puppy kindergarten, he matriculated from obedience and etiquette class and was ultimately granted a bench position in a top socialization meetup group. Though in his yapping, he was adamant that I stop referring to it as a “playdate.” Apparently playdates were for puppies and overscheduled children. I had to face facts; he was growing up. Now it was my turn.

In lieu of nights spent retouching our mani pedis, I put myself out there and began to date. Which drove me directly to therapy. Which led to the fetal position. Which, when you think about it, led to some deviant sex. It was like the part of
The Wizard of Oz
where everything turns to color, only with fewer midgets.

Things were good. Perfect, even. Only, I should probably disclose that, during this heyday, Linus mauled one of my bedmates, leaving his face bloody, in need of three stitches. A hiccup, really. At least the guy had the decency to be a doctor and stitch up his own mess.

Okay, fine. Even
I
was beginning to question my parenting skills. Was all this pampering detrimental? After consulting my Magic 8 Ball, I realized it was “Decidedly so.” All my mollycoddling was giving sweet Linus a complex—an Oedipus complex.

People say that jealousy isn't a measure of love but a symptom of insecurity. It was obviously why Linus wanted to eat my dates; he was just an insecure, misunderstood poochie-poo. My mission became clear: operation self-esteem, in full effect.

Each morning began with self-affirming mirror mantras, followed by a healthy dose of ABBA. On afternoon walks I made it my business to point out all the uglier dogs. “Look, honey lamb, that one belongs on
Extreme Makeover for Dogs
.” We'd fall asleep to audiobooks by Tony Robbins.

Only much to my dismay, things just got worse. My Toy Fox Terrier showed signs of having developed a Napoleon complex. I needed help.

Specialists were roped in, professionals consulted, then I really showed Linus who's boss when we marathon'd our way through Cesar Millan's whispering. So, it
was
my behavior that caused this. Well, then it was going to be my behavior that fixed it.

I went alpha on his ass. It wasn't pretty, but I got him to sleep in his crate. Once a week. Exercise was crucial, but Linus never really took to my elliptical machine. I'd figure out something.

“Something” was yoga. I think it really put things into perspective for Linus. Though, eventually, he did pee his line in the sand. But who could blame him? He obviously found downward-facing dog offensive.

It wasn't until my sister Lea came to visit from Florida that something finally took. Lea and Linus developed what can only be described as an incestuous relationship. Right in front of me, they eye-flirted their way through dinner, eating opposite ends of a single strand of spaghetti, then yawned in sync and retired to my bedroom, where they passed in and out of sleep, staring at each other through the night.

It felt as if I were being displaced by the nanny. I tried to remind myself that Lea was simply a shiny new toy. “Le-anus,” as I took to calling them, would be over in a week. If not, I'd threaten to kick Lea in the head and tell God she died.

Of course he adored her. She's a licensed massage therapist, for chrissake. Even bacon can't compete with that. Still, I couldn't begrudge the Lineman her help. She did, through the wonder of puppy massage, seem to cure his hostility and aggression toward my suitors. I don't know what she did to his pressure points, but her magic touch accomplished the job. She taught my old dog not to be jealous when I turned tricks.

Her timing was impeccable, because it was then, a month after she returned to Florida, that my favorite suitor, Philip, fell to bended knee and asked for my hand in marriage.

“Maybe” might not have been the best word choice.

“It's just . . . I have to check with Linus first.”

“Stephanie, please don't worry. If he even tries to bite me, I'll bite him back.”

My fears were finally allayed when I saw that it was true love betwixt my menfolk. As the only woman in both their lives, I didn't experience the pangs of jealousy I had with Lea. Instead, I thrilled when the dude duo frolicked in the park, drank piña coladas, and liked getting caught in the rain. Only, when it came to Phil and me making love at midnight, Linus began to plan his great escape.

One morning, as the sun filtered through my blinds, thin stripes of it marked across our bodies, Linus let out a Woodstock of a yawn, and we realized he was no longer in his crate. As planned, he'd escaped, sneaky sneaky style, and like a needy child who never wants to be boxed out of the action, he was sandwiched between us—a family of three. It was then that Phil leaned in to kiss me, and Linus leaned in to eat Phil's face for breakfast.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” It was one of my smarter questions.

Thankfully, Phil
was
okay. As okay as you can be when a dog nips at your face. It's why I came to Linus's defense when Phil tried to bite him back.

“Phil, he did it 'cause you got up in his face!”

“No, Stephanie, he did it 'cause he wants to have sex with you!”

He had a point. But at least the damage was minimal. Linus had simply given Philip a Joaquin Phoenix lip.

“I dunno,” I said as we assessed the mutilation, “it looks kinda hot. You need to think of this as a slight improvement.”