by Tor Seidler
“Bring your dog. They seem to get on well together.”
Of course the dogs didn’t pick up any of this. In fact, Gulliver was bidding Rodney farewell in the fervent hope that he would never have to lay eyes on the irksome schnauzer again.
If you’d asked him, Gulliver would have said his favorite sounds were operatic, but in truth his favorite sounds were the whirr of the electric can opener, which meant Prime Premium, and the jangle of his leash being taken down from its peg, which meant a walk. Just as he never overate, however — never gobbled his food as ill-bred dogs do — he didn’t like to overwalk. Once around Washington Square suited him perfectly. His legs were not long.
But the weather that next Saturday afternoon was so pleasant that Professor Rattigan decided it would be healthy to walk uptown to Professor Moroni’s. Off they headed up Fifth Avenue. By Twenty-third Street, Gulliver’s back legs were already tired. Block after block they walked till finally, at Thirty-fourth Street, Gulliver put his paw down, refusing to step off the curb onto the crosswalk.
“Okay, okay,” Professor Rattigan said, lifting an arm to hail a cab.
The cab was nicely air-conditioned, and at the end of the ride the cabbie pulled up right next to the curb, so Gulliver didn’t have to execute an undignified leap over the gutter. He’d thought perhaps they were heading for the public library, but there was no wide staircase flanked by stone lions. Instead, they were in front of a sleek, glossy building that stretched up ominously into the sky.
Having a sudden sickening feeling that it was Rodney’s building, Gulliver again refused to budge.
“What’s the matter with you today?” Professor Rattigan said, giving the leash a good tug as a young, pimply doorman opened a tinted-glass door for them.
The doorman put through a call and pointed them to an elevator that was all chrome-and-mirrors instead of wood paneling. It shot up so fast it made Gulliver’s stomach queasy. And he only felt queasier when the doors opened and there, in the doorway to a penthouse apartment, stood Rodney and his professor. The only plus was that Rodney looked rather queasy himself.
The truth was, Rodney had never dreamed his professor would actually invite this other professor and his dog over.
The penthouse was bright and colorful, with sunlight pouring through plate-glass windows onto shiny floors, onto chairs made of gleaming fiberglass and molded plywood, onto works of art Gulliver had never seen the like of. One painting was striped like a rainbow and shaped like a dog biscuit! Even the chess pieces — a board was set out on a plexiglass table — were dazzling: magenta and lemon yellow instead of black and white. And yet the apartment wasn’t half the square footage of their place at One Fifth Avenue. Rodney had been telling the truth about the print in the bathroom — it did have twenty-seven dogs in it — but he’d been fudging when he’d said there were six rooms besides the kitchen and foyer. There were only four, and they weren’t all that spacious.
“I thought you included closets,” Rodney muttered.
Gulliver smiled under his mustache. “Those books are certainly big,” he said, inclining his head toward a bookshelf.
“Those are his art books,” Rodney said.
“He doesn’t have any regular books?”
Rodney scowled.
“The color scheme certainly is . . . loud,” Gulliver said.
“We hate stodgy. Come see the view.”
Rodney led the way to the spare bedroom — Professor Moroni’s daughter stayed there when she visited — and hopped up onto a bed under a window. The view from there was spectacular, but Gulliver couldn’t help thinking it was a bit unnatural. The buses and taxis on the avenue below looked like chew toys. In fact, it struck him that there was something a bit vulgar about being up so high. Whereas the seventeenth floor seemed in perfect taste: high enough to be above the hustle and bustle, yet not so high that you couldn’t tell a Saint Bernard from a beagle.
When they got back to the living room, the professors were hunched over the chessboard.
“How was your week?” Gulliver asked graciously.
“Well,” Rodney said, “I talked to a very pretty toy poodle on my walk yesterday. You?”
“I had a long conversation with a lovely Norfolk terrier on Tuesday.” In fact, she’d had a scruffy coat, but there was no reason to pass this on to Rodney. “Have your summer plans solidified?”
“I think we’re staying here,” Rodney muttered. “I’m not sure.”
