by Ross Mathews
Pets welcome? A backyard? Craft store adjacent?!? Where do I sign?!?
Five minutes after I’d completed the paperwork and the place was officially mine, Operation Find Fido was in full swing. I told everyone I came in contact with to keep an eye out for the perfect dog. I left no stone unturned, reaching out to every person I knew—from my butcher, to my baker, to my candlestick maker.
Everyone in my life knew I was looking for my doggie soul mate, Louise. Yes, Louise. It was preordained, that would be her name. Why Louise, you ask? Five simple reasons: One, it’s a beautiful name. Two, three, and four, Louise is the middle name of my mother, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother. And five, on the rare occasions when my precocious puppy misbehaved at the dog park, I could sing out, “Geez, Louise!” while racing after her.
Almost as soon as the search party started, we struck gold. I got a call from a friend who was nearly hyperventilating with excitement. “Ross, I was just at the vet’s office where I saw the most amazing, teeny-tiny, fluffiest thing you could ever imagine. I think I might have found your Louise.”
I dropped everything and raced to my prospective new dog-ter’s side.
It turns out that a rescue organization had just saved a mom and her litter, consisting of three four-week-old puppies, from a cement pipe in a vacant lot amid the mean streets of South Central Los Angeles. Each teeny pup weighed no more than a pound and looked like an oversized ball of cotton. I rushed to meet them, and the instant I held the little girl puppy, fitting perfectly in the palm of my hand, she had me in the palm of hers.
Yep, I was wrapped around her little finger, which of course wasn’t really possible because she’s a dog with paws, but you get my point. She was the most precious, beautiful creature I’d ever seen. Obviously intelligent and inquisitive, she kept constant eye contact as I spoke to her. Her fur was softer than a fancy store-bought teddy bear, her puppy breath was the sweetest thing you’ve ever smelled (mark my words, whoever figures out how to bottle the scent of puppy breath and sell it on QVC will be a billionaire), and her chocolate-brown nose was exactly the same size as a Gummy Bear’s head.
I knew, without a doubt, I was finally meeting her, the Louise I’d been yearning for. And you know what? I was right. She was, and still remains, the most paw-fect little doggie angel face I’ve ever met. Well, she used to be the sole carrier of that title, but now she happily shares it with a four-pound Chihuahua named Mijo.
Fast-forward about five years. Louise is a vivacious, grown-up lady with two daddies: me and my partner, Salvador. Side note: in my next life I want to come back as the pampered pooch of two doting gay men. Can you say “center of attention”?
We had just returned from an Alaskan cruise and were positively exhausted. Starving and faced with an empty refrigerator, we did what all good same-sex couples do when short on food: we went hunting. Yep, we went hunting for artisanal cheeses and organic vegetables at our local farmers market.
Salvador knew the farmers market was one of my very favorite places. I love the neighborhood feel, the fresh produce, and, best of all, stopping to visit the doggies available for adoption. I’d been bugging him for months about the idea of adding to our family. “What do you think about getting another dog?” I’d often ask. “Don’t you think Louise deserves a little brother or sister?”
But Salvador always insisted that it was a bad idea. As much as I persisted, there was simply no changing his mind. That was why I was so shocked that day at the farmers market when, while passing the adoptable pooches on our way out as we had done every Sunday before, he pointed at—no joke—the smallest dog I had ever seen and matter-of-factly said, “That one.”
“Huh?” I was so confused.
“Look at that one. He’s, I don’t know…so cute. There’s just something about him.”
I’m not kidding you, the dog he was pointing at was less than half the size of the handmade chicken tamale I had just devoured while browsing for locally grown brussels sprouts.
The woman running the adoption agency approached us, smiling. “Do you wanna meet this little guy?” she asked while picking him up and placing him in Salvador’s already outstretched arms.
I started squealing and clapping, knowing it was a done deal. He went home with us that very night and we named him Mijo (a Spanish term of endearment meaning “my son”). From the moment we welcomed him into our casa, he and his big sis, Louise, have been inseparable.
