by Bark Editors
I reach out to Rod Lukey at Intelligent Products in Rabbit Hash, Kentucky, where the Mutt Mitt is manufactured. I explain my whole not-being-a-dog-guy problem, and then I ask him why on earth anyone should spend hard-earned money on something that grocery stores hand out for free.
“The Mutt Mitt’s protection and functionality are what separate it from a bag,” Rod says. “It’s constructed with a degradable film approximately twice as thick as that of an ordinary grocery bag.”
And that’s where he’s got me. A normal plastic grocery bag is only between .5 and .75 millimeters in thickness, which is great for carrying boxes of Hot Pockets and Hamburger Helper, but for picking up caca, I’m gonna need the full 1.25 millimeters of protection that bags like the Mitt provide. Also, grocery store bags end up festering in landfills for hundreds of years, while the Mutt Mitt “degrades” or decomposes in any environment.
“And, unlike a regular bag,” says Rod, “the mitt has a pouch, which provides an area to store the collected material.”
Rod, who has a yellow Lab named Boone, then goes on to describe the types of people who use products like the Mutt Mitt. I am most interested in his fourth category:
Squirmers.
“Squirmers,” he explains, “fear the idea of picking up after their pet, but recognize it as a social expectation. They consider the process discomforting, and will often walk away from the problem rather than confronting it. We estimate that squirmers are 95 percent male and 5 percent female.”
That’s it! Not only am I a flincher, but I’m also a squirmer. As a kid, I was always amazed at my mother’s ability to handle grossness without cringing (let’s just say that when a kid is five and he has to go, he really has to go), and I assumed it was just because she grew up on a farm. But it was because she’s a woman! All of this unrelenting emasculation I’ve been feeling during all these years of doglessness was just in my head. As a guy, I’m simply not hardwired to handle gross stuff.
I think that, with a little help, this is a hurdle I can actually overcome. Twenty-six-year-old Kate Morris, who founded Vancouver’s Doody Duty, seems to think I can. Doody Duty is one of those services that comes to your house once or twice a week and takes care of the doody, so you don’t have to. Obviously, if I had a yard, this would be the perfect choice for a guy like me (my wife tells me they have such services for baby diapers too!), but I’m contacting Kate, not to order her service, but for some sound advice.
“I recommend a visualization technique,” she says.
Good. Go on…
“Picture the doody being something other than what it is.”
Such as?
“Something like clumpy dirt or soggy bark,” she says. “However, for our company we see it as gold.”
She’s not joking. Some estimates say that the poop-pickup industry in America pulls in a cool $20 million a year, in part, no doubt, because these types of services charge around $20 a week for a thorough cleanup. I’m beginning to consider a career change.
A Call for Help II
I call my friend Ian again. I confess to him that at the heart of my original call is a need to cure myself of this aversion to things that look like soggy bark.
After some tongue clicking and sighing, he says, “Look, changing my kids’ diapers was never a problem for me, and it was good training for picking up after our dogs.”
“Hmm,” I say, “maybe some day I’ll get one.”
“One what?” he asks.
“A dog,” I say. “Whaddaya think?”
“You don’t deserve a dog,” he says.
Head Case
I finally do what I probably should have done from the start. I get in touch with a psychiatrist. I tell her that I like dogs and babies and all, but that maybe my wife’s right, maybe I’m not responsible enough to have either. I tell her about my history of excuses, how I fear commitment, and worse, that my new excuse—that I’m disgusted by dung—while true, might not be a very good one. This is a woman with decades in her field, credentials out the wazoo, and I know for a fact that she’s treated just about every kind of psychosis imaginable. Still, I’m almost shocked when she tells me that she once treated a poop-phobic patient.
“We worked for weeks walking around poop,” says the psychiatrist, who’d prefer not to be identified for fear that she’ll somehow be forever associated with this particular subject. “Then one day I moved into putting poop on a stick and showing it to her. That day she literally used one-quarter can of Lysol on her body. Back then we didn’t know that a single phobia is sometimes a healthy alternative to total anxiety. I think she became germ phobic.”