Gulliver waited for him to ask about his, but Rodney just stared darkly at the chess players. After a minute Professor Rattigan clucked his tongue and said, “Sorry, old man. Checkmate.”
Professor Moroni groaned as his king fell. Rodney winced.
“We take off for Paris in a few weeks,” Gulliver murmured.
Rodney made a good point about the misery of being stuck in a carrying case for a whole transatlantic flight. For some reason, airlines frown on dogs traveling in the cabins of planes, so they stow them in a pressurized hold down below, separated from everything and everyone familiar. On his first trip, when he was just a few months old, Gulliver spent the whole flight shivering in terror. Fortunately, Professor Rattigan noticed his condition at the airport in Paris, and for the flight back, and every subsequent flight, he’d given Gulliver a tranquilizer.
They always took the overnight flight, and this year, as usual, Gulliver didn’t come out of his sleepy haze till they were in a cab heading for their Parisian apartment. It was in a lovely neighborhood called Saint-Germain, where the average building was far shorter than the average building in Manhattan. So instead of living on the seventeenth floor, they lived on the fifth. And instead of a doorman, the building was watched over by a little gray-haired woman called a “concierge.” And instead of a wood-paneled elevator, they rode up in a sort of bronze birdcage.
Though smaller than theirs, the French professor’s apartment had its charms, notably the living-room sofa. It was upholstered in horsehair, which was miraculously warm on cool days and miraculously cool on hot days. After their morning walk in the nearby Luxembourg Gardens, Professor Rattigan would retire to the study to work on his novel and Gulliver would settle on the horsehair sofa. It had an excellent view of a wall covered by a medieval tapestry that featured a queenly figure with two elegant whippets at her feet.
But it was the evenings, not the days, that made Paris special. In July, Paris can be steamy, but although the sun stays up till after ten o’clock, things usually begin to cool off around eight. This was when they headed back out. They walked over to the river and turned west, passing bright yellow postboxes and bright red-and-white fire hydrants. Soon the blue-and-white-striped awning of Le Petit Café came into view — and both of their hearts beat faster.
It would be hard to say which of them enjoyed their evenings at the café more. Professor Rattigan had the company of the beautiful Madeline de Crecy, who taught English literature at a nearby university called the Sorbonne. Professor de Crecy was allergic to long-haired dogs, so even if Gulliver had wanted to sit obediently under their table, he wouldn’t have been allowed to. But why would he want to do that when he could flirt with a stunning Maltese over by the door to the kitchen?
Few things in life are sweeter than being able to impress the dog you love. The only places Chloe had ever been to were Paris and the sleepy French seaside village where Madame Courgette spent August, when the restaurant was closed. Gulliver, too, divided his time between only two places. But his two places were Paris and New York. How could Chloe compete? She could tell him about the fishing nets pulled up on the beach and the joys of splashing in the backwash and chasing seagulls. But he had the greatest city in the world at his bark and call.
Just across from the restaurant an ancient stone bridge spanned the river Seine. It could hardly have been more picturesque, but compared to the soaring bridges of New York City — the Brooklyn B
ridge, for instance, or the George Washington Bridge — it was a toy. To the west of the restaurant the Eiffel Tower loomed up. But impressive as it was, it was barely half as tall as the Empire State Building. Gulliver had never splashed in the sea or chased a gull, but he’d seen the Statue of Liberty and the United Nations, and he lived right on Fifth Avenue. And though Cheveux de Chien, the Parisian groomer his professor took him to once every July, was perfectly nice, it wasn’t half as up-to-date as Groom-o-rama.
Madame Courgette treated him like a prince. He and his professor came to the café almost every night during July, and his professor always ordered many courses and expensive bottles of wine and left American-sized tips. So at least once every evening Madame Courgette would slip Gulliver some delicacy, a perfectly cooked medallion of pork, or a nicely sautéed piece of veal.
In fact, life in Paris was so pleasant that Gulliver always hated to see the month come to an end.
“I wish you would come over to visit,” he would tell Chloe.
