Hey, I was just a puppy then. I didn’t know any better. Anyway, it was just a few Hershey’s Kisses.
Well, maybe more than a few.
Don’t judge.
But past mistakes no longer mattered, even present mistakes didn’t matter, because right then I heard a new voice penetrating my fog of pain and discomfort.
“Gatz!” the new voice cried.
It was The Woman.
She must’ve dropped everything and hopped in a cab the minute she got off the phone with The Man. God, I loved this woman.
And then she was dropping her things inside the doorway, barely giving The Man a once-over, her eyes finally noticing those wet, raw feet.
“Your poor feet!” she exclaimed in sympathy.
See? She still cares about him! I thought.
But The Man just shook his head—like his own discomfort didn’t matter, not one bit—and then she was hurrying to my side, across from The Man on the other side. Soon, each was holding one of my paws. This couldn’t have been going any better if I’d planned it. OK, I had planned it. But can you blame me? Anyone seeing these two together had to see what I saw: they were made for each other.
If I hadn’t felt so lousy, I would have been ecstatic.
Across the examination table, their eyes met.
This was it, the moment we’d all been waiting for . . .
“Hi,” The Man said.
“Hi,” The Woman said.
Yes! They were saying hi to each other!
“Gatz,” she said, “how could you do this? You know better.”
Me knowing better seemed to be the recurrent theme of the day.
Yeah, I thought, feeling myself go all hangdog, for want of a better way to put it, I do. But someone had to do something to bring you two crazy kids back together.
And they really were together, because The Man reached an open hand across my body, and The Woman took it, practically causing me to squeal with uncomplicated joy, and The Man said, “It’s going to be OK. It has to be.”
In that moment, I tell you, everything was right in my world.
Even if I died today, it would be OK.
The Man smiled at The Woman warmly, and she smiled back: bliss, at least for me.
“How did this happen?” The Woman said. And again the refrain: “Gatz knows better.”
Then she looked around the room, and something made the soft expression go out of her eyes. Instead, her eyes hardened as the hand holding my paw stiffened.
“Valentine’s Day chocolates?” she asked The Man, sounding wounded. “Who were those for?”
Ah, crap.
That’s not how this was supposed to go.
Chapter Two
Three years earlier . . .
It was love at first sight. The minute he walked into the animal rescue shelter, I knew he was the one.
All I knew about my humble origins was that I’d been abandoned at the shelter with my three littermates, none of whom I ever saw again. One shelter worker had said to the other, “I’ll never understand how people who live in the city can not fix their dogs”; to which her coworker had replied, “Well, if they all did, we’d be out of a job.” And that was that.
It was a day like any other day in the land of desperation, the smell of group urine high in the air. There were all kinds of dogs with snouts pressed up against the front of their cages for as far as my eye could see, all eagerly barking at the potential owners walking by. They all wanted to be adopted by someone, anyone.
Even if it was love at first sight, it’s not like I didn’t have other offers.
Many had tried to adopt me, but I’d held out waiting for the real thing to come along.
It wasn’t always easy, the waiting. In fact, it was exactly as hard as Tom Petty said it was. Sure, I’d chase my tail until I was dizzy, I’d pounce on random shadows or rays of light, I’d eat literally anything I found on the floor—once I ate a button, not something I’d recommend. In fact, I engaged in all manner of puppy self-entertainment. But still, the waiting was hard. No one likes to be kept in a cage. Even if it’s pretty much all you’ve ever known, you still know it’s no way to live.
Big dogs, small dogs, deranged dogs, cute dogs: no matter what their strengths, or lack thereof, no one was paying any attention to them. Because none of the customers stopped until they got to my cage.
The ones who tried to adopt me may have seemed infinite in their variety, but in the end it all boiled down to the same problem.
Take the first couple who tried: two men in their twenties, expensive but stylish suits, identical pairs of Warby Parker in place. We’ll call them Corporate Man #1 and Corporate Man #2, since the only real thing distinguishing them for our purposes is that #2’s wedding ring was far more ornate than #1’s.
They squatted in front of my cage, careful not to let the knees of their suits come in contact with the questionable concrete floor, oohing and aahing over how cute I was.
Trust me, this was nothing I hadn’t heard before.
“I’m telling you, babe,” #1 said, “this is the dog.”
“Seriously,” #2 said. “Is there a cuter dog in all of Brooklyn?”
These two might’ve thought I’d make the perfect addition to their family, but I knew their kind. I’d already seen them, many times before: busy-busy professionals who’d leave me to my own devices for ridiculously long stretches of the day and night. Why’d they even want a dog in the first place? With these two, I’d be home alone all the time, just another trophy dog. The way I figured it, if these two wanted a pet so badly, they could get a turtle. Or a goldfish. I didn’t really care. The only thing I did care about was that there was no way I was going to let these two adopt this guy.
And to make sure that would never, ever happen, I began barking violently, transforming myself into a holy terror, embarking on a string of barks that would’ve made Cujo look like Lassie. It wasn’t long before the two men were backing away, horrified.
“Fine, buddy,” #2 said, “we’ll look somewhere else. Jesus . . .”