“Crap,” I say, “I can’t become germ phobic, too!”
Pretty soon she stops sounding like a shrink and more like a dog owner. She tells me that she has a seven-month-old Lab who is almost completely potty trained, and that she really loves it. Then it becomes clear that she has absolutely zero compassion for my plight, and she might even consider mea…wait for it…nincompoop.
“Hey,” she says, “when I smell crap, it makes me want to throw up. In fact, now that I’m a grandmother, I only change pee diapers. Still, the only way to do it is immediately. Buy good-smelling poop bags and attack the foul stuff pronto. No human being enjoys any other living thing’s poop. It only happens a few times a day, and the snuggles the rest of the time make up for it.”
She’s right, too, and besides, how long does it take to actually pick up? And millions of parents change their babies’ diapers every day. Perhaps it’s possible that the good far outweighs the bad, and to be honest, forever being snuggled doesn’t sound too terrible. But still, I wonder, all things considered, is all of that unconditional love really worth it?
[When your dog barks with other dogs, you feel a bit left out.—Dan Liebert]
Pillow Talk
[Gregory Edmont]
ALTHOUGH MY DALMATIAN’S prognosis was good and his body had been spared the potentially unpleasant side effects of eighteen weeks of chemotherapy, he seemed to be taking leave of his senses. At first I thought it might be a result of sunstroke—so that we could more easily commute to UC Davis for bimonthly injections, we had taken up residence in Palm Springs, and JP would not be dissuaded from basking his liver spots all afternoon in the desert sun. But an oncologist friend and fellow anthropomorphist diagnosed his uncharacteristically gregarious and happy-go-lucky condition as “chemo-brain.”
His irreproachable table manners were the first to go. He had not missed a single meal during treatment, and for that I was grateful, but his healthy appetite became a ravenous obsession with all things edible (mostly mine) and some things not. He had never so much as eyed a table scrap, and yet, at a gathering in his honor, he celebrated his good fortune by helping himself to a prime slab of marinating rib-eye. Before I realized that I was one short on the grill, he had methodically tenderized it with his incisors and devoured it, much to the amusement of our friends, who thought it unnecessary to alert me, and all the more reason for them to marvel over his recovery. Used napkins, worn socks, and pretty much anything else fragrant began to disappear…only to reappear a day or two later, partially digested, atop JP’s personal compost pile in the backyard. But the most noticeable personality shift occurred a few weeks later when he developed a newfound appreciation for less savory things: loud, shrill toys…and children of any pitch.
“Get off me!” JP and I were awakened by a mechanical, meowing voice that screeched from somewhere too close as we lay by the pool on a warm, windy day. “G-g-g-g-get-get off me!” it stuttered, before emitting a clown-like guffaw, followed by human squeals of delight. JP’s hind legs stopped chasing the beasts of his slumber, and he eased open one eye as if to determine which state of consciousness held the current menace.
“He bite?” asked a steely-eyed, charcoal-haired boy of about seven loudly enough to drown out the pleas of a talking cat-shaped toy pillow, on which he jumped up and down while brandishing a plastic gun. JP opened his
other eye and exhaled dramatically when he realized that he was awake, and that the new gardener had arrived with a motorized hedge trimmer and an equally earsplitting child. “He better not…or else BAM!” He took aim with his weapon and jiggled an index finger on the trigger.
“He hasn’t so far….” I said. The boy frowned, as if disappointed by JP’s noncombative nature.
“Jacob!” shouted the gardener, a rugged man in his late thirties with the same long black hair and cold expression as his son. “I told you not to speak to the clients! And wash that dirt off you!” The boy’s face and shirt were smeared with it.
“It’s not dirt, it’s candy,” he corrected, shaking his head in smug exasperation. Chemo-brain or not, JP’s extensive vocabulary hadn’t suffered, and at the word “candy” his nose perked up. He slid off his lounge chair, stretched his aching muscles, and strolled over to Jacob.