“Moi aussi,” Chloe would say. “Me, too.”
This year his last evening at Le Petit Café was more sentimental than usual. He wasn’t as young a dog as he used to be; he really would have liked to make his relationship with Chloe more permanent. And Chloe looked particularly fetching with two pale pink ribbons in her hair. So he told her he wished Madame Courgette would open a restaurant in New York. “It would do great business, I’m sure. New Yorkers love French cuisine.”
Chloe reminded him that Madame Courgette spoke no English. Then she let out a lovely sigh and said she couldn’t believe they wouldn’t see each other for almost seven (dog) years.
It was all very distressful. But at the same time highly enjoyable.
By coincidence, Professor Rattigan was experiencing feelings very similar to Gulliver’s. Every year, as July wound down, he would try to convince Professor de Crecy to move to New York. Her English was perfect: New York University would be lucky to get her. But she always said she was happy with her job in Paris.
This year, after their dessert dishes were cleared away, Professor Rattigan laid his hand over hers. Like Gulliver, he wasn’t as young as he used to be. In fact, he’d recently had to yank some gray hairs out of his blond beard.
He took a healthy swig of his cognac. “Tell me, Madeline,” he said, “would you consider coming to New York as my wife?”
There was nothing unusual in the fact that Professor Rattigan talked to Gulliver while packing his bags later that night. But normally he talked in a lighthearted way, chuckling at his own little jokes. Tonight his tone was as soft and soothing as the one a veterinarian uses just before sticking you with a needle.
Gulliver decided his professor must be trying to treat him with kid gloves after his sad parting scene with Chloe.
The next morning Professor Rattigan ground up a tranquilizer in Gulliver’s breakfast, and by the time Gulliver was in his carrying case, he was already woozy. When he came around, the carrying case was jouncing on the backseat of a cab. The radio was blaring a traffic report (“. . . bumper-to-bumper on the Kosciusko Bridge”), and the smell of the air was pure New York City.
Awful as saying goodbye to Chloe was, there was something comforting about getting out of the cab in front of One Fifth Avenue. Usually it was hot and humid when they returned from Europe, but that evening was very pleasant.
“Welcome back, Dr. Rattigan,” said Carlos the doorman. “That you in there, Gully?”
Though Gulliver would never have admitted it to Rodney, or Chloe for that matter, there was something a little degrading about being lugged around in a carrying case. It was like a mini–jail cell announcing to the world that the prisoner can’t be trusted to behave on the outside. So it was a relief when Professor Rattigan set the case down right there in the lobby and opened the door.
Most dogs would have bolted out. But bolting, in Gulliver’s opinion, was undignified, so he stretched a couple of times and ambled out nonchalantly, as if he’d only wandered in by chance a moment earlier. He was glad of this when he saw the elderly female cocker spaniel who lived in the other seventeenth-floor apartment eyeing him from the doorway to the mail room. She was one of the most civilized dogs in the building.
The professor and the doorman were having a conversation, so Gulliver wandered over her way. Her leash holder, a plump woman named Ms. Tavendish who was always making googly eyes at his professor, was chattering away with the building’s superintendent.
“Been away?” the cocker spaniel asked.
“Paris,” Gulliver said, suppressing a yawn.
“Fun?”
“Marvelous. How was July here?”
“Hot. It only cooled down yesterday. But we got out to the Hamptons a couple of times.”
Gulliver stretched. “Just had an eight-hour flight,” he explained.
“My goodness. Jet lag?”
“Not really. I took a pill.”
“See a lot of French poodles over there?”
They talked quite a while, for Ms. Tavendish had a lot to say to the super, and Professor Rattigan seemed to have an unusual amount to say to the doorman. But at last the professor clucked his tongue and picked up the carrying case.
Though the birdcage elevator in Paris was quaintly charming, it was slow and jerky. It was good to be back in one that ran smoothly. Good to be back in their own apartment, too. It was a little hot and stuffy at first, but Professor Rattigan turned on the air-conditioning before taking him on a much-needed walk, and by the time they returned, the place was comfortably cool.
