by Karyn Bosnak
As I started delving into deeper issues with Max, I realized that Rod’s showers weren’t long enough. (Ten minutes is hardly enough time to contemplate your self-worth, you know?) To allow myself more time with him, I started doing things to get Rod out of the apartment. I sent him out for coffee and doughnuts in the morning I even hid his box of condoms and one night, forced him to go out and get more. Poor Rod had no idea what was going on; it was like Max and I were having an affair behind his back.
One day I realized that I didn’t care about Rod anymore. All the feelings I thought I had for him were gone. But I didn’t want to stop the booty calls, no way—I was too attached to Max to do that. I didn’t know what to do. I was stuck between a dog and hard place.
Then once again a funny thing happened. One night Rod got a little carried away during sex. Right before he was about to . . . get there, he yelled, “Give it to the R.O.D! Right-O!!!!!” at the top of his lungs. Max must have thought Rod was hurting me because he started barking ferociously at him—he even bared his teeth. It was awkward. Rod’s dog turned on him to protect me.
That was the last time I saw either of them. Not only did Rod ask me to not stay the night that evening, but the next time I booty-called him he said he didn’t think it was a good idea if we saw each other anymore. Just like that, our relationship was over. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little saddened by the demise of Rod’s and my relationship, but I’m pretty sure I missed the company of Rod more than I missed Rod himself. I mean, sometimes it’s just nice to be with someone, even if you know he isn’t the one.
Right around the same time, my friends and I stopped going out every weekend. I got sick of the scene, sick of getting decked out, sick of the same old, same old. I was getting older and didn’t find it as exciting as I once did.
According to Brody, P.I. (insert bad ’80s TV theme song here), Rod and Max have been living in Philadelphia since 2002. Despite the awkward way things ended, I still have fond memories of the time we spent together. I miss his warm body next to mine and I’m excited to see him again. Rod too.
My drive to Philadelphia goes off without a hitch, but as I pull up to my hotel, I quickly realize booking it before I left New York might not have been such a good idea. Although it’s not far from where Rod lives, the locale leaves something to be desired. Situated in South Philly by the stadium, the neighborhood looks like the one Rocky used to live in before he beat Apollo Creed’s ass and moved into the mansion. However, I’m not going to be high-maintenance. I can stay in a room that smells like smoke in a gross hotel in a rough neighborhood, I can. I’m not on a vacay; I’m on a mission.
After settling in, I decide to drive by Rod’s house, so I put on my sunglasses/baseball hat disguise and head out. He lives in a neighborhood off Passayunk, a main street that runs through South Philly, and the closer I get to it, the nicer the scenery becomes.
Rod is obviously doing well for himself. He lives in a beautiful brownstone on a tree-lined street. Flower boxes bursting with color hang from his windows. After finding a parking spot across the street, I pull in, turn off the engine and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
By ten o’clock that evening, Rod still hasn’t made an appearance, so I head back to the hotel. From what I remember, he used to take Max for his morning walk around seven o’clock, so I decide to go back then.
The next morning, sure enough, Rod emerges from his house with Max at seven o’clock on the dot. When I see them, an enormous smile comes across my face. I can’t help it—this is all so exciting! As I watch them walk down the street, I notice that both of them seem to have put on a little weight. However, they don’t look bad—they look good.
When Rod and Max disappear around the corner at the end of the block, I turn on my car and nervously follow. Michelle was right. Saying I was going to do this was one thing, actually doing it is quite another. My hands are shaking so much that I can barely hold the wheel. Two blocks away, they enter what seems to be a dog park, so I pull my car over to the side of the road and watch them play for the next twenty minutes or so.
Rod seems confident, which to me is the biggest turn-on. Confidence has a way of making me want to tear the clothes off of even the most average-looking man.3 After deciding he’s worth a second chance, I ponder my next step. I believe our relationship ended because Rod thought Max liked me better, because Rod felt Max’s loyalty might have resided with me and not him. I came between them, and I need something to show Rod that it won’t happen again. It’s clear to me what I need, it is . . .