Which brings us back to me, sitting here on the couch in LA, bookended by the best two friends a guy like me could ever hope for. These two dogs—combined—weigh a mere twelve pounds, but their impact on our lives has been immeasurable. Sure, one day Salvador and I hope to have human kids of our own, but until we hear the pitter-patter of little feet, we’re happy with the clickity-clack of paws with claws.
You see, the four of us are a family. Not only have they fulfilled my lifelong dream of being a doggy daddy to pint-sized pups, but they have also taught both Salvador and me so much. Louise came along right after my dad died and showed me that there can once again be joy after tragedy. Mijo helped teach Salvador a whole new level of unconditional love. And they both taught us a valuable lesson all parents should know: if you have dogs or children and you’re going to invest in expensive, high-quality, wall-to-wall carpet for your living room, avoid choosing a light color. May I suggest a deep dark brown? Trust me on this—no matter how hard you scrub, club soda doesn’t get everything out.
Chapter Eleven
Male Bonding
I know for a fact that I do not look good in camouflage. Who does? All those boring colors mixing together in an effort to blend in with your natural surroundings? As if ! I’m no wilderness wallflower! No, I pick out my clothes with the sole intent of standing out. ’Cuz honey, if you’ve got it, don’t camouflage it, camou-flaunt it! Besides, if I wanted to spend my days dressed in nothing but head-to-toe khaki and olive green, I would’ve become a Girl Scout (not a good idea—not only can I not start a campfire, but I’m not to be trusted around all those delicious cookies).
You should know by now that I would never dislike something without at least trying it first (need I remind you about my high school girlfriend, Carrie?). So, trust me when I tell you that camouflage is not my thing. I can talk the talk because I’ve walked the walk. And I did it in camouflage rubber hip-wader boots and matching waterproof jacket, accentuated with a red plaid Elmer Fudd cap.
Duck hunting was one of my dad’s passions. He loved the outdoors, the quality camaraderie of male bonding, and the thrill of the hunt. As a youngster, I’d always watch as he and my brother left for a day of tracking down defenseless ducks. As he loaded up the truck with duck decoys, boxes of ammunition, and a couple cases of Schmidt’s beer, my dad would pat me on the head and say, “Sorry, Rocky, you’re too young. Maybe in a few more years.”
I would feign disappointment, but was always secretly thrilled that I could just stay inside our warm and cozy house with my mom instead, helping her bake banana bread and learning how to properly load and unload the dishwasher. Eventually, the day came when I was old enough, at the ripe old age of eight, to accompany my dad out into the hunting fields.
“Put this on,” he said, tossing me a camouflage jacket two sizes too big.
I did as he said, slightly honored that I was being included and slightly mortified by just how horribly unflattering the jacket was. But, even at that young age, I knew that this was a rite of passage in our family and I wanted to make my dad proud, even at the risk of looking unfashionable.
I spent the better part of our outdoor adventure shivering in the tall grass of a duck blind snacking on mini powdered doughnuts and Slim Jims while reading my Little House on the Prairie book, nonchalantly glancing upward to see if the shotgun blast ringing in my ears had resulted in a bloody duck plummeting from the sky.
While they were killing defenseless animals, I couldn’t help but feel like I was a real buzzkill. So, in an attempt to imp
ress my dad and his hunting buddies, I decided to finally stop dragging my feet, pull my nose out of the book, and just pull the trigger, literally.
The shotgun was heavier than I thought it would be, but I liked holding it, even though it was about as long as I was tall. I felt manly, like Kevin Costner in Dances with Wolves, only my movie would have been called Prances with Puppies. The only other time I had held a gun was at the county fair, but that gun was plastic and shot water at a tiny clown’s mouth.
As I struggled to lift his gun to my shoulder, my dad watched, beaming with pride. “Okay,” he whispered. “Close one eye and just use the scope to aim. Steady…Now, slowly pull the trigger.”
I closed my eyes and held my breath as my chubby little finger squeezed the trigger. The violent kickback from the rifle resulted in two unexpected things: a nasty bruise on my shootin’ shoulder, and a high-frequency scream from yours truly echoing across the countryside. Not exactly the effect I was going for. Needless to say, I renewed my library card, but not my hunting license.
