Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang (16 page)

I was sitting in my partner Tom's office getting ready to tape the show when Eva walked in with the dog. "Here he is!" she said, panting. "They said at the pound that they think he's half chow, half German shepherd, and he's a really good dog. He knows how to sit and give a paw, and his paperwork says his name is Guinness, but his tag says Princess Leia."

"Is he a cross-dresser?" I asked her.

She frowned. "I don't know, but he really
is
good. I kind of can't believe it." Normally Eva can't be trusted for a real opinion, because she refuses to say anything negative--not my favorite quality in a person--but from what I could deduce, she seemed to be right about the dog.

He was wagging his tail and gently sniffing my coslopus. I stood up in order for the dog to get ahold of himself and assessed the situation. He looked like the dog I grew up with, Whitefoot.

"Are you Whitefoot?" I asked the dog, and waited patiently for a response. "Whitefoot? Is that you?" He wasn't responding to that name, and after I got out my pocket calculator and tapped some buttons, I gave up hope when I realized that Whitefoot would be 247 years old had he faked his own death.

"Chunk" is the nickname I give to anyone I love who I also want to squeeze. I called my mom "Chunk," and she called me "Chunky" when we would snuggle in bed together and I would squeeze her one boob. She had a mastectomy when I was nine and never bothered to get reconstructive surgery, so on one side she had a rice pack that she put in her bra every morning, and on the other side was a giant booby. I call Chuy "Chunk," and I call Ted "Chunk," and of course Sylvan is my "Chocolate Chunk."

My mother, Chunk

"His name will be Chunk," I announced, and then we kissed. After that he followed me everywhere I went. I had to go downstairs to do the show, and when I came back up thirty minutes later, he was standing in the same exact position right outside the elevator. When I went into the bathroom, he followed me in there, and when I closed the stall door for some adult privacy, he slid his body underneath the door and sat directly in front of me while I peed. We had a connection, and, most important, Chunk didn't talk or bark. When he did open his mouth to say something, I said in a very authoritative voice, "NO TALKING!" and he shut it again. After work that day, he hopped right into my car, and he sat in the backseat with his nose on my console. I lowered the windows so he could feel the moist marina wind blow through his snout. "You will eventually need goggles," I informed him.

We got home that night, and I took him for a walk while I braced myself to clean up a giant doggy shadoobie. My childhood experiences involving dog feces had never begun or ended well, and I knew that this was what had held me back from getting a dog earlier in my adult life. Vomit and feces are two reasons I have decided not to procreate. That and the fact that I never want to see the inside of Disney World or a Chuck E. Cheese again. Even as a toddler, I found both establishments insulting. I grabbed the plastic bag available outside the dog run and knew I was at a crossroads, not unlike Beyonce in
Dreamgirls
. I was turning a corner, and that corner involved a dog's bowel movement.

Right away Chunk and I understood each other. He couldn't do it. He squatted to drop his deuce, then looked at me, then stood back up and ran over to me. I even let him off his leash to allow extra relaxation, but as long as he could smell me, he refused to shadoobie.

The most amazing part was that he was free to escape me permanently but would keep running back to me. I had never had a dog in my life that didn't try to escape when presented with the opportunity, although, in complete fairness, I would have left our family, too, had I had the financial capabilities. Anytime Mutley or Whitefoot, the dogs from my childhood, got loose, we'd have to get into the car and drive around the neighborhood, leaning on the horn, trying to trick the dog into coming back. "Come on, Whitefoot, let's go for a ride," my dad would yell through a megaphone he stole from my softball practice. "Get in the goddamned car!"

When Ted arrived home that night, I said, "Chunk, this is Chunk." Then I turned to Ted and said, "Chunk, meet Chunk."

"What is that?" Ted asked.

"It's a cat."

"
Whose
is it?"

"He's ours now."

"Very funny. Whose dog is it?"

"He is
our
dog. I captured him. They were going to assassinate him, Ted. He was going to be put in the electric chair. He's a rescue, like Chuy."

"Chelsea, can you cut the shit, please? We've already had one dog escapade this year. I'm not really in the mood to deal with Dudley Part Deux. You don't even like dogs."

"There is no shit to cut. This was a moment of weakness born out of a moment of detoxification. I like this dog. He seems to understand me and the pickle I've found myself in."

"What pickle is that?"

I eyed Ted and cocked my head to the side. "Wanting someone to snuggle with who doesn't speak."

"Did it ever occur to you to maybe ask me if I wanted to weigh in on the decision, since I live here, too?"

"Not really."

"Chelsea, a dog is a big decision, and we both travel all the time. Who do you think is going to take care of it?"

"Ray is moving here in three days. He loves dogs. It will be his welcoming gift, just like my father's frozen calamari for the renters on the Vineyard. My brother loves dogs."

Ted darted his eyes back and forth between the dog and me, not knowing what to believe. "I'm not stupid. You obviously borrowed the dog from someone."

"Who would I borrow a dog from? You don't borrow dogs from people. You either steal them or find them. Since when are there loaner dogs available?"

"Chelsea, please stop. I've had a long day, and I'm really just not in the mood. This is like that mini-horse you said you were buying for your sister." The mini-horse he was referencing was not a joke at all, and if it was, the joke ended up being on me.

Chuy and I had to take our annual Christmas photo, and one of my producers suggested bringing in a mini-horse he knew about that maybe Chuy could ride. The horse was about three feet tall, and upon sight I made an offer to his trainer, Bruce, to purchase him. Bruce was a giant dick and feigned surprise bordering on disgust when I asked him how much he wanted for the horse.

"This little fella's not for sale," he informed me. "They take a lot of work, a lot of attention," he said with a snicker. Then he added, "And they don't like
vodka
."