I need my own dog.
bitches and studs
Later that morning, around ten o’clock, I walk into a pet store on Passayunk and begin to look for my new best friend. I know I can be impulsive, but getting a dog is something I’ve thought about for a while, ever since Max, actually. The only reason I never took the plunge is because I was working so much. But I don’t have that problem anymore. Yes, I realize that a road trip probably isn’t the best time to get a dog, but that’s beside the point.
Since I live in a small apartment, I think a little dog is the best way to go. However, to avoid comparisons to irritating people like Paris Hilton and Tinkerbell (Sorry, Tinks . . . your mom bugs me way more than you do), I will not dress my dog up like a doll, carry it around in a bag like an accessory, or raise my voice a gazillion octaves and talk to it like a baby (“puppy-talk”)—because it’s not any of those things. In my opinion, “puppy-talking” is the worst of these crimes—it’s demeaning to both you and the dog. I never spoke to Max that way, and I think he respected me for it.
Toward the back of the store, behind a big glass wall, are dozens of puppies sitting on display, waiting for someone to take them home. There are puppies of every color—puppies playing, puppies sleeping, puppies pooping—puppies, puppies, puppies everywhere. As they look out at me with their big dark eyes, I can’t help but feel sorry for them, I mean, they’re all cute, every one of them, it’s just how cute they are compared to the others that determines whether or not someone takes them home. It’s all about the competition in a pet store, just like it was in all those Manhattan clubs I’d go to when I met Rod. You feel confident and sexy when the doorman gives you the green-light to enter, but once you get inside and realize you’re one sexy person amongst a thousand and experience just how fierce the competition really is, it’s a bit disappointing.
Working my way down the cages, I pass three Malteses sleeping on top of one another, two Jack Russell Terriers chewing each other’s ears, one Bulldog taking a dump, and oh wow . . . the cutest chocolate-colored Lab ever. Yes, I want a small dog, but this one sure is a cutie! When I kneel down to take a good look, the dog wags its tail and presses its nose to the glass, then lies down and rolls over on his back to expose his belly and—
Oh, Jesus!
The dog—obviously a boy—is very excited. I quickly look away, feeling like I’ve just seen the centerfold in Puppy Playgirl.
Standing back up, I leave the chocolate Lab hanging in the breeze (both figuratively and literally) when a young kid who works in the store walks over to me. Maybe eighteen years old, he has pimples on his chin, a pair of Harry Potter glasses on his nose, and a silver smile (braces) that stretches from ear to ear. He’s wearing a name tag, but I don’t look at it because I don’t want to know his name. For some reason, I’ve decided that his name is going to be the Kid.
“Can I show you a puppy?” the Kid asks.
“Yeah . . . but I’m not sure which one I want to see yet. The only thing I’m sure about is that I don’t want a boy dog. I want a girl dog.” No way am I getting a boy, not after what I just saw.
Before the Kid has a chance to respond, I hear a scary, shrilly voice come from behind me. “You mean you want a bitch!” When I turn around, I see an ugly, old hag of a lady standing behind a counter.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“They’re not called girl dogs,” she huffs, correctin
g me. “They’re called bitches! And the boy dogs are called males!”
Bitches and males? That doesn’t seem fair. “Why aren’t the boy dogs called bastards?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” the old lady says defensively, throwing her hands in the air. “Sometimes they’re called studs—it’s just the way things are.” Bitches and studs? That’s even worse.
“Well, it’s not right,” I tell her. “And I’m not gonna perpetuate it.” I turn back to the Kid and speak loudly. “I’d like to see a girl dog, please.” the Kid smiles.
“I have a really great girl dog downstairs, let me go get her.”
As I wait for the Kid to return, I think of two more similarities between why this place and one of those Manhattan clubs. Not only are they both filled with bitches and studs, both also come equipped with an asshole. The Manhattan hot spot usually has one at the door; this place has one behind the counter.
The Kid returns and motions for me to come to the back of the store. When I arrive to a one-on-one puppy playroom, he’s holds up a tiny black and brown Yorkie for me to see. “She weighs four pounds,” he says.