Fishing, however, was more my cup of tea. I quite enjoyed the fresh air, the serene, soothing sounds of the water and, most of all, the stop-off at 7-Eleven on the way to the lake (fish may eat earthworms, but I have always preferred the gummy variety). Some of my favorite father-son memories revolve around those quiet moments floating on a lake in a minuscule metal dinghy of a boat, my dad sitting in the back near the small, toylike motor, flicking cigarette ash into the lake. I loved watching him steer from where I was seated in the front of the boat on a makeshift chair made out of a spare lifejacket and an old red-and-white cooler filled with bologna, Shasta grape soda, and beer.
I would stare directly at the end of my fishing pole, waiting—sometimes for hours—to feel a jolt, and for the tip of the pole to jerk down suddenly toward the water, a sure sign that I’d hooked a big one!
I was actually quite adept at reeling in a fish. The trick is in the wrist. Once I’d spun the handle what seemed like a thousand times, the fish would begin to appear, blurry at first, but clearer and clearer as it rose to the surface. This was where my job ended and my dad’s began. As fun and exhilarating as it was to hook a fish, I wasn’t about to actually touch the slimy thing once it came out of the water. Eww.
My dad never complained about doing the dirty work. Instead, he would just roll up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, yank the hook out of the fish’s mouth and whack it on the head with a wrench until it stopped wiggling. What a man.
On the rare occasions when we would encounter a dry spell while fishing, I never panicked. My dad taught me a surefire chant to beckon the fish that I’ll never forget. After a few hours of unsuccessful fishing, he’d say, “Well, Rocky, I think it’s time for the chant.”
Without hesitation, I’d jump up in the middle of our little boat, forcing it to rock from side to side. Once I’d balanced myself, I’d look toward the heavens and shout the fishing chant my father had taught me: “Rat shit bat shit dirty old twat! Thirty-seven assholes tied in a knot! Yay lizard shit!”
Without fail, it always worked. I shit you not.
Oh, how I loved spending quality time with my dad. I savored those moments and yearned to find even more over which we could bond. My next attempt didn’t just go well. In fact, you could say I scored a touchdown.
It might surprise you to know that, between manicures, happy hour, brunch, and watching makeover shows, I have had, since childhood, a hidden passion that takes up much of my time. So, what’s my shocking secret? I’m a sucker for shoulder pads, and not just on my Golden Girls. Yes, believe it or not, I’m a huge football fan, just like any other normal red-blooded American boy!
I’ve been hut-hut-hikin’ ever since I was a pint-sized pee-wee, watching football with my dad and brother every Sunday and Monday during the NFL season. Yeah, there’s no doubt about it—we Mathews men really go hog wild for the ol’ pigskin!
Are you surprised to hear I’m a fabulously fervent football fanatic? Don’t be. I’m a very complicated person. I have more complexities than my delicious seven-layer dip, which always wins Most Valuable Player at my annual Super Bowl party buffet.
Watching and discussing football has just always been something I do, like brushing my teeth or improving every outfit I wear with a pair of brightly colored socks. It’s just deeply ingrained in the fabric of who I am (and I’m not talking about a poly-cotton blend, people).
It kind of bugs me when people find out about my fondness for football and instantly assume, “Oh, Ross, you just watch because you like the beefy guys in tight pants.”
That kind of knee-jerk gut reaction makes me want to knee those jerks in the gut! That’s like saying straight men only watch professional figure skating to see the ladies in their skimpy outfits. That’s ridiculous! I’ll have you know that they watch figure skating for the sheer artistry of the sport, just like I do. Know what I mean? Or should I say, “Brian Boitan-know-what-I-mean”?
No, I happen to have a vast knowledge of the game of football itself. But to be perfectly honest, I fell in love with it by accident. As a kid, the real reason I gave football any attention at all was to spend time with my own personal MVP, my dad.
