This was a version of what Pauline had said, and hearing it from two people in two days was definitely nice. I also liked her point about my not wanting to hurt Derek’s feelings. Dr. Chitturi is always putting this kind of good spin on things, so that instead of feeling like a miserable loser, I feel more like Mother Teresa. This time was no exception. I felt like a caring and compassionate person for about half an hour after I left Dr. Chitturi’s office—and then I went back to feeling like a miserable loser again.
THE QUESTION FACING ME now was what I should do next. I had wasted a lot of time dating Derek, but then, what does that mean: “wasted a lot of time”? “Do not think in those terms, Suzanne,” cautioned Dr. Chitturi, “nothing in life is a waste of time.”
This was a good point. Hadn’t I decided to moderate my expectations, which would include factoring in the occasional disastrous interlude of the sort I had just experienced with Derek? Hadn’t I chucked my search for Mr. Darcy and recalibrated my sense of what was reasonable to expect out of life? I would therefore look at my foray with Derek as a test run, a preliminary voyage. If my apartment building was going to serve as a microcosm of the great world, why should I expect to make a worthwhile discovery right away? Hadn’t Columbus done a lot of sailing around in those ships and sucking up to that queen before he made it to America?
The episode with Derek had sent me pretty far off course—to continue the above, admittedly strained, metaphor—but who knows what new continent might float into view now that I had broken up with him? (Technically, of course, I didn’t break up with Derek; Derek broke up with me. But since it was my intention to break up with him, and his beating me to it really, really depresses me, I have decided to refer to the breakup as my doing.) Some good things had come in the course of my maiden voyage: I had made a friend in Pauline and gotten to know some of the other playground mothers. That was something.
So here I was, determined to continue my search for a life despite the initial blip I had encountered in my efforts. Since my aim was not to stray too far from home, I proceeded to consult the bulletin board in the mailroom of my building. I guess that what I was after was an announcement of some sort that would lead me, if not to a new world, at least to some distraction from the old one.
The mailroom is a cramped space behind the periodically present doorman Pedro’s desk, where mail is mis-delivered on a regular basis. A large bulletin board above the mailboxes is festooned with notices. Some of these are for mundane services: a discount at the new dry cleaners or a free appetizer at the new Italian restaurant, both establishments trying valiantly to distinguish themselves from the other dry cleaners and Italian restaurants on the Upper West Side. There are also the ratty-looking flyers with snip-off numbers at the bottom where people in the building announce their desire to sell a car, a computer, a sofa bed, or a complete set of Wedgwood china, serves 12, never used—which, from what Pedro tells me, is the fallout from the divorce in 7C. A standard notice on the board is for the area’s craft fairs. You’d think that Upper West Siders, given how many of us live in apartments the size of shoeboxes, would avoid craft fairs, a prime locale for the acquisition of overpriced things we don’t need. But the appetite for crafts in this part of the city is unquenchable. I myself, in a moment of craft-fair weakness, recently purchased a hand-carved walking stick made from indigenous wood that I now keep propped near my front door in case anyone has a sudden need for support in getting across the room. (I unfortunately misplaced the tag made from recycled waste products, explaining what country the wood in the walking stick is indigenous to, reducing its value as a conversation piece, if not its usefulness for those who need help traversing the twenty-foot expanse of my apartment.)
Anyway, I ignored the craft fairs et al. and concentrated instead on the more practical notices relating to the building. Among these were announcements for a Weight Watchers meeting, a divorced fathers session, and a healthy prostate information session, to be held in various apartments in the building in the course of the week. None of these meetings, needless to say, could I in good conscience attend—or even in bad, being incapable of passing for an overweight woman or a divorced, prostate-concerned man.
One day, however, a posting appeared announcing a meeting for dog owners. Billed as a Doggie Meet and Greet, it was being convened so that the management could address the stench of urine in the elevator that had become a chronic problem. I knew this because Pedro, the periodic doorman, had explained it when I mentioned the unpleasant odor. Obviously, dogs too had prostate problems.
