Sleeps with Dogs (19 page)

Flannel's aversion to getting wet was just one of an encyclopedic list of quirks I'd noted about these greyhounds in their crowded file. Foremost on that sheet of idiosyncrasies was her unusually placed urethra, which caused her to pee straight backward instead of down onto the ground. More times than I care to recall, I'd been following too closely and had my Chaco-shod foot sprinkled with hot urine. She also pooped between three and four times on a walk, and it was rarely, if ever, solid. On Salvador's list of bad habits was his proclivity to walk with his snout permanently placed between Flannel's hind legs, which had resulted more than once in Flannel pooping directly on the crown of his head.

I had long ago given up on getting the dogs to walk in the rain. Flannel especially could only be coaxed out if I held an umbrella over the dogs. Juggling both leashes and a polo umbrella large enough to accommodate two fully-grown greyhounds in their doggy ponchos left me out in the rain and without much leverage to manage them. And managing them was critical. The dogs lunged at anyone in uniform, subjecting the mailman, UPS delivery people, even the poor kitchen staff at the nearby bakery taking their cigarette breaks, to their sudden, bug-eyed snarls. I could rarely predict what new and obscure moving object might trigger them. Skateboards, strollers,
bicycles, rollerblades, and the dollies used by delivery people had all set them off at some point.

Compounding all of this was their aggression toward other dogs. Luckily, the shopping district was more commonly populated by well-dressed professionals, tourists, or wives and mothers spending their day out doing their vestigial gathering duties. But other dogs certainly weren't unprecedented.

Early in my walking relationship with the twitchy beasts, we were returning home past the ceramics gallery two doors down from the loft. In what felt like an instant, Flannel had slipped backward out of her collar and escaped my rein on her. Lest I ever forget that she was once a racing dog, her speed was unmatched. She charged through the open door of the gallery, her target the proprietor's geriatric toy poodle. Salvador and I charged after her, bringing the total of dogs in the small display room up to three.

“Flannel, no!” I bellowed. I used one foot to bar Salvador from joining in the mayhem, using my other leg as a wedge between Flannel and her tiny victim. Somehow I managed to slip her collar back over her head and pull her away from the prized centerpiece of the room, a giant raku vase on a pedestal, which she had been savaging the poodle beside.

From the threshold, the dogs behind me strained for more action within. I shakily apologized to the owner, who seemed miraculously unruffled.

“This dog has escaped death more times that I can count. When I found him, he was out on the tracks. Been hit by a train!”

Looking at the shivering handful of kinky cream fur, I found this hard to believe. Yet this death-defying poodle seemed largely unscathed, despite Flannel's best efforts. No blood or broken bones that the owner could detect in her rather cursory examination. I'd been so sure in those frantic moments of separating the
dogs that I was looking at a broken neck—and some pretty pricey broken pottery—on my record.

Apologizing again, I retreated with my charges, returning them to their holding area before they could do any more damage. I walked away with a bloodied toe from Flannel's untrimmed nails and the residual chest pains from a minor heart attack, but no lawsuit. My toe was still attached, and my poor heart would surely recover. I would certainly request special greyhound collars for both dogs, too. Since greyhounds' bony, narrow heads are smaller than their necks, the specially designed collar constricts as they pull, and escapes like Flannel's are thus prevented. I cursed myself for not suggesting this to Matt and Darlene sooner. It should have been first on my list when I signed them as clients. That was a bona fide bush-league error. After that, we always walked across the street from the gallery, eliminating any possibility for a rematch between greyhound and immortal poodle.

Because navigating the street scene with the two loopy greyhounds was already a trial without the additional challenges that rain presented, I preferred to just let them loose in the semicovered backyard of the loft. This had initially seemed easier than the full-on walk, but it proved to be a charade all its own.