He simply lived for football, and by watching the games together, we found a mutual interest to bond over. For some strange reason, he wasn’t into the things I was, like debating whether or not Dylan should choose Brenda over Kelly on Beverly Hills 90210 or organizing Skittles by color.
So, with football as our common ground, I began rooting for my dad’s favorite team, the Seattle Seahawks. Oh, our beloved Seahawks. Sure, they’ve rarely ever been any good, bless their hearts. Most years, any high hopes for Super Bowl championship glory are dashed by about the fifth game of the season when their record is usually something like a dismal 1-4, but still, we are the “twelfth man” (football term—look it up) and refuse to be fair-weather fans.
I used to daydream about growing up and becoming a player for the Seahawks one day. I imagined putting on my blue-and-green uniform with matching shoelaces and painting black stripes under my eyes. Not only would the stripes keep the glare of the bright stadium lights away, but they would also really accentuate my cheekbones. I’d sip on orange Gatorade with Steve Largent (#80 and my mom’s favorite player) while trash-talkin’ about the other team’s poor hygiene and bad grooming habits until it was game time. And as I’d walk out onto the Kingdome field, I’d smile and wave to my dad, who’d be beaming with pride right in the front row at the fifty-yard line.
That would’ve been awesome, right? But as much as I loved watching sports, I was about as naturally athletic as a ceramic garden gnome. Despite limitations, I decided to take one for the team and give sports a try.
When I was about eight or nine years old, it was my dad’s encouragement that led me to try T-ball, which is basically like softball with training wheels. As simple as the game was, I still sucked big time. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to spend an entire season wildly swinging a bat at a ball that’s just sitting on a tee in front of you and striking out every single time? I do, and it’s not fun.
It was even worse when the other team was up to bat. I’d just stand around in the outfield making dandelion necklaces while waiting for a pop fly that would never, ever come. You call that cardio? Please, I’ve burned more calories lounging on the couch while watching reruns of Family Feud.
There were nice moments, though, like Capri Suns and apple slices with peanut butter after each game. Also, we had some seriously dapper pinstriped uniforms that we bought after selling candy bars. And what I lacked in God-given athletic talent, I more than made up for in morale-boosting bravado. I mostly served as comic relief on the team, which I enjoyed because I felt very much like Rosie O’Donnell in A League of Their Own.
Next, I tried my hand at soccer. I was slightly better at it than T-ball, but that’s not saying much. Without a doubt, my favorite part of being on the soccer team was photo day. I loved ironing m
y team T-shirt and bleaching my shin guards and then jockeying for position in the team photo (I always wanted to be kneeling in the front row because that angle minimized my double chin).
My least favorite part, by far, was when we played scrimmage. Why? Three horrifying, soul-crushing, panic-inducing words: Shirts vs. Skins. If you’re thinking to yourself, Why is that so scary? consider yourself lucky. We chipmunk-cheeked chubby chaps know all too well the humiliation involved in the public baring of our pasty and pudgy prepubescent torsos.
Huffing and puffing across a soccer field was one thing, but the mere thought of doing it as a “skin” with my fully exposed man boobs bouncing up and down like Dolly Parton during an earthquake was crossing the line. Fortunately, there are perks when your dad is the coach and he knows you have low self-esteem. Thanks to him, my jersey always stayed on.
I played soccer for five years and scored only one goal. Well, technically one goal, but I didn’t really earn it, at least not in the traditional way. But, still, it totally counts.
It happened in the last quarter of the last game of my soccer career. The score was tied with mere seconds left. I was doing what I usually did during a game, feigning interest in the action at the opposite end of the field while counting down the minutes until our postgame party at Godfather’s Pizza. Out of nowhere, the ball came barreling toward me at, like, a gazillion miles per hour. I looked left, I looked right, but there was nowhere to run. Before I could duck, the soccer ball hit me square in the chest, taking the breath right out of my lungs and knocking me flat on my back.
Mother Hubbard, that hurt! Before I could cry out in pain, I rolled into the fetal position just in time to witness something I had never seen before: a soccer ball, just touched by me, rolling directly into the opponent’s goal. I had just accidentally scored the winning point. The crowd went wild.