Although she’s a little scruffy and scraggly, she’s cute, so I take her from him. When I do, she looks up at me. Long eyelashes frame her big brown eyes, and her button nose is as black as they come. She looks like Chewbacca with one heck of a handlebar mustache.
“She’s cute,” I tell the Kid, “but I was hoping for something a little bigger than four pounds.” Hearing me say this, the Yorkie begins blinking incessantly. It’s like she can understand me and is batting her eyelashes, flirting, trying her hardest to show me how adorable she is. Seeing her work it makes me smile. When I do, I swear to God . . . she smiles too. My mouth drops open.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim, looking up at the Kid. “Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“She smiled at me—I swear, she did!”
“Oh, you don’t have to convince me—she does it all the time. That’s why I wanted you to see her. If you look back down at her, she’ll do it again.”
I do what the Kid says and look back down at the puppy, and sure enough, she smiles again. Suddenly a voice comes out of my mouth that I do not recognize: “Hewwwo you wittle poopy poopy poo!” I screech. “Who’s so pwetty today? Whooo? You are, dat’s whooo!” Looking up, I cover my mouth in horror. “I always said I’d never do that!” I say to the Kid, in my normal voice.
“It happens.”
I look back down. “Whooo’s my butter wutter babycakes?” I squeal again. “You are, dat’s whooo!” By God, he’s right.
Hearing my high-pitched voice makes the puppy cock her head. Call me crazy, but I think she can understand what I’m saying. “She’s so adorable,” I say, laying her in the crook of my arm. I then rock her like a baby. When I bring my finger up to her nose, she bats it with her paws and tries to bite it. “How much is she?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure she’s on sale,” the Kid says. “The old lady marked her down.”
Bending over, I put her on the ground. Holding her head high in the air, she scampers around like a princess. “Marked her down?” That’s odd. “Why?”
“Because she’s old.”
“Old?” Reaching down, I turn her collar until I can read her birthday. She was born six months ago. “You’re not old,” I tell her. She stops and stares at me intensely. A few seconds later, she backs up ever so slowly and then charges toward me like a bull.
Ruff, ruff, ruff!
Oh my, she’s got the most ferocious bark I’ve ever heard.
“Compared to the other dogs here she is,” the Kid says. “Most of them are around three months.”
Scooping the puppy back up, I stand. “So she’s been banished to the basement and marked down? How horrible!” I look at her. Poor thing, pushed out by all the younger bitches, kept downstairs in the basement because she’s older than all the other available pups. Telepathically, I tell her that I know how she feels. I felt the same way after Rod and I stopped seeing each other, when I stopped going out. I was older than all the available bitches out there too, and the competition just got too fierce.
“I don’t know why she’s still here,” the Kid continues. “A lot of people play with her, but for some reason, no one commits.” A lot of people play with her, but no one commits? Once again, I telepathically tell her that I know how she feels. As she bats her eyelashes at me again, I can’t help but feel like I’m looking into a mirror. If dogs lived in a parallel universe, then this puppy would be me.
“So what do you think?” the Kid asks.
What do I think? I think the connection I have to this dog is too deep for me to leave her here, no way, not after learning her story. They say people get dogs that resemble themselves, but I always thought they meant in the looks department. I look up at the Kid. “I’ll take her.”
“Oh goodie!” he exclaims, smiling a smile that’s so big the bad overhead lighting reflects in his braces and practically blinds me. “I’m so happy she’s finally getting a home!” He reaches out to take her.
“No!” I snap, pulling her in close. “I’m just gonna hold her. She needs that. Trust me, I know.”
The Kid smiles; he understands.
Since a new dog isn’t in my budget, I hand over my credit card. (She’s one of life’s little emergencies.) After filling out the paperwork and signing on the dotted line, I parade my pup past all the other bitches on display. I know it’s not their fault for being so young and cute, but I want them to know just who’s going home today.