“Where’d you steal it?” his father demanded. Jacob was silent, preoccupied with JP, who had begun to lick all traces of the brown, sugary substance from him. Once Jacob was cleaned and glistening, JP stared at him for a long moment, thoughtfully, with one of his unwavering, soul-piercing looks, until the boy cracked a wicked smile. With impressive speed and disconcerting strength, he shimmied up a small palm tree, tore off a fan and then tossed it into the pool. “Fetch!”
“He doesn’t fe—” I began. JP turned around and propelled himself into the air, legs splayed, and landed in a belly-flop in the pool. If JP had previously found anything to be on a par of undesirability with rambunctious little humans, it was coming into contact with cold, chlorinated water. With the palm fan clenched diagonally in his teeth and spanning nearly the length of his body, he dogpaddled to the steps, climbed out, shook himself off and began to gnaw at his prize, all the while eyeing the cat pillow.
“Want it?” Jacob teasingly snatched it up.
“No, he doesn’t,” I said. Of one thing I was still certain: no matter how tired he was, JP only ever liked to sleep on fabric that bore my unique odor—it was a comfort thing. Nonetheless, Jacob defiantly tossed the pillow at JP…who proceeded to lie down on the grass and bury his nose in the center of it.
“’Night, ’night,” the pillow cooed. JP sighed, closed his eyes and drifted off, oblivious to my astonishment, and to the tedious popping sounds and rubber balls of ammunition that flew past his head.
The next three Saturday mornings, JP lay in the front yard until the gardener’s truck pulled in the drive and Jacob leapt out to greet him, flourishing Mr. Cat, his moniker for the talking pillow with its never-ending repertoire of quips. A bewildering and profound attachment soon took root between the two dissimilar beings: after brief but fatiguing bouts of rough-housing between young boy and old dog, in which the latter would tongue-bathe the former from finger to chin, JP and Jacob would lay their weary heads down on Mr. Cat and doze until the lawn was mowed.
At noon on the fourth week, his sidekick hadn’t arrived. JP grew restless, started to pace and then bark. I managed to buy his silence, briefly, with a pig’s ear, but his anxiety subsided only when a soft tapping at the door later in the afternoon revealed Jacob, disheveled, red-eyed…and alone. In one hand he carried a raggedy overnight bag, in the other, Mr. Cat. JP gently took the pillow from him and carried it away. For the first time, Jacob made tentative, pleading eye contact with me…and then followed JP to his room.
Jacob had managed to conceal himself beneath a tarpaulin in the flatbed of the gardening truck when he saw his father being arrested. The police department advised me that the man faced a lengthy prison sentence and that his son had no capable relatives to care for him. I was referred to a local child welfare agency, which sent two particularly dog-friendly officials to the house—even though I was required to undergo the background check and psychological evaluation, it was the canine-human bond JP shared with Jacob that convinced them he belonged in our home.
By the time of the adoption interview later in the year, I had long ceased to question why JP had so hungrily accepted the child. I assured the social worker that I had no regrets—in a matter of months, Jacob had become as docile and loving as JP, and we had all three become an inseparable family—although Jacob admitted one discontentment to her: in his haste to reach JP, the first creature ever to slobber him with affection, he had forgotten to pack the key to the talking pillow’s secret compartment, which concealed a package of York Peppermint Patties. It didn’t matter whether we owed our familial bliss to a temporary case of chemo-brain; a soul’s desire to live more fully after a brush with death; or a sweet tooth, pure and simple—it was a true story of dog rescuing human. I smiled at JP, who lay beside Jacob, his nose nestled in the fragrant belly of Mr. Cat.
The Seven-Month Itch
[Nancy Cohen]
KENYON SLEEPS in our bed. And not just in the bed, but nestled between my husband and me, mostly against me. I fall asleep holding his tiny Terrier ribcage in my palm with his warm back pressed against my chest. As I synchronize my breaths with his, I often think we could open a doggie/human pranayama yoga studio teaching this stuff. (I live in L.A.) And sometimes, if the mood’s just right, he uses my head as his pillow—which, of course, I take as quite the compliment. He’s my twenty-two-pound dose of Xanax.