That day, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the dogs willingly ran from their enclosure through the open back door and into the yard. I checked the Barbie satchel for a check before joining the dogs outside. I'd left an invoice the previous day and was counting on the money. I had $2.65 in my account and had written a personal check for gas that morning, banking on the chances that I could deposit this larger check before that one cleared. My finances felt like a Rube Goldberg experiment gone awry. If three clients pay me by Monday, I can pay the electric bill. If only Matt and Darlene pay,
I can at least put gas in the car and buy some milk and toilet paper. If I get gas, I can fill the tires up for free. Otherwise, it costs fifty cents. Or maybe Ian can pay this month's PG&E and I'll cover the next one . . .

Ian had recently secured one of the most coveted jobs on the western seaboard with a tech company in the Peninsula and was being shuttled to and from his cushy, high-paying job on a Wi-Fi enabled corporate bus. He left in the mornings wearing jeans and aviators and returned with a backpack full of free gum, Odwalla smoothies, sodas, and animal crackers. Despite this proliferation of snacks in the house, little else had changed with our living arrangement. Meals were plentiful and completely gratis at his office, so the fridge remained bare but for my paltry offerings. He had money now, but he spent it all on his student loans and accumulated credit card debt, and any leftovers went to beer and courting the ladies that seemed as plentiful as the employee perks. I still had to hound him for his share of rent and utilities.

With Matt and Darlene's always-prompt payment, I was grateful that I could bring my balance back up above $100, however briefly. I put the check in my pocket and headed out to the back of the loft, umbrella in hand just in case the rain picked up again and Flannel required shelter.

Somehow the dogs never collided with the armless marble busts and abstract pieces of angular rusted metal that apparently passed as outdoor art. I had to stand stock still in hopes that the dogs might forget my presence long enough to take a crap. If I spoke or moved around, both dogs were sent into a frenzy, feeding off the other's insanity. I'd tried staying inside while the dogs were out back, but they hurled themselves at the French doors until I either joined them or allowed them to come back inside. So I stood like a statue myself, the misting rain accumulating on the short brim of
my rain hood and fogging my glasses. Today the dogs peed right away, and Salvador was pooping within minutes.
Bless it,
I thought; I knew both dogs would poop inside without hesitation.

The week before, I'd arrived to find both of them skidding through a puddle of runny shit. After going through an entire roll of paper towels to clean the floor, I was left with only soapy toilet paper to get the brown stains off Salvador's white coat. I left a terse note with Barbie:

Somebody had an accident today. I washed the floor, but it's still a bit stained.

Much as I worried about them getting it all out in the backyard before I restored them to the front room, I was intensely grateful not to oversee their emissions out on the street in full view of well-dressed businessmen and -women, brushing by the bushes in their fine, dry-clean-only suits that Flannel and Salvador had just finished peeing all over. So many times, the dogs dropped their loose loads right on the sidewalk. I didn't come equipped with a hose, and there wasn't much I could do about the dirty brown stain left behind on the concrete to be stepped around or through by patent pumps or a fine pair of brogues. Nothing was worse than having to pull Salvador from between Flannel's legs as she peed all over his face. In the safety of their backyard, the depravity was well concealed from the world and could remain our nasty little secret.

This loft, as with many of the client's homes, was a singular perk of the visit. I occasionally had extra time in my schedule to explore—rarely touching, only admiring. Matt and Darlene's home was a museum of kitsch. In the kitchen was an antique vending machine with hand pulls and a Plexiglas display window. The original inventory was housed within; there were Boston Baked Beans, beef jerky bites, Cracker Jacks, or a square packet of Planters
peanuts. There was an impressive collection of vintage lunch pails, which lined the staircase up to the sleeping mezzanine on the second floor. I didn't recognize any of the characters adorning the rusted lids. In the bedroom, the clothes were displayed on a circular department store rack. On a mannequin torso beside it hung articles of Darlene's fabulous wardrobe. A fedora, a feather-trimmed jacket, scarves of many colors.

On the third floor of the loft, the décor was that of a swinger's bar: a leopard-print chaise lounge next to an overstuffed purple velvet sofa. There was a full bar and an antique turntable. French doors led out to a covered deck that overlooked the bay and San Francisco beyond. Nothing in my job description necessitated my trespass on the third floor, but neither did it prohibit a little peek now and then. Sometimes on a Monday morning, the remnants of a party remained: martini glasses littering the chrome coffee table, record sleeves along the sofa—Rolling Stones, Velvet Underground, Bowie. This was a world I could get used to. Below, the dogs scuttled and scratched behind their gate. As always, I descended to rejoin them.