The notice asked all dog owners to meet for a short information session in the lobby. Treats and doggie neckerchiefs would be distributed, after which everyone would proceed to Riverside Park for a festive run and fetch.
This sounded like just the sort of gathering that might serve my purposes. Dog owners are prone to be humane and responsible people, both qualities that I respect, even if I do not possess them myself. Perhaps this group would yield a soul mate, or, barring that, at least open me to the pleasures of the canine world.
Admittedly, I did not own a dog, but this did not strike me as a major impediment. I could acquire one. I even stood for a few minutes in front of the pet shop on Broadway wondering if I would be charmed by one of the bleary-eyed puppies lolling inside their little boxes. A depressed-looking beagle looked promising until he began licking his private parts. This was just as well. I am not a very neat person, and a dog might cause me to pitch headlong into full fledged squalor. Besides, when you’ve lived alone in a studio apartment in Manhattan without owning much of anything, you’re going to think twice about owning something that’s alive.
So, after concluding that acquiring a dog of my own wasn’t really a good idea, I decided to borrow one. As it happens, within the category of dogs available for me to borrow, there existed exactly one: Eleanor’s wheaten terrier.
Eleanor, despite being unsusceptible to kiddie charm is enormously susceptible to doggie charm. This apparent inconsistency, in my experience, is not uncommon. People who like dogs want a level of control that children are never going to give them. At the time Eleanor acquired Wordsworth (as the dog is, with whimsical pretension, named), she had just separated from the sociopathic Ronnie. This meant that Wordsworth came off well, being nicer and more intelligent than Ronnie—which isn’t saying much.
The wheaten breed has the following credentials that, for a brief interval, made it a popular choice among a certain segment of the New York City population: it doesn’t shed and can therefore be billed as hypoallergenic, and it has an exotic pedigree related to sheepherding in Ireland—Ireland seeming to New Yorkers the sort of place they would never want to live but is good for a dog to come from. Wheatens are also cute in a Disney-ish sort of way. You see a wheaten, even if it has that ridiculous wheaten cut that you know the dog hates, and you think, He looks like he’s out of a Disney movie.
The reason wheatens have since sunk in popularity is because the breed has several downsides, which become noticeable only after you’ve plunked down the fifteen hundred dollars it costs to purchase one and framed the pedigree with all the Irish ancestors in a place of honor in the kitchen. Here’s what you discover: Wheatens have delicate stomachs, are extremely stubborn, and require full-time maintenance or their Disney-esque hair will knot into unmanageable frizz and have to be shaved off, making them look less Disney-ish and more Holocaust-ish. Eleanor’s wheaten’s stomach problems had ruined her Abyssinian rug and cost her a fortune in vet bills, and the hair problem had indentured her to a groomer on York Avenue. But, in the manner common among New Yorkers whose appetite for abuse is bottomless, she only loved the dog all the more.
When I asked to borrow Wordsworth, therefore, she was initially skittish.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“It would only be for a few days. It might help me turn my life around.”
As you may have guessed by now, it was my idea to go to the Doggie Meet and Greet, claimin
g Wordsworth’s owner was on vacation and that I needed help caring for him. This, I believed, would establish a connection with another dog owner, presumably a single and attractive man with a good job and an apartment bigger than mine, that could be cultivated once Wordsworth had been returned.
“But he needs to be walked four times a day,” said Eleanor, surveying me doubtfully.
I said that walking Wordsworth would not be a problem. What else did I have to do anyway, except sit around the house writing press releases about indoor air quality?
“But you’d have to get dressed.” Eleanor knew about my tendency to stay in my nightgown until I got hungry enough to have to run out to the Korean market.
I assured her that my habits had changed. I now got dressed on a regular basis—and half of New York walks their dogs in their pajamas anyway.
“But grooming,” said Eleanor. “I can’t see you brushing him.”
“You don’t brush him either,” I noted. This was true, which is why the groomer on York Avenue was always yelling at her.
“But I’m the owner,” she explained. “I’m allowed to backslide. If you borrow him you have to brush him.”
“So I’ll brush him,” I said.