On my way out, I glare at the ornery old lady behind the counter. “No one puts baby in the corner!” I yell to her. “Or the basement!”
bringing up baby
friday, april 8
“Baby” is from Budapest, that’s what the Kid told me. I don’t know why and I don’t want to know why, so I didn’t ask. All I know is that I’m going to be getting some Hungarian papers in the mail instead of AKC papers. To be honest, I think it’s kind of cool and I feel proud that I’m creating a family that’s culturally diverse. I feel like Angelina Jolie.
When I first learned about Baby’s past, I pictured her wearing a babushka and talking with an accent, but then I decided that she’s much too fabulous for a babushka. Baby’s more like a Gabor—both Zsa Zsa and Eva are from Budapest.4 In fact, I’m going to name her after one of them—Baby can be her nickname. Hmm. Eva or Zsa Zsa, Eva or Zsa Zsa . . .
Okay, I’ve decided.
Drumroll, please! (Drumroll begins.)
Everyone, I’d now like to introduce, direct from Budapest via South Philly . . . Eva Gabor, the four-pound Yorkie!
(Deafening applause.)
The next morning, after praising Eva for sleeping through the night, I shower and change into a casual outfit to wear to the dog park—low-waisted jeans, a pink T-shirt and super-cute, open-toed sandals. After that, Eva and I head out the door. On the drive there, she sits on my lap, which kind of freaks me out. I mean, if someone were to hit me because I was . . . let’s say . . . driving too slowly or something, she’d fly right through the windshield. Eva needs a baby seat—it’s as simple as that.
After parking my car around the block, I attach a leash to Eva’s harness and attempt to walk her, but quickly realize that walking on a leash isn’t something that’s instinctual with dogs. After running around in a circle and darting from left to right, she’s plopped down in the middle of the sidewalk and started chewing on her leash. Thinking she’ll catch on, I give her a little tug and try to walk forward, but I end up dragging her. Realizing this is going to take some practice, I pick Eva up and carry her.
Rod and Max are already at the dog park when we arrive, as are five other dogs and owners. Since I’m not exactly sure what I should do, I decide to wait for Rod to recognize me, so I put Eva down on the ground to play. When I do, all the dogs in the park, including Max, run over and head-butt one another as they try to get close to her butt. When
I say hello to Max, he kisses my hand over and over again—I’m sure he remembers me. Although I get tears in my eyes, I fight them back. I can’t get too attached to him. I have my own dog now. I need to leave that space in my heart open for her.
In the end, an Italian Greyhound wins out and ends up getting the most intense sniff of Eva’s butt. As he does, the people in the park walk over to claim their dogs, including Rod. The closer he gets to where I’m standing, the more nervous I become. As he grabs Max by the collar and pulls him away from Eva, he looks up. This is it, the moment I’ve been waiting for. He’s going to see me and be pleasantly surprised. I hope. He’s going to tell me how good I look. I hope. He’s going to tell me that he misses me. I hope.
“Sorry,” Rod says. He then turns and walks away.
Okay, that didn’t go exactly as I imagined. I know he saw me, he looked me straight in the eye. Why didn’t he say hello? Before he gets too far away, I realize I have to make a move.
“Cute dog,” I say, trying to initiate conversation.
Glancing over his shoulder, Rod looks me in the eye again, and smiles. “Thanks.” He then turns around and continues to walk away.
Why is he doing this? Is he doing that thing people do when they see someone they don’t want to see . . . gosh, what’s it called? Oh yes—ignore them. Is that what he’s doing? If so, I’m not going to let him get away with it. I stayed two nights in a shitty hotel and bought a dog for him, damn it—he’s going to talk to me! I boldly call out to him. “Rod?” He turns around. He looks confused.
“Do we know each other?” he asks. I let out a pathetic laugh.
“Yeah, you could say we do.”
Suddenly having a moment of realization, Rod hits himself in the head with the palm of his hand. “I’m so sorry!” he exclaims. A sense of relief comes over me. I mean, if he didn’t remember me, it would be the most embarrassing thing ever. “It’s Darcy, right?” Not remembering my name, however, runs a pretty close second.