Paws and Reflect_Exploring the Bond Between Gay Men and Their Dogs

by Neil S. Plakcy

  Game for a cookie, Colby stopped his snarling to chow down, but as soon as he swallowed the last crumb, a low growl ensued. My next move was to grab Lynn, the reclusive next-door neighbor who baby sat Colby during my roommate’s frequent travels. After a few days Colby became accustomed to me, differentiating my presence from that of an intruder, or the mailman, whom he seems to think is planning something diabolical every time the mailbox clinks.

  A former New Yorker, I enjoy walking and miss the simple pleasure of waking up in the morning and making the brisk steps to the Starbucks a few blocks away. Once Colby realized my penchant for taking walks, it was the beginning of a mutual love affair. Going around the pebble track of a nearby park became a shared routine. To my delight, I began to look forward to the dance of appreciation he would make as soon as he saw me open the cabinet drawer and pull out his leash.

  It always starts with a jump up, then a series of leaps in a circle, culminating in his running over to me, kneeling down, and raising his head high in the air so I can clasp on his leash as fast as possible. If he is feeling especially exuberant, he will take his end of the leash into his mouth as we’re walking out the door, as though he is leading me.

  Passersby often stop to compliment Colby and ask questions such as “How old is he?” or “How long have you had him?”

  The first few times I would explain that he was actually my roommate’s. Soon, though, I grew so fond of him that I stopped bothering. After all, for that moment he was mine and in my care. The feeling of being a proud father overtakes me on these jaunts.

  Whereas a lot of other dogs are barkers or hysterical growlers trying to bolt away from their leashes with all their might and giving their owners a hell of a time in the process, Colby is like the cool dude. It is like having a chill son who surfs or snowboards. His response is to look at these frenzied fellow canines with a puzzled glance, as if to say “Man, what is your problem?” then calmly keep padding along, going back to what pleases him most, sniffing every object he passes.

  His legs seem to trot more than anything. If a sight or noise catches his attention, he will freeze with one front paw up in midair, like a show horse competing for a blue ribbon.

  The only time he gets out of control is when we near a small bridge that covers one of the canals in our Fort Lauderdale neighborhood. It seems to be a favorite hangout for iguanas, and chances are good that you will see one of the vibrant, lime-colored creatures basking on the cement embankment.

  Like the man of steel, Colby can spot the critters at a distance impossible for the ordinary human eye. I usually know it when the head springs forward, the eyes widen, the excited panting begins, and I am suddenly being dragged up the slope toward the railing of the tiny bridge. As soon as we get within ten feet of the iguana, the lucky lizard catches on and the next thing heard is a small splash. A few houses down the canal the amphibian will scurry up the canal wall, teasing Colby until I manage to coax him away.

  Not only have I found myself walking Colby, but I also bathe him, feed him, even take him for short drives in my car. My roommate is a strict disciplinarian, seldom, if ever, slipping Colby human food. Now he knows who to go to when he wants a chunk of cheddar, a few pieces of chicken, some wedges of tuna. A high-pitched chant of “Treat!” has him running in from the yard when all else fails, fluffy cream fur flying and bushy tail curled up like a crescent.

  I’m more of a homebody than my roommate, so I’ve had my fair share of evenings on the couch. Usually it goes like this: Colby will be lying on the floor, his front paws folded and his back legs splayed out like a frog. Inevitably he will work his way to the couch, prop up his head and front legs on the sofa, his hind feet standing on tiptoe.

  How can I not start stroking that furry white head, scratching behind those floppy ears, kissing the forehead above those glassy brown teddy-bear eyes? With happy snorts and huffs, he springs into action and does a different kind of happy dance, one in which he fervently rubs the top of his head onto the leather seat cushion, his butt sticking straight up in the air, keeping up with the gleeful, snorting sound effects the whole while.

  When I am not up to facing the traffic or in no mood to meet another deadbeat guy at one of Fort Lauderdale’s many gay bars, when I come home exasperated and exhausted from my job, this gentle creature eases my woes.

  This adorable dog who first snarled at me when I came into his home now comes into my room while I’m sitting at my laptop and flops down beside me, letting out whiny whimpers until I turn away from the keyboard and scratch him.

  You are probably wondering what happened to the sworn cat lover I claim to be.

  I have been seduced by cuteness, mesmerized by this puffy-coated mass of divinity. When I go away on trips, the one thing I find myself missing is Colby. There is something about having a creature that is always excited and happy to see you. It’s nice to always be wanted, needed, and accepted.

  The day will come when my roommate and I will part ways, and he will be taking Colby with him. I’m sure I will be tempted to kidnap him, because leaving his side will fill me with melancholy. I am always joking how I would love to take him to be cloned. Through all this the dog lover in me has been awakened, and I have discovered something within that I had no knowledge existed before. When the day comes that I get my country home, whether it be on the Cape, in the Berkshires, Catskills, Hudson Valley, or wherever, it will be filled with both a dog and a cat.