She brought out the various brushes and detanglers. Also a very large nail clipper. “You need to keep his nails trimmed,” she explained.
“OK,” I lied.
“But be careful not to cut him,” she said. “It’ll freak him out. He’s afraid of blood.” “I’ll be careful.”
“And keep the TV low. Loud noises upset him. But he likes sitcoms; the laugh track relaxes him.” I told her I loved sitcoms.
“Wordsworth eats only dry kibble,” she continued, “which makes things easy—unless he starts throwing up. Then, you need to boil rice and add some chicken bouillon. Under no circumstances are you to feed him filet mignon.”
“Why would I feed him filet mignon?”
“I’m just saying. He likes it, but it doesn’t agree with him.”
I told her everything would be followed to the letter. Dog people, I figured, were nuts and thus bound to exaggerate. How hard could it be take care of a dog for a few days? I had managed Derek’s kids, no easy feat, so taking care of a wheaten terrier would be a piece of cake. He wasn’t even that big, and he’d just been to the groomer, so he had a fluffy, amiable look. He was now jumping around in a friendly way, which suggested that he liked me.
“Think of it,” I noted, “he’ll get used to me and then you can have someone to leave him with when you go away.” This was the principal difficulty Eleanor had faced since the acquisition of Wordsworth. The last time she had gone on vacation—for a post-divorce rest cure at Kripalu, the austere but extravagantly priced spa in the Berkshires—she had left the dog with her parents, who had fed him the toxic filet mignon.
“I love this dog,” I said, as Wordsworth jumped up on me, getting paw marks on my white blouse and making a snag in my wool skirt. “I’m not generally crazy about dogs, but I’ve always had a special feeling for Wordsworth.”
Saying this apparently did the trick. Dog owners have something of the vanity of parents and believe your praise, no matter how excessive or absurd it is. They are especially susceptible to the idea that their dog has a unique appeal, something, they secretly believe, which lifts the dog to the level of an honorary human being. Thus, when I noted my special feeling for Wordsworth, Eleanor acquiesced, and he was transferred to me with all his accoutrements (kibble, brushes, leashes, bowls, etc.). He proceeded to bound happily with me out of the apartment as Eleanor looked on with doting concern from the doorway.
Outside, Wordsworth peed near the tree on the corner of Lexington and 70th and crapped in front of the Sonia Rykiel store on Madison that was, I had been advised, his favorite spot. I was now hoping to get him across Central Park so I could make it back to my apartment for a nap before the Doggie Meet and Greet, but that was when Wordsworth decided he’d had enough of me and wanted to go home.
“No, Wordsworth,” I said, as he pulled in the direction of Eleanor’s building, “you’re spending a few days with me.”
But Wordsworth would have none of it. He is not a big dog, but he does weigh fifty pounds and is well muscled owing to the fact that his ancestors herded sheep somewhere on the Irish heath. I, moreover, had my hands full with the poop bag and the doggie accoutrements. I tried my best to pull him in the direction of the park, while he pulled in the direction of Eleanor’s building, and we continued in this tug of war for a while until I finally realized it was hopeless and hailed a cab.
Fortunately, Wordsworth jumped happily into the cab— he likes cabs, I later learned, because they usually mean that Eleanor is taking him to visit her parents in Brooklyn, where he hopes for filet mignon. But once we arrived in front of my apartment and he realized that it wasn’t the Park Slope home of the Feldmans, he refused to get out. I pulled and he pulled back, gluing himself to the far corner of the cab.
“Lady,” said the driver, after two potential fares had wandered away, “I’m going to have to put the meter back on if you don’t get the goddamn dog out of here.”
The thought of the meter running gave me a rush of adrenaline, and I yanked Wordsworth out onto the curb, where he slouched down in a mean, stubborn crouch until Pedro, the periodic doorman, came out, lifted him up, and carried him into the elevator. Once we got to my floor, I dragged him through the hall as he squatted on his haunches, his nails making a screeching sound on the laminated wood. When I finally maneuvered him into my apartment, I went into the kitchen and consumed the Mars bar that I had been carefully whittling away for the past few days. I then stretched out on the couch and fell asleep, while Wordsworth watched some sitcom reruns (According to Jim, The King of Queens) until it was time to go to the Doggie Meet and Greet at 4 P.M.
