I was never much of a dog lover when I was young. We had one when I was a kid – a misbegotten cross between a chow and a husky, which resulted in a gigantic husky-sized chow with a purple tongue and a bad attitude. I went without pets until years later in Tunisia, when I inherited a bipolar tomcat named Nimmer. Nimmer went feral every winter, then came home again in the spring for sardines and milk. He used to bring around his nasty-looking girlfriend, who had big white blotches on her face. I always shot her with a water pistol when Nimmer wasn't looking.
Partner adores dogs. His last dog, Willy, was a big golden retriever who worshiped him. When we were first dating and I tried to sit on the sofa next to Partner, Willy would jump up and sit between us. When Partner left the room, Willy would jump off the sofa, run across the room, turn his back to me, and sit in huffy silence until Partner came back.
Willy hated me.
Willy notwithstanding, Partner's love of dogs has rubbed off on me over the years. Our current apartment does not allow dogs, and apartment life isn't good for dogs in any case – too dull, too stifling. But we know all the dogs in the neighborhood; we know them better than we know the people, in fact. There are two golden retrievers who live down the street, who watch us walking to work every morning; they sit looking out the window side by side, their chins resting on the back of the sofa. As we walk by, they follow us with their eyes, but they refuse to turn their heads. It would be too obvious.
Then there's the little black Pomeranian whom we see walking her owner sometimes. She's tiny and she holds her head up like a lady, and she walks tap-tap-tap-tap, quick and very delicate. Partner says she reminds him of one of those Italian girls from New Jersey with a big hairdo and a big black fur coat and high heels.
There's a dachsund we always call “Barky von Schnauzer,” which name we got from a TV commercial, and I think the owner heard us calling the dog that one day, and he didn't like it. And the big husky with the fluffy coat and the lolling tongue and the big smile, who barks and sings to everyone, and who likes to be fawned on, very Big Man On Campus. And the nervous-looking whippet who lives across the street (well, whippets always look nervous).
And a host of others.
At Thanksgiving, our hostess had a long-haired chihuahua named Winston. “Be careful,” Hostess said. “He's nippy. He bit the DirecTV guy.” And, sure enough, Winston nipped my finger.
But in no time he was sitting in my lap looking up into my face dreamily.
You see? Time has passed, and now I can commune with dogs, soul to soul.
Or maybe I just smell like bacon.
No comments:
Post a Comment