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  Jeffrey Ricker: DAKOTA

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  One of the many fascinating facets of dog ownership is that dogs have an uncanny ability to connect us with members of our own tribe. Many men told us they had discovered that walking their dog is an easy way to meet other people. Science backs them up: A study in which some men walked through a park alone, while others walked with a dog, proved that people were three times more likely to stop and talk to the man with the dog. They perceived the dog owner as friendlier.

  Jeffrey Ricker has been on both sides of the “canine bonding” experience, using his dog first as a way to connect with other men, then as an excuse to avoid connecting with them. He and his Newfoundland–Border Collie mix bonded so well that Ricker realized he was content to live on his own, with only his dog for a roommate —but he didn’t want the life of a permanently single man. He wanted a partner and forged a connection with a man who was also a dog owner.

  He writes about the problems that can come between men who each depend on the company of their dogs as much as on the company of each other.

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  MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY DOG almost cost me my relationship with my boyfriend. That would have been a sad irony, since Dakota—that’s my dog—is the reason I started dating again.

  Dakota’s the name the dog came with. When people ask (and they always ask), “North or South?” I reply “Dodge.” I drove a pickup truck, a Dodge Dakota, at the time I adopted him, in July 2001, and I didn’t see a reason to change his name. I bought the truck because I’d just bought a house, and I’d bought the house because I wanted to get a dog. Dakota’s a big dog—a Newfoundland–Border Collie mix, as best as the vet could determine. I got him from the Humane Society, so in the end he only cost me $62, 100: $100 for the adoption and shots, and $62, 000 for the house—$74, 168 if you include the truck, but I didn’t quibble.

  What amazed me about Dakota was how easy he was. He already knew how to sit, stay, and heel. He was housebroken. He got along with my two cats.

  Boyfriends should be so easy, I thought.

  When I got Dakota, I was single. All my friends said he would be a total guy-magnet. I could see their point—unlike me, Dakota has never met anyone he didn’t like. What he lacks in intelligence, he makes up for in geniality.

  He’s kind of a blonde like that.

  I tried to take Dakota with me running around the neighborhood—I pictured taking him, later, to the park a
nd hitting the running trail, where there’s never a lack of hotties and their dogs. He was great for the first couple hundred yards. But Dakota turned out to have this habit of wanting to stop at every tree, signpost, or mailbox and read the scents.

  Eventually I realized I risked dislocating my shoulder from all the sudden stops, and we compromised with a brisk walk. By the time we walked to the park, though, he was exhausted—not surprising for a dog wearing a full-length black fur coat in the summertime. After that we settled for walking around the block a couple times as our regular walk, and he did turn out to be a magnet for attention—thanks to him I met every little kid and senior citizen on my block. So much for hotties.

  I didn’t get Dakota in order to attract the hotties, though. I got Dakota because all the hotties never seemed all that interested in me. Maybe my occasionally paralyzing shyness or general cluelessness was to blame for that, but after listening to my friends lament their man problems ad nauseam, I was more inclined to keep my nose in a book and my dog sitting nearby. So I had to vacuum a little more often because of his penchant for shedding—so what? I simply bought a better vacuum cleaner ($86. 95 plus tax).

  It might seem odd, then, that Dakota was the reason I started dating again. Before I got him it had been at least a year since I’d gone out with anyone, and another six months before I gave men another shot. Why did I dive in, when I was perfectly happy staying out of the dating pool and spending time with my dog?

  Because I was perfectly happy staying out of the dating pool and spending time with my dog.

  I asked Susan, my friend and fellow dog owner, “What if I’ve tried to trade in Mr. Man for Mr. Mutt?”Susan, who was married with a baby on the way, didn’t think it was such an unreasonable trade-off.

  “You’ve given Dakota a second chance at life, and in return he gives you all the love and companionship that a man would, ” she said.”Well, almost all. And what he can’t give you that a man could, you can take care of yourself.”

  “But what if I’m using Dakota as an excuse to avoid men?” I countered.

  “Are you?”

  And that’s why I started dating again.

  At first, I thought Dakota would be a good screening device for men—if he didn’t like them, then it was probably a safe bet that I wouldn’t, either. This strategy collapsed when it became apparent that he was no judge of character. Dakota rolled over on his back to have his belly rubbed by every man who walked through the front door.

  My dog, it seemed, was a tramp.

  If he wasn’t such a good judge of character, Dakota’s personal habits were excellent at weeding out the too persnickety. Dakota’s a jowly dog, and it takes no effort on his part to swipe a band of drool across the leg of someone’s pressed trousers. Then there’s the aforementioned shedding, which pretty much guarantees that anyone walking into the house will be carrying a little bit of him out when they leave.

  This turned out to be a problem for very few people, and more than a few times I think they liked Dakota better than they liked me. There was the redhead with two dogs of his own who took to Dakota quite well; unfortunately, he also had such social phobias that he never wanted to go out anywhere, and my desire to do things that involved leaving the house proved too much of a hurdle for him.