Yeah, that’s right, I thought, barking hard at their retreating backs to ensure they didn’t even think of changing their minds again, go look somewhere else. And while you’re looking somewhere else, you might rethink your policy of addressing living beings you’ve barely met as “buddy”!
I could hear the other dogs squealing in my general direction, desperately hoping to draw some of the attention away from me. Trust me, I wouldn’t have minded if they’d succeeded. But alas, no.
Next up was your classic nuclear family: bored father, uptight wife, a boy and a girl—about two years apart—in soccer uniforms, fighting over dad’s cell phone. I figured if the parents could’ve found a way to have 2.4 kids, instead of two, they’d have gone for it to achieve perfect nuclear family status.
The uptight wife gazed in at me, her aspirations clear in her eyes.
“Oh my god, he’s so cute!” she squealed. “Charles, take a look.”
It was apparent that Bored Husband hadn’t been asked for his opinion on anything in a very long time, but when he glanced over at me, I could see that he was struck by my beauty. For the first time in probably forever for him, he didn’t look bored.
“Oh, wow, honey,” he gushed, “he is so cute!” And then he focused his attention more closely on me. “You are so cute! Yes, you are!”
Oh brother.
The kids, no doubt shocked to hear their dad’s voice shoot up to such a high octave, looked over to see what all the fuss was about. Instantly spellbound, their dad’s cell phone forgotten for the time being, they joined their parents in front of my cage.
The boy and girl spoke rapidly and simultaneously, but it’s impossible for me to re-create that without making myself mentally dizzy and physically nauseous, so I’ll simply recount them
one after another.
From the little boy: “Oh my god, he’s so cute! He is the cutest dog! Can we get him, can we get him? Now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now, now—”
And from the little girl: “He’s so cute, so perfectly cute! All I want to do is put him in a mini soccer uniform and show all my friends so that everyone else can see how perfectly cute—”
Yawn. I’d been over these 2.4-wannabes since the moment they approached my cage.
Hey, I like a compliment as much as the next dog, but come up with something original at least; maybe try a different adjective. I mean, come on, I already knew I was cute.
Out of patience, I let loose another series of demonic barks. Goodbye, Snoopy; and hello, Cerberus, aka the hound of Hades, aka the multiheaded devil dog who guards the gates to the Underworld and prevents the dead from leaving.
Who’s cute now? I thought.
Finally getting the message that I was no docile lapdog, Nuclear Family’s collective eyes went wide and then they bolted away from my cage. Now, they couldn’t get away from me fast enough, but before they could entirely escape the building, I saw a harried shelter worker rush after them, desperately pleading, “He’s not really like this! He’s usually so nice!”
But it was too late. They were gone, and good riddance.
The shelter worker made her way back to my cage and squatted down before me.
“Why are you being like this, boy?” she asked in a puzzled voice. “I know you’re a good dog; I mean, a really good dog.”
Well, of course I’m a good dog. Duh.
The shelter worked added, more puzzled yet, “Don’t you want to get adopted? Don’t you want to go to a good home?”
Yes and yes, the operative word here being “good.”
No way was I going to let myself be adopted by an inferior grouping of humans.
Shrugging, the shelter worker scratched my belly until she got called away to attend to some minor emergency. Grinning and satisfied with how I was handling my day so far, I curled up for a nap.
I don’t know how much time had passed, but I was in that half-waking/half-sleeping twilight zone—you know the one I’m talking about, the one where you see images of yourself living your best life and it feels so real, you’re sure it just has to be really happening—when I heard a click that sounded completely wrong somehow, and instantly, I was fully awake.
Where the hell did she come from? was all I could think.
Because there before me—In. My. Cage.—was a little girl who might just as well have had a sign over her head announcing her name as being Hell on Earth.
Covered in glitter, pigtailed, retainer clad—I swear she was even drooling. Can you imagine anything worse to wake up to? And did I mention the part about her being In. My. Cage???
But how did she . . .
Why would she . . .
I opened my mouth to bark, hoping to draw the attention of the kindly shelter worker so she could fix this egregious breach of shelter etiquette. But for once, all that came out was a quiet whimper. Hell on Earth was so hellish, she’d scared the bark right out of me.
And you know what was worse?
When she put her face close to mine and said, “Oh, she’s so cute!”
She? She? Could Hell on Earth not see the evidence of maleness dangling proudly between my legs?
What an insult!
Sure, I’d been fixed—I remember right before they performed the procedure, one shelter worker telling me that it wouldn’t hurt, that it was for my own good, that there were already too many unwanted puppies (a sad thought, that) in the world—but hey, I still had The Main Event!
I scurried backward, away from this monstrosity of a human child. But before I could get out even another pathetic little whimper, Hell on Earth had swiftly grabbed me by the fur, dragging me outside my cage. Normally, I’d love to get outside my cage. But not under these circumstances.
Then she proceeded to lift me in the air, hoisting me upward in her odious hands in the most undignified way possible—on my back, clutched to her chest like I was some kind of . . . cat. Then she pushed her face right into mine as she intoned the dreaded words:
“You’re mine now, doggo.”
Did I mention that she held me like a cat?
