...in Brooklyn. It was one of those rendezvous that was both regrettably inevitable and inevitably regrettable. Like I said, it was the Brooklyn you get to on one of those trains that no one really ever wants to take - ghost trains, urban myth trains, trains that go to those parts of Brooklyn. They only come into Manhattan far enough to let their fleeing masses disembark into the light of downtown and then slither back into...Brooklyn.
There was so much pressure to hook up, you know. Even though we'd actually met a few months before in Chelsea, I never got his name. The whole scene was awkward. He's a friend of a friend's boyfriend, blah, blah, blah. So the moment comes and I think that if I cradle him to my chest and scratch the back of his head we'd doze off into shameless man-to-mutt slumber. (It's worked before.) Instead, he was playful and nippy and stuck his unwanted tongue in my face over and over again.
Finally, after a couple of hours of this I look at him, hold him by the neck and bark, "Buddy, GO TO BED!". He curls up sadly, his backside to me and (the truth) farts. Ewwwwwkanuba.
See, if puggle and I had chemistry, none of this would have been a problem. But we didn't. And so that's how it is with the Chihuahua, Lucky. We have no chemistry.
Call me a snob, but seriously - I can't do shorties, I don't care how close parts of them come to the ground...especially ones with such mindlessly tail-waggin' kissy-kissy behavior. Call me canine-conservative, but I like a brute with palpable reserve, one who barks when he really means it and looks hot when I'm in camos. Lucky is undeniably athletic, trim, has great hair, an energetic outdoorsey type with the tinest of carbon footprints. And yes, he is a much-desired Latino twink (not that that matters to me, really), but he's just not my type.
It would have never worked. And I am certain I will walk down the street one day in the future to see him in the arms of a real catch, or a real catch's sister, toted in some bangin' Louis Vuitton. That's traditionally been just my lucky.
...and we head to the marina. Cliche I know, but its just down the street. I figure we could go for a walk, he'd show me his impressive house-trained skills, and then its hasta-la-vista. But no....
...eventually got all the respect by the tall ones. Something 'bout proportion - that's all I'm sayin'.
Even so, taller is my type. Together you want to look good in the pictures, you know? I've got a big reunion coming up. I'm being picky. But in the middle of wallflowering, Lucky nudges me at the barbells on the back porch and I agree to an outing after my workout. A nice walk and a Corona by the marina, where the Coast Guard guys hang out.
While drying off, I have a fashion crisis. I have curly hair.
It’s just before rainy season on the island and the sky can be unspeakably clear blue one minute and deluge the next. The weather is very unpredictable in the late summer and early fall. Clouds blow over the island quickly dumping billions of heavy raindrops that splash on the pavement into vapors of steam. And then off they go, leaving the air (and hair) thick with a lurid humidity under the insistent tropical sun.
Will the sailors think less of me, pawin around with this...this...critter-dog?
I decide against the low-slung jeans, though not so easily. Little dogs, at least the ones' I know, tend to scratch up my legs, so we venture together this first time at my peril. I don’t intend on picking up Lucky…this is an alpha outing. Should our relationship go further, I might scoop him up. But rest assured, there will be no kissing on this first date.
Low-slung jeans and a white-t would balance the man-toy pairing but its way too humid and hot. So its quick dry shorts and a tourist tank. All fashion (and other) statements of masculinity will have to be made with the leather leash.
I look like a dork. I mean, look at him. Ay, caramba.
...can't get the ex-dog out of my head.
I won't call again. No more Christmas stockings filled with pig ears and squeaky toys. Growled at me. What is that? Can't even shake. Gimme a break.
So what am I doing thinking about courting new four-legged hotties when the truth is I’m still thinking of the one in Michigan. Why go into another relationship, anyway, when all that’s ahead is old age, bad hips, separation and then that loneliness, a spell I’m just coming out of and discovering in the process that I’m okay being dog-single – not having to answer to that look they give you. The whining, the begging, the kissing, the addiction to each other’s company.
Life. It makes you heel when you least expect it to, you know? I think for the short term, I’m going to doggie-date.
...toying with the idea of settling down.
They say that you meet the one when you stop looking. Intellectually, I know this to be true; in my own life the best ones have come my way by accident and the worst ones, by manipulating the situation. I’ve lived long enough and have plenty of experience in the world to know to be cool, to keep my eyes on the road, away from the puppies in the window and the breeder ads where actively-seeking sorts like myself know to go. In my mind, I approach it as though I were looking for a human mate. If it were possible, I’d post a personal for that one-and-only to sniff at, wherever they sniff at, and it would read like this:
Dog-single human male seeks hairy Teutonic sort with dark, masculine features. Must be appropriately aggressive but sensitive, intelligent and kind. Into cuddling, rugby, public displays of affection, weekends on the couch, and group play.
My last dog relationship ended badly, and he lives in another state. In fact, the last time I saw him he barely recognized me and growled. We were best friends…once. After we separated, I moved to New York, where I have remained pooch-single for nearly three years – and it makes no sense that I haven’t hooked up with a furry one. You’d think that in this town anything could happen, and if I’m being completely honest, it does. As I was returning home late one night, beaten up and limping from rugby practice, elephants were strolling down 34th street. Elephants. And I survived the session without a concussion that time. But I can’t yet commit to a four-legged relationship in the big city.
But I’ve been practicing secretly. I made sure to set up house near a park and bridges, have already picked out the perfect dog bowls in Chinatown, thought about names (Brad, Mitch, Byron), and even mapped out the veternarian/day-care situation. (I should go into human relationships with this much forethought.) No one knows I’m desperately seeking smoochie. Heck, I don’t even pet other dogs – even if they’re walking a really hot human.
For the time being, I’ve left my downtown Manhattan life to spend time back home which is itself an island, on the other side of the world, the extremely south and western island of Guam. I’m here to attend to family matters. I’m not in the mind or situation to scamper about as a dog-daddy bachelor, so what happens? Five awesome and available fellas start sniffing around, so apparently this I’m-not-interested strategy really works.
Imagine: Finding the one you’ve been looking for back home? I mean really.