I had dreaded trying to get Wordsworth out of the apartment, but this didn’t prove to be a problem. He leapt joyously out the door, thinking, I suppose, that he was returning to Eleanor. It would be getting him back in that would be a challenge, but I decided to think about that later.
We descended to the lobby, where the dogs and their owners had congregated. Not being a dog person, seeing lots of dogs together in a small space makes me nervous. Where dog people are likely to think, “Look at all those adorable dogs,” I think, “Look at all those dogs that could, if so inclined, tear me limb for limb.”
As soon as we entered the lobby, Wordsworth began growling, though not at me. He didn’t trust the other dogs either. I have to say I felt a kinship with him. I know that it takes a lot of time for people to warm up to me, if in fact they ever do, and Wordsworth seemed to feel the same way. Here were all these other dogs, prancing around, jumping up on their owners, sniffing happily at each others’ butts. And here he was, knowing no one and being totally out of it. It made him feel bad about himself, which made him growl, which made the owners of the other dogs pull their dogs away from him, which made him feel worse, etc. etc. It was the sort of feedback loop that I was familiar with and that Dr. Chitturi was trying to break me out of.
I noticed a large greyhound giving Wordsworth the once-over and a boxer whose eyes were bulging at him nastily. Wordsworth saw this, too, and began straining at his leash and baring his teeth. He didn’t look too cute now, and I wondered if it might have helped if Eleanor had given him one of those wheaten cuts, since a foolish-looking haircut can do a lot to defuse a dog’s menace. But Wordsworth just had a lot of hair, and it had begun to look a little matted as a result of the struggle he’d put up getting out of the cab and into my apartment. He had gone, in other words, from looking like a Disney-ish dog to looking kind of funky and dissipated.
Two irritatingly cute bichons had been scooped up by their owners, a large middle-aged couple who were wearing pink bandannas that matched the ones around their dogs’ necks. “Don’t let the big dog scare you,” they said loudly to the bichons they were cradling protectively in their arms, “he’s just a big o
ld bully. Mommy and daddy will protect you.” This made me want to bite them myself. For one thing, I hate people who refer to themselves as their dogs’ mommy and daddy. And for another, Wordsworth was not a big dog; he was a medium-sized dog of high quality—he’d cost Eleanor fifteen hundred dollars.
Meanwhile, another yapping bichon began showing off by scuttling in very close to Wordsworth and then running away. Wordsworth tried to snap at this dog, only to find that it had scurried out of range, which caused him to lunge in the direction of where it had been. I pulled the leash back with both hands, but the little dog was making it hard. His owner, a short bald man for whom the dog’s behavior was clearly a form of compensatory aggression, egged him on: “Isn’t she a spunky little girl?” he said, looking around him proudly. “Show the big dog you’re not afraid.”
I was pulling on Wordsworth now with all my strength, trying to keep him from breaking loose and wreaking havoc, when I noticed Stephen, the wispy math teacher who had been at Pauline’s book group, standing near the front door with a golden retriever puppy. It was cute, and a circle of other dog owners were admiring it in the extravagant manner characteristic of dog people. I could see that Stephen had recognized me, had registered my distress, and was trying to extricate himself from the puppy lovers to help me out. I felt a momentary welling of gratitude for this kindness. But before he could wrest his dog away from the fawning circle, someone else was at my elbow, taking the leash from my hand and, with a firm yank, bringing Wordsworth to heel.
Needless to say, I was relieved. I had genuinely feared that Wordsworth was about to get away from me and would consequently either lose his life or be severely disabled, with the result that Eleanor would never forgive me, so that not only would I end up a wizened spinster, but I wouldn’t even have a best girlfriend anymore to go out to dinner with and complain to. But now, thankfully, I wouldn’t have to worry about the not-going-out-to-dinner-and-complaining part.
Suzanne Davis gets a life Page 5
