I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship (7 page)

The truth is, I really didn't know what to do. I felt heartsick and anxious and wanted to comfort myself with cheeseburgers. We sat in silence for a while, until Phil finally spoke up.

“That dog is going to chill the hell out once we move to Texas.”

Move to Texas
—you could almost see the words still hanging in the air when Linus began to weep.

“That's right, who's your daddy now, bitch?” Only Phil didn't actually say this. Had he, it would've been a horribly inaccurate rhetorical question. Not only was it physically impossible for Linus to be a bitch, but Phil also was no daddy.

Not yet.

We moved to Austin, Texas, for the same reasons a dog licks his balls. Because we liked wet heat. That, and we truly could move anywhere. With my writing scripts and memoir, and Phil in finance, neither of us was tied to a specific location. Austin being the blue part of a red state, Live Music Capital of the World, and a young college town where we'd be welcomed anywhere in flip-flops, we said, “Hell, yes.” Only once we actually moved to the Bible Belt, we modified that to, “H-E-double-hockey-sticks, yes.” Seeing that “hell” is such a goddamn offensive word and all. We fit right in.

The transition was noticeably harder for Linus, who seemed to be working through the five stages of grief. The denial was obvious from the onset. He refused to be caught dead in a Longhorns sweater and made a point of shrouding himself in head-to-tail black. The anger was harder to detect, but that might've been due to his new muzzle. He apparently skipped the bargaining and headed straight for the depression. R.E.M.'s “Everybody Hurts” played on repeat.

I thought a trip to the local dog park might raise his spirits. Somehow it only served to underscore the disparities between a city dog and a pack of “mongrel hicks”—his words, not mine. I threw a ball, tried to encourage him to play nice, but he wasn't having any of it. When other dogs approached, Linus remained aloof, barking a few times, as if to say, “If I throw a stick, will you just leave?”

“Oh, go on, Linus. They won't bite.”

“ . . .”

“Fine,
I'll
go first.”

I approached a man whose first name was Bland. He struck me as the type who'd brag that his truck didn't come with seat belts. I'm embarrassed to say that I was wholly off the mark.

He bragged about his trailer. Specifically, the trailer he'd attached to the back of his pickup. Inside were his “bird dogs.” Bland was waiting for the last of them—a tricolor beagle—to finish up. Aside from the dogs I'd seen in oil paintings, I never truly associated dogs with anything other than companionship. But after seeing how animated Bland became speaking of his German pointer and retrievers, I realized that to be happy, dogs didn't need bottled water, doggy ice cream, or fleshy raw meats from Lobel's on Madison. Dogs could actually be treated like dogs and still thrive. It was enlightening. So much so that it inspired me to remove Linus's sun visor.

I took a seat on the bench beside my little antisocialist, ready to explain that from now on he was going to be a dog. And dogs are pack animals, which would mean he'd need to get off his rump and hobnob. I knew he wasn't going to like it, so I wanted to be sure my approach was particularly sensitive.

“Dude, stop being such a puss.”

And just like that, Linus leapt from the bench and ever so skittishly approached a bulldog in a bandana from behind. With a deep inhale, ready to acquaint himself, Linus suddenly came careening back, skyrocketing through the air into my lap.

“What's wrong with you? You're acting like a freak show!”

“Me?! That redneck's beagle didn't even look for a Wee-Wee Pad; he just did his business on the grass all willy-nilly. I'm sorry, but these dogs are fucking animals!” Or at least that's what I think he said. I didn't write it down.

I told Phil that I was really beginning to worry. I joked a lot, but I genuinely liked the people I'd met in Texas. Sure, I'd prejudge them and think because I was a savvy New Yorker that I was somehow worldlier than, say, a man named after an adjective. But I was mostly dead wrong. Bland wasn't a redneck. He's a retired oil tycoon . . . who unfortunately lives up to his name. Perhaps he's not my best example of the friends I've made. Point is, I was making them, but Linus just wasn't coming around.