Since Ian had moved in, he'd dated at least two girls I knew of and had slept with as many or more. Sometimes it was hard for me to tell exactly who he was with on the other side of our thin shared wall. I didn't necessarily envy the temporary nature of these connections, but I did note with a measure of melancholy that he was actually meeting people. He was making connections, period, however casual or meaningless they may have seemed to me.

Inspired to meet anyone my age with remotely similar interests beyond Ian, I'd recently taken to utilizing MySpace's search function. I'd posted plenty of pictures to my profile, and, in an attempt at tongue-in-cheek humor, the song that played when anyone landed
on my page was Rod Stewart's “If You Think I'm Sexy.” I assumed, probably too confidently, that anyone visiting my page would get the meta-nature of the joke. This was probably too much to ask.

I'd also created a rather less sardonic presence on Friendster, another social media site, which had netted me a robust but ill-advised flirtation with my best friend's brother. He and I had tried to date in college, and I felt pretty sure it would've taken had my friend not been so opposed. My loyalties were clear. Yet here I was, a mere two years after we'd definitively abandoned any possibility of a relationship, rekindling the romance with him from afar. Loneliness seemed to be the culprit and my defense for all manner of bad behaviors.

I'd never guessed I might rely upon a social networking site to meet someone. I fancied myself old-fashioned, and relying upon a photo and self-scripted digital persona felt like a more drastic measure than I might otherwise resort to. It certainly didn't seem like the most reliable means of meeting a potential mate, but I had been largely friendless and entirely boyfriend-less for going on one year, and I considered these desperate times.

Thanks to the advance search fields, I had come across a guy a few years my senior that lived in the area, played the trumpet in a jazz band, wrote nice poetry, looked to be quite tall, and had a great job at an ad agency that happened to be located on the same street on which I walked the foul-mannered greyhounds. We'd yet to meet but had exchanged a few safe messages via the site's private mail function.

I think my lack of socialization was starting to erode my innate sense of normal behaviors and boundaries, as I started showing up at his favorite bar and the restaurant where his band occasionally played impromptu sets, hoping more for an in-person glimpse than an actual encounter. Of course, he was never present at any of these
locations when I was, and I resorted to drinking alone, ashamed by my lurking. At a certain point, I must have mentioned to myself that this behavior of seeking him out bordered on stalking. I probably replied to myself that it was better than sitting at home hearing Ian's headboard thudding dully against the wall.

As it turned out, it wasn't at his favorite bar, or at any of the venues where he played music, that I finally saw him. I wasn't dolled up, with good hair or a carefully selected outfit. I didn't have a drink in hand, or my game face on. No, indeed. I was out with Flannel and Salvador. In the midst of navigating Flannel toward the bushes to do her business while trying to keep Salvador's head out of the way, I noticed a handsome, familiar-looking figure on the opposite sidewalk, striding in our direction. I recognized him immediately from his pictures, though he was taller and even better looking in real life.

I started to raise my hand in a knee-jerk greeting when I realized instead of slowing or acknowledging me back with his leash- and dog-free hands, his pace noticeably quickened, and he started to look very intently upon his feet, the shrubbery lining his side of the street, anything but me and the dogs by my side. He passed us at record speed, and I was left feeling mortified, Salvador snuffling at my pocket, and Flannel having painted the nearest holly bush brown.

We stopped chatting online after that, and I actively stayed away from anyplace where I could possibly bump into him. I couldn't risk a chance encounter, since he'd obviously avoided me that day on the street. The dogs weren't to blame for this humiliating missed connection with my Internet mystery man, but I blamed them anyway. When I was with them, that memory had a way of surfacing, unbidden, making my guts bubble with shame. Of course, I harbored no illusions about the glamour factor of my job, but I'd never
before considered that other people—say, an eligible bachelor I was interested in—might judge me by my work.