  There was the Cuban from New York City who didn’t meet Dakota until after our short-lived, disastrous initial encounter. While there was no love lost between the two of us, I had to keep my eye on him lest he try to spirit away my dog. Then there was the Syrian doctor who was generally against dogs because of cultural reasons; Dakota managed to win him over, though, even when I couldn’t.

  By this point, hanging out with Dakota and a book seemed like the sanest option.

  They say you take on the traits of the pets you bring into your home, but I don’t think I became any more lovable or genial under his influence. I had hoped otherwise; I’ve always been a bit too bristly, a little too ready to shoot off my mouth. If any dog is the exact opposite of that, it’s Dakota. By all rights, I should probably own one of those little yappy dogs or a pit bull.

  As it turned out, the guy I did finally end up with, Mike, owns one of those little yappy dogs. Bonnie’s a lovable miniature Dachshund with seemingly limitless energy.

  She is also deaf as a post, high-strung, and occasionally snappish, especially after she wakes up. To Mike, Dakota seemed like a cakewalk in comparison.

  Dakota, though, is a big dog, and big dogs make big messes. And that’s where he has had at least one affect on me: He has made me much less slavish about keeping a scrupulously clean house. At my old house, I only vacuumed when little tufts of his fur rolled across the floor like tumbleweeds. The corners of doorways were smudged gray where he’d rubbed against them. The kitchen floor was best not discussed except to note that dog drool has remarkable adhesive powers.

  Mike was well aware of this, having spent a lot of time at my house during the first year we dated while his new home was being built. But it’s one thing to tolerate a dog’s mess when the house in question isn’t yours, which he discovered when I sold my house and moved in with him in October 2005.

  It’s still another thing when your dog starts exhibiting behavior that could get him sent back to the pound.

  I honestly didn’t know what to think when Dakota started acting out. Suddenly my perfectly behaved dog was peeing on anything in the house that was new to him.

  Whenever we turned our backs, he went down to the basement to find a new box to mark. He also took to eating the cats’ food, which explained his fishy breath.

  One evening before we went to bed, we decided to put him in the laundry room for the night to at least keep him from peeing on the carpet. It was an unnerving surprise the next morning to find him standing at the foot of the staircase when we came down—and to find the laundry room door gouged up, wide open, and some well-chewed dirty laundry scattered across the floor.

  I thought I was a terrible parent. This was like that mother you see in a grocery store with the child who’s screaming out of control, clutching the candy rack and refusing to let go. And I figured Mike was thinking the same thing, because after the laundry room incident, each conversation was tense with all the things we weren’t saying to each other: Why couldn’t I control my dog? Why couldn’t he lighten up?

  Dogs being the intuitive creatures they are, Dakota picked up on all this. I didn’t know dogs could frown until Dakota started slinking around with a long face, his head down. My child was miserable, and it was all my fault. I had taken him away from the only stable home he’d likely ever known, and he was letting me know that he didn’t like it.

  My friend Ryan said that our blended household reminded him of The Brady Bunch, only with pets instead of kids. If that’s the case, then Dakota was my Jan. I guess that made me Carol, and I wondered what Mrs. Brady would have done if she were forced to choose between her new husband and her troubled child. My vet said Dakota needed time to acclimate to the new house.”He’s just trying to get it to smell like him, ” she explained.”Once he’s made his mark on it, he should settle down.”

  My dog, it seemed, was a drama queen. I have no idea where he could have picked up that trait.

  The vet was right, though: After a couple of months, Dakota no longer seemed plagued by abandonment issues. He just needed time to understand that this new house was as much of a home as our old house, and I had to get used to the idea that my dog was not the perfect companion I had always believed him to be. Like anything else that’s worth doing, taking care of and training a dog can be hard work, and I had been spoiled up until then.

  I hadn’t been very patient, either, but then I hadn’t needed to be patient with Dakota before then. He’d made everything easy for me, and perhaps I had unrealistic expectations of him—as well as of Mike. We had never really argued about anything before then. If anything, he likes arguing less than I do. However, living with someone is bound to bring out things you didn’t anticipate
.

  There were a few more bumps in the road before Dakota settled down—a few more spots on the carpet, the screen door he tore in half. Carpets can be cleaned, though, and screen doors repaired. Chewed-up woodwork presents more of a challenge, and I haven’t gotten around to repairing that yet—mainly, I wanted to wait and see what else fell prey to Dakota’s anxiety. And to Mike’s credit, he didn’t press the issue.

  Whatever a house may look like, a home is messy, cluttered, and lived in. Since it is likely that I will always have a dog like Dakota, no home I live in will ever be a showpiece. Mike has also grown comfortable in his new home and with all the imperfections that make it look “lived in, ” which are inevitable when you share your place with two dogs and three cats.

  Likewise, a relationship is just as messy and cluttered as a home that’s overrun with animals. My single life with Dakota was reliable, predictable. In many ways, living with Mike is anything but that. Throwing in your lot together with someone else is a leap of faith. For every tense conversation or misunderstood remark, though, there is the cup of coffee poured before you ask for it, the light left on when you come upstairs at the end of the evening, and the little dog who tries to understand what you’re saying even though she’s deaf and can’t hear you.