’Nuff said.
If she was going to push her face into mine, then I was going to push mine right back into hers, forehead drilling into forehead. Then, finally finding my voice again, I let out my most sadistic, wolverine barks yet. This time, I was Cujo and Cerberus, combined.
If I must say so myself, I was glorious.
With a shriek, Hell on Earth practically threw me to the ground, patently disgusted with my behavior.
Honey, I thought, that makes two of us.
And, as she walked away, I further thought, Get the Pomeranian— you two deserve each other. Plus, she’s actually a she!
But pleased with my own behavior as I was, as I brushed myself off and slunk back into my cage, I have to admit, I was starting to feel defeated.
Was I never going to find a right-for-me forever home?
I’m not sure how much time had passed, but I was slumped over, head on my paws, feeling dejected about my depressing slew of options. It was in this sorry state that I pressed my jowls against the mesh of the cage, my eyes tracking down the long concrete corridor to the door at the far end. What I saw there intrigued me, instantly perking up my emotional state.
He walked in . . .
At the door was The Man, my first-ever sighting of him. There he stood, in all his disheveled glory, looking around at the shelter like he wasn’t sure if he’d come to the right place or if he should even be there at all.
But if he was uncertain, for the first time in my life, I was completely certain.
And who wouldn’t be?
Because as he stood there at the end of the corridor, it was as though a halo of yellow light shot rays outward from around his head—you know, like you see in portraits of Jesus. OK, so maybe it was the fluorescent bulb overhead creating the effect, but I don’t think so. After all, I hadn’t seen this happen to anyone else who walked through the doors.
His eyes traveled around the space, and I could see disappointment in them, mirroring the disappointment I’d felt earlier. He began to turn away, and I realized he hadn’t seen me yet. Desperate for him not to go, I pressed my snout farther into the wire mesh and commenced to barking, only this time, these weren’t the menacing barks I’d let out earlier; these were friendly, come-hither, enticing, I-want-you-to-fall-in-love-with-me-like-I’m-falling-in-love-with-you barks.
He turned back, his eyes locking onto mine. No longer did he look disappointed. On the contrary, I could practically hear the music swelling around us as we connected. As if enchanted, he moved past the line of barking dogs and straight up to my cage. But when he got there, rather than coming on too strong, like everyone else did, when he crouched down, he maintained a respectful distance between us.
“Hey, buddy,” he started.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t mind someone calling me “buddy.” Not when he said it.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” he went on. “I’m—”
I must confess, I was so besotted at this point that I didn’t catch his name or anything else he said immediately. I was so entranced that the specifics of the sounds he was making didn’t register in my ears, and from this moment onward, he would forever be The Man to me. There might be other men on the planet—billions of them, in fact—but there would only ever be one The Man.
When I calmed down enough to register specific words again, I tuned in just in time to hear him say, “Gosh, I’d sure love to have you come home with me, but of course, it’s entirely up to you.”
I wagged my tail a bit.
Yes! He cared about my o
pinion of things!
“Let me tell you a little bit about myself,” The Man said, “to maybe help you decide. So, um, I’m a writer. That means I’m home a lot . . .”
I wagged my tail harder.
Yes! YES!
“Actually, I don’t like going out,” The Man went on, “so really, I’m home almost all the time . . .”
I wagged my tail so hard it was like a wagging blur.
YES! YES! I’d hardly ever be alone!
“But I’ll give you your space too,” he said. “I do know how important that is . . .”
He was nice but not too nice, intelligent but not too intelligent—what more could I want? Plus, he smelled like all the best foods.
“I understand if you want to go in a different direction,” The Man said. “I’m sure you’ve had a lot of other offers.”
Well, sure. But not like this.
“But if you decide—”
I couldn’t stand it anymore. If that Hell on Earth nightmare had figured out how to unlock the cage, I figured it couldn’t be too hard. So that’s exactly what I did, bursting out of the cage and jumping straight into The Man’s open arms, covering his face in loving licks.
“Well, OK then!” The Man said. “I guess that settles that!”
And then he looked down at me, with all the love in the world.
Chapter Three
Still three years ago . . .
The paperwork took a long time, but then, before I knew it, we were out of that hellhole. OK, so maybe it wasn’t a hellhole at all, and the shelter workers were all very nice to me, but still . . .
I was on my way to my forever home!
But first, we had to get there.
And that was OK too. Picture us: just a couple of cool dudes, walking down the street together side by side, hanging out, not a care to trouble us. Everything was right with our world.
I did lunge at car horns, I tried to eat things off the ground until The Man gently stopped me, I sniffed at dog butts whenever they passed going the other way—but hey, the outside world was all so new to me.
Of course, we’d have made quicker progress toward our goal were it not for all the people who tried to stop us. People say New Yorkers are aloof—cold, even—but that’s never been my experience. So many of them tried to stop The Man, commenting on how cute I was. Even though that’s not my favorite compliment, which has been previously stated, I do enjoy being adored. Inevitably, though, the people would want to pet me, to which The Man said no. I appreciated that about him, since just because I like being adored, it doesn’t mean I want strangers’ hands all over me twenty-four seven. Would you?
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