I wanted to kick Bruce in the taint. No one is just one thing. Many things contribute to the whole of a person, and just because vodka accounts for 50 percent of my body weight, that doesn't mean I walk around with a vodka drip, forcing every plant, person, or animal to imbibe. I've always had a disliking for animal trainers, and this guy cemented my theory that people who chaperone animals for a living have never had a girl sit on their face.

I went upstairs after my little incident with the Bruce photo and Googled "mini-horse." There turned out to be several Web sites and several mini-horses available for purchase, and I didn't need some animal trainer to approve the purchase. I learned that, just as with dwarfs, there was some sort of chromosomal deficiency that made these horses so small. I felt an instant connection to these miniature horses because of my work with Chuy, and I needed to have full access to one as soon as possible.

After more research I discovered that it is legal to have a mini-horse as a house pet, as long as you have a backyard that meets certain measurements. Not only did my sister Sloane's yard meet the requirements, but she also had a little girl named Charley, along with a newborn named Russell, whose head Charley liked to squeeze on a semiregular basis. This would be the perfect outlet for her to take her frustrations out on, allowing Sloane more time to figure out why all her babies were born with flat heads.

I called Sloane and gave her the news. "Charley can ride it all day long, and the only thing you have to do is get a fence in your backyard."

She went online to check out the horse and was ecstatic. "Oh, my God! They're so adorable! Why don't you get one?"

"Because, Sloane, I live in a building. I have no yard. They need to be ridden."

"But what about Buddy?"

Buddy was my sister's cat who had been missing for two years. "Sloane, Buddy is gone, and he's not coming back. He could be halfway to Arkansas by now."

"Well, he'd be way past Arkansas by now."

"You don't know that. You don't know what that cat's dreams were. He could have settled in the Midwest. What do you have against Middle America, Sloane?"

"First of all, he's on the Vineyard, because that's where we lost him, so unless he took the ferryboat across to the mainland, he's on the island. Mike and I are going to look again this summer."

"Well, good luck with that plan. In the meantime I see a mini-horse in your future."

Sloane and Mike losing their cat was as predictable in my view as Donny and Marie Osmond making love. They took the cat from a friend who was divorcing and moving into an apartment building that didn't allow animals. I liked the cat because he was significantly overweight and orange, my favorite color for cats, but it was still a cat and basically might as well have been an iguana. Charley terrorized the poor thing, always pulling on its tail and chasing it. The cat's new life sucked. I knew it, Sloane knew it, even my father knew it. "That cat's gonna head for the hills the minute he sees an opportunity. Don't take that cat to the Vineyard if you want to keep him. The very instant he sees the view from our house, he's going to want to live at the beach." The fact that cats hate water and the beach, and could therefore give two shits about an ocean view escaped him--another example of my father believing that anyone who set foot on his land would most surely want to take up full-time residence there.

"What if Buddy does come back, though, and the horse eats him?" Sloane asked me.

"Horses do not eat cats. Coyotes eat cats, and snakes eat cats. Snakes eat people, too, but we're losing focus--we're not getting you a snake. I'll get you the horse, we'll get a big fence to encompass your yard, and I think they just eat grass and hay, right? You'll have to clean up his dumps, which according to my research shouldn't be that massive, but that sounds like a job for Mike."

We agreed I would move forward with the purchase of the mini-horse and have it sent to New Jersey. It was impossible to choose one because they were all so amazing, but I finally selected a little brown nugget horse whose name was Simon. I was hoping to come across one named Bruce, but there was no such luck. I called everyone I knew to tell them about the Web site. Ted, of course, thought the whole thing was a dumb idea. "They're going to get sick of that horse in a week, and Charley will poke it in the eye. The horse will be miserable, and so will Sloane. You don't get something just because it's cute, Chelsea. You have to think things through. This is why I'm never taking you to Africa."

Sloane called me the next day and told me Mike had said no to the horse, and she was starting to think it wasn't such a smart idea either.

"What are you talking about, Sloane? This horse is going to improve your quality of life! Charley will be busy every day riding him like a little cowgirl. You won't have to worry about her pulling Russell's ear off or trying to shove dinner rolls in his ass crack."

"I can't do it, Chelsea. I'm sorry. It just doesn't make any sense."

I didn't talk to Sloane for a few days, and for weeks afterward, every time I saw a horse or a cat, or a horse that looked like a cat, I was an emotional wreck.

I looked at Chunk, who was staring at the leftover hamburger meat in the Ziploc bag in my hand. "He's got an erection," I told Ted.

"Gross."

"Don't shame him! He has to know this is an open household where you can express yourself."

"Can you please tell me whose dog this is Chelsea?" he said, covering his eyes.

"I'm telling you, he's ours. He is part of our family now. It could be worse. What if I decided I wanted a baby? Then you'd really be fucked."

It took Ted a little while, but he finally realized Chunk was no joke and went over to pet him. "Well, what's his name?"

"Red Rocket," I said, staring straight at the dog's boner.

"Chelsea, what is his real name, please?"

"Chunk."

"I thought I was Chunk?" Ted asked. "That's going to confuse both of us. How am I going to know which one of us you're talking to?"

"From now on, Ted," I said, taking a seat at the kitchen table, "I will always be talking to the dog."

"That's great, Chelsea. Has he eaten?" he asked, eyeing the dog.

"Yes, I just made him some hamburger meat and steamed clams. He'll be fine until tomorrow. Eva is picking up some real dog food tomorrow."

"No, Chelsea! You cannot feed a dog clams! In the shell?"

"I can't?"

"Dogs can't eat human food, I'll go down to Ralphs and get him something," Ted volunteered. "I have a special recipe I do for dogs."