Mid-mopefest he'd sometimes break into a begging howl, as if to say, “I'll do anything; just send me back to a place where the mailman doesn't drive an unmarked Tundra.” But Phil pointed out that this was only the grief talking, because dogs don't actually speak. Ah,
this
was the bargaining stage; it just came out of order.

I don't know if acceptance ever truly cropped up for Linus. Though I'll allow that a brief respite from the suffering came in the form of just three consonants: BBQ. I can't say that he preferred smoked beef ribs to New York strip, or sauce from the Salt Lick to Peter Luger, but he at least seemed sated, if not happy.

In the weeks that followed, I held my ground. The designer dog carrier was stowed away, leaving Linus to fend for himself as he walked from the car to his acupuncturist. “Sorry, kid. You're not a baby; you need to learn to do things for yourself.” So, like it or not, from then on, Linus had to sniff his own balls.

Just as we were all acclimating to the new state of our union, a fortuitous thing happened. Phil went and knocked me up but good.

With twins.

We rejoiced with family and friends. I shopped for hideous clothes. Phil began to count our savings. We couldn't stop smiling, apart from when I barfed in parking lots, begging Phil to tell passersby that I was pregnant, not drunk. Then we sat down to share our news with Linus.

And he fainted.

This wasn't a beta test, a trial run before the real deal, as it had been with the wasband. This was my life, the one I'd always wanted. And while I was exquisitely thrilled, there was also a sadness that hung on my insides. Linus had nursed me through a divorce, a few hangovers, even more broken hearts. He grew up beneath my covers, sleeping in any body nook he could find. Linus was family, my sweet jumping bean, but he was also a biter. Despite the muzzle and professional help we sought, it would only take one bad moment for everything to change. And it scared the shit out of me. So I went to McDangerous and ate my feelings.

Mine wasn't the only pity party in our cheery family.

“Oh, please. I wish I had your problems,” Lea said over the phone. “Try having my life. No boyfriend, crap friends, I'm piss poor—we won't even discuss the fact that I'm a disgusting fat moo who sweats when she breathes.” Then, out of nowhere she began to cry.

“You don't have crap friends.”

A week later, when Linus saw Lea standing at our front stoop, he nearly shit himself. Instead, he shit the floor and missed the paper. Her bags weren't even out of the car when she let Linus pin her to the ground and have his way with her. He licked up her nose until her brain hurt. Then he raced to our closet, hauled out his designer dog carrier, and promised to write.

He was right. There was one move that would bring everyone happiness.

Now in Florida, a suburb of NYC, Linus is happier than a dog with two peters. He's back to a life of gourmet dog treats, milk and honey baths, and taking up most of the bed. Lea, no longer without a boyfriend, is trying to legalize marriage between humans and animals.

As for me, I really miss him. And a part of me still aches. But it stopped being about me as soon as I had these babies. Thanks to the Lineman, I'm now savoring these moments before my wee ones are led down their own school corridor, turning back to look for me.

Still a family, we Skype regularly, and send a few pounds of Texas beef ribs his way. You could even say that his winding up with an in-house masseuse is his “happy ending,” but then you'd just be a perv.

Ménage à Dog

Alice Bradley

My husband, Scott, and I sleep with someone else.

His name is Charlie.

We found Charlie when we were newlyweds and our love was too big to keep between the two of us. One day, while holding hands and surfing the Internet, we spotted an adoption ad for an underweight, abused black-and-white mutt. He might have been part terrier or whippet, but in the picture, his knobby knees and long legs made him look more than anything else like a fawn or baby goat. Like he had just learned to stand. He was chained to a pipe, looking up at the camera with big wet eyes. Below the picture was the following line: “He's just a sweet dog with soft ears who needs a chance.” I called. The dog was housebroken, affectionate, and still available. Did we want him? Of course we did.

We picked him up only a few days later, and we were immediately in love. On the walk home, Charlie was thrilled as only a dog can be, his sad past scrubbed clean from his tiny brain.
Walking! Hey! Smells! Wow!
He skittered and barked at parked cars and peed on every available leaf and sidewalk crack that required marking.

Eventually we got home—where he leapt from one piece of furniture to the next and horrified the cats—and then it was time for bed.