I awake one morning to Kenyon licking my face like I’ve just dipped it in squirrel-flavored ice cream. Although this feels damn good, I can’t help but wonder if my canine alarm clock is telling me something’s wrong, like the time he wagged his tail extra hard not to show how much he loved me but because he had a kidney infection. So I get up to see what the big deal is re: my face. EWWW! I have swollen red welts under my eyes and around my mouth, neck, and jawline. Hours later, the welts morph into bigger, redder welts. And later on, they puff up. Then flake off. Now I have clumps of dry, scaly wrinkles. This is not pretty, especially in L.A. No wonder Kenyon woke me.
I pack K-Mutt in the car. (I recently counted; Kenyon has twenty-four nicknames.) We head to a fancy dermatologist in Beverly Hills, which Einstein Eyebrows is up for, because as long as there’s an open window and air shot up his nose at 65 mph he’s happy. The doctor gives me a prescription cream to use sparingly. “It can tear the facial skin,” he says. What’s not pretty in any city? Seeing a woman’s veins through her face.
My neighbor with perfect skin notices my complexion through Wiggly Worm’s nose-printed car window. “You have to see my ayurvedist,” she insists, even after I insist I have no idea what one is. Finally Captain Triangle-Teeth and I agree to some ayurveda-ing and wind up at the only not-nice house in the Pacific Palisades. But he refuses to budge from the car, even for a privet hedge sniff-a-thon.
After a cursory examination, this sixty-year-old with a ponytail four times the length of Kenyon’s tail informs me that I’m allergic to sulfites. “Avoid food and drink containing them,” he tells me through a yawn, during which I see his uvula. (FYI, sulfites are what they put in food to make it last beyond a day. Another FYI: Kenyon’s uvula has black spots on it, as does the entire inside of his mouth.) I get back in the car and tell Señor Waggles the news. Licking his sulfite-riddled pig’s ear, he gloats, as if simultaneously coughing the word bullshit.
Nevertheless, Scruffopolis and I are off to the health food store to pick up a couple hundred dollars’ of sulfite-free wine, organic vegetables, and biodynamic cold cuts. And that’s about all you can get for two hundred dollars in a health food store.
For the next two weeks, my velvet-eared friend and I live additive-free. For the next two weeks my face is still itchy and splotchy and Pancake Ass can’t get enough of it.
“Want to go for a ride?” I ask C.P.C.E. (Curbside Pizza Crust Eater), who’s already on board, sniffing my Uggs at the door.
We arrive at the office of an allergist, recommended by my fancy Beverly Hills dermatologist. While Swan-Neckia Jr. pants rhythmically into the car window guarding my sunglass case and Thomas Guide, I lie on a cot on my stomach as a porcupine’s worth of needles are t
hrust into my back. Half-naked and itching, I’m mostly fretting about how long I’ve left my pal in the car. When the doctor returns, he informs me that I am a very allergic girl.
“No, not sulfites,” he says, “dust mites, grass, pollen, cats, and dogs.”
“DOGS?! NO WAY!!” I reply. But then he pokes the itchiest part of my back, the spot where he’d injected me with canine. “You’ll have to get rid of your dog,” he instructs me, as if he were telling me to keep all of my receipts for income tax purposes.
When he notices my eyes welling with tears, Needles (the allergist, not another nickname for Kenyon) relents a bit. “At least don’t let the dog in your bed.”
“But Kenyatta Malone has always shared our bed! We can’t take that away or he’ll think he did something wrong! Plus, hugging him helps me relax and sleep!”
Needles responds: “Don’t you have a husband?”
I drive home, crying hysterically. Our Leader looks at me quizzically and offers his paw. I take it, look deep into his cocoa-brown eyes, and give it to him straight. “There is no way I’d ever ever EVER get rid of you.” He wags his tail heartily, licks my elbow, and takes another hit of air out the window. My hands shake on the steering wheel as I worry whom my husband would pick if he had to choose between us.