It was also a comfort to have some Prime Premium, which was unavailable in France. The scraps he got at the café were exotic but often so rich they played tricks on his digestion.
The professor ordered in Thai food for his own dinner and then, after taking Gulliver out again, settled down to read his mail. He got through less than half of it. He was still on Paris time, six hours later, and soon went yawning off to bed.
Gulliver followed suit. But heavenly as it was to be curled up in his own bed, he wasn’t all that sleepy after dozing the entire day. Eventually he padded off to the kitchen for a midnight snack. Then he hopped up onto a chair under one of the windows in the living room, rested his paws on the sill, and gazed out to the east. The city’s glow blotted out all except a handful of stars. But Paris, he knew, had the same problem. Was Chloe looking at those same few stars, so upset about his departure that she had insomnia?
He sighed happily at the thought. She really was the most beautiful dog imaginable. How she’d laughed at his joke about Labradoodles! And that was a good one she’d told him about parking meters being pay toilets — he would have to pass it on to Rodney. He leaned his head close to the window and peered northward. Was that glowing skyscraper up there Rodney’s building? He hoped their professors would arrange a chess game soon so he could tell Rodney all about his trip. Had they been up to Maine? If so, he supposed he would have to hear about Rodney’s trip. But then Maine could hardly compare to Paris.
A yawn escaped him. He padded back into the bedroom and curled up in his bed. “Night, Chloe,” he murmured under his breath.
He yawned again but still didn’t fall straight to sleep. It was too much fun luxuriating in the delicious pain of being separated from his beloved.
The next day even started out strangely. Professor Rattigan, still being on Paris time, rose very early, and Gulliver, who’d stayed up so late, slept in. By the time he woke up, he was alone in the apartment.
Of course there was fresh Prime Premium in his bowl. And though he would have liked a walk, it wasn’t crucial. The professor wouldn’t start teaching again for over a month, so Gulliver was quite sure he would be home soon. He made a slow tour of the apartment, reacquainting himself with all its lovely nooks and hiding places, then curled up in a wing chair.
His professor got home at one o�
��clock. But instead of taking him for his walk, he did a most peculiar thing. He brought Gulliver’s bed out of the bedroom and carried it out of the apartment. A few minutes later he returned, and this time he took away the carrying case! A few minutes after this, he came back and pulled Gulliver’s leash off its peg.
“Let’s go for a last walk, boy,” he said.
Gulliver cocked his head to one side, wondering why his professor sounded so somber.
The substitute doorman was on duty downstairs, an old man with a face as wrinkly as a Chinese shar-pei’s. He said hello to Professor Rattigan but neglected to greet Gulliver, barely glancing down at him, so Gulliver resolved to snub the old coot on his way back in.
Sadly, he never got the chance. After they’d done their tour of Washington Square Park, Professor Rattigan led him to a black town car with tinted windows parked on Waverly Place. A driver in a cap hopped out and opened one of the back doors for them.
So that was it, Gulliver thought, sitting up alertly on the backseat as they drove away. His professor missed his French lady friend as much as he missed his Chloe, so they were flying back to Paris. And for a longer stay than before, since they were evidently taking his bed as well as his carrying case. Could they be moving there permanently? That would be a shock. After all, New York City — not Paris — was the center of the modern world. On the other hand, he would be able to see Chloe regularly . . .
By the time they were in the Midtown Tunnel, Gulliver had made peace with this sudden upheaval in his life. Knowing his professor, he was sure they would be coming back to One Fifth Avenue for visits. His only real regret was not being able to tell Rodney about the move. It would have been fun to say, “Oh, I’ll be in Europe for a while . . .”
It was hard to see much through the tinted windows, but he was pretty sure they were on the same highway they’d taken in from JFK airport yesterday. However, when the car finally stopped and the driver hopped out and opened the door for them, there wasn’t an airline terminal in sight. They were on a block where shabby, two-story houses peered glumly at each other across a street with more than its share of potholes. Not at all the sort of neighborhood they would normally have visited.