This is when we introduced him to his crate.

I hadn't really read up on the latest dog thinking—this was an impulse adoption, after all—but I had grown up with a standard poodle named Molly who, in her earlier years, had been crated, so I figured that that's what you do. He was suspicious of the crate, but we managed to lure him in with treats. He circled the perimeter, whining, sniffing around for an escape route.

“He'll get used to it,” I said. “Right?” He was still in our bedroom, after all. And there were blankets in there, from our bed. And squeaky toys! Which, it turned out, terrify him! Whoops!

But as soon as the lights were off, he began to yowl.

We lay there, listening to him pawing at the metal and whining, and that line from the ad kept coming back to me:
He's a sweet dog with soft ears who needs a chance.

“Maybe we should let him out,” Scott suggested.

“Won't that, I don't know, send the wrong message?” I asked.

“What message?” Scott said.

Charlie cried louder.
Hey, hello? Can someone, you know, save me? Again?

“I can't remember,” I said. “Wasn't there a message we didn't want to send?”

Scott got up and opened the crate, and Charlie leapt onto the bed, scouring our faces with his tongue. “I suppose he can sleep by our feet,” I said. “Just for tonight.”

On cue, Charlie turned to paw at the sheets. When Scott lifted them, he slid right in and settled down. Charlie had found his place, and it was between us.

We thought this was delightful, that first night. We sandwiched him, stroked his ears, and gazed into each other's eyes. Charlie's trembling quieted. We were his saviors. We were the best people who had ever lived. Our love had rescued this malnourished, frightened dog. Who would eventually feel calm and confident enough to sleep in his crate, or at least in a dog bed, or maybe the couch, or whatever.

But definitely not in the bed with us. Because that would be weird.

It's been eleven years since that first night. Eleven years later, I can count on one hand the number of times we've been home and Charlie has spent a night
not
lying between us, under the covers. He is a permanent nighttime fixture in our bed.

Scott loves that Charlie wants to sleep with “his pack,” as he puts it, but I have mixed feelings about the setup. I might not mind his presence as much if Charlie didn't so obviously prefer Scott to me—at bedtime, at least. During the day Charlie gives his love freely to us both, but come night, he is a one-man dog. There is an awkward third wheel in this ménage, and it's me.

Every night, Charlie waits for Scott to get into bed. Once Scott's under the covers, Charlie climbs on him, rests his paws on either shoulder, and licks Scott's face like it's his job. He really digs in. It's hard to watch, but Scott doesn't seem to mind. After their make-out session, Charlie gets under the covers and presses his body against Scott's. Once he's positioned so that his back is suctioned to Scott's chest and his head is directly under Scott's lips, so that his beloved can tilt his head down at any time and give him a smooch on the noggin, he closes his eyes, lets out a satisfied
whumph
, and then rams his pencil-thin legs directly into my solar plexus. After I remove his paws and begin breathing again, I try to adjust his legs so they don't kill me
.
Eventually I give up and turn over. Encouraged, Charlie then stretches his legs farther until all four paws form a point, thus pushing me away. Sometimes I'll wake up from an unnerving dream to find his four paws poking right into my butt. Other times a paw will find its way into my hair. Or Charlie's dreaming will lead him to patter and thump his paws against my back, like I'm getting the worst shiatsu ever.

As if that's not annoying enough, Charlie must rotate his sleeping placement throughout the night. He starts out under the sheets with us, but within an hour he leaps out, using our heads for leverage to get free of the sheets, then climbing down our bodies to our legs. After lying across our shins for a while, he re-craves our warmth and heads back up over us, pawing at the covers until he's let back in. Scott sleeps right through these maneuvers, but I, a normal human being, wake up if I'm being trampled. To complicate matters further, if I nudge Charlie or interrupt this process in any way, he leaps off the bed. Which you would think would solve the problem, only once he's on the floor, he stands next to the bed, crying, until Scott gives him explicit permission to return. My reassurance means nothing. So I have to wake Scott so he can tell Charlie to come back up so that Charlie can paw at me and step on my soft body parts. All night.