Social Skills

Last Sunday it rained buckets. Mercifully PL packed me into my sherpa, jumped into a gypsy cab and I emerged to be greeted by Guinness, a brindle Frenchie, younger than myself whose parents were hosting brunch. And quite a brunch it was, his parents are in the wine and food biz and the fare certainly reflected their educated palates- lobster filled brioche, mini pittas stuffed with lamb and yogurt to name a couple of the tantalizing selections that of course neither Guiness or myself were allowed to partake in. Sigh. However Guiness is a very energetic play partner and I certainly had a good time with him. He is also interestingly, like myself- a muse. His Mom, Phoebe, a writer with a recently published book Service Included writes about him when he was little in this short story here:


Social Skills
by Phoebe Damrosch

In the hour it takes to walk my twelve-week-old puppy around the block, I meet more people than I used to meet in a month in New York. That was back when I could stay out until four in the morning, sleep until noon, and carry keys, wallet, and phone – as opposed to keys, wallet, phone, treats, pooper-scooper bags, leash, paper towel in case he barfs like he has been recently, squeaky toy to distract him, bottle of water, and makeshift water bowl in the form of an old cream cheese container.

The upside of it all is that I have finally met my neighbors and bonded with my super. The downside is that we have very different tastes in people. Guinness loves Jehovah’s Witnesses. He agrees wholeheartedly that rampant homosexuality is the first sign of the apocalypse – as long as they keep scratching his ears and handing out those deliciously shredable pamphlets. Ditto underemployed dog walkers and trainers who love him like a paycheck when he barks and gnaws on their hands and jumps up on their legs.

Because he has practically no tail, he wags his cute little ass at the kind of people who point out “Guinness’ mommy” to their own dogs and talk to him as if he could answer back. He cannot, I want to tell them, tell you how old he is, that he is a French bulldog, or whether he lives on the block. Instead, I look at him as well, waiting for him to answer until they get flustered and go away.

My encounters with these people do not go as well as his and I find myself hoping for a cockroach or pigeon to scuttle close enough to distract him and free me from my misery. While he is licking the toes of the sandal-clad Jehovah’s Witness, I am trying to hand back her pamphlet. As I coax Guinness away with the heralding call of his squeaking rubber chicken, she seems put off.
“Well God bless the dog anyway.”

Yesterday, Guinness went over to visit a homeless man and began chewing on the sign propped against his crossed legs that read “I’m hungry. Please help me. God Bless.” Apparently, Guinness thought a bite missing from one corner would add a visual dimension to the man’s plea. This was after bringing a well-meaning elderly gentleman to his knees, weaving his leash into a moving wheelchair, and wrapping it around an unstable, terrified, and soon sobbing toddler. All of them held me responsible.

Then there was the woman who accused me of animal abuse when she found out that I was exposing him to the disease-ridden streets of New York City before he was fully immunized at sixteen weeks. There is some debate about whether such precautions are necessary, I told her, explaining that I considered introducing him to children, traffic, and loud noises as early as possible was just as important.
“That’s what puppy kindergarten is for!” She countered, adding home schooling to the list of my abuses. “It’s a real shame,” she said with tight lips and shook her head at Guinness’ future of debilitating illness, improper socialization, and the tyranny of a heartless owner.

The only people we don’t speak to – although Guinness seems hurt by this – are the people who explain that their dogs aren’t friendly as they lean back like firemen with a hose to restrain their lunging, snarling beasts. Is this what happens to dogs who skip kindergarten? Will Guinness become a maladjusted menace who can’t sit, stay, or relieve himself on command? So far, I have depended on a growing stack of training guides, but he only sits when a treat is involved, never stays for more than three seconds, and resists my choice of “Ronald Reagan” as his trigger word for defecation.

This was beginning to worry me – until my friend Susan told me that she had brought her Chihuahua with her to her weekly therapy session and was relieved to find out that, counter to what her jealous fiancée believed, Lola really was just a dog. Clearly, I have graduated into a whole new level New Yorkerdom. It is only a matter of time before strangers will be touching my pregnant belly and offering unsolicited advice while I worry about which nursery school boasts the highest predicted collage acceptance rate.

So from now on, I plan to train him New York style: walk fast, eat well, choose your friends carefully, and when it comes down to shit, it’s all about location.

Rear View

So my troubles are behind me now. Behind being the operative word. You heard about my ahem maladie derriere- thank heaven that sorry tail has come to an end.

Not however without three visits to that place where the dogs howl. 'That place' is a complete set up- first yay we're going out, scramble happily into my sherpa,then a nice lttle walk, then uh oh that place where lots of people are happy to see you and fuss over you and then bam its off to a small room with a lot of innapropriate, invasive, probing with fingers and foreign objects.

OK there were some benefits. For two weeks dinner came with dessert. There was the faint sinister taste of something vaguely chemical in it but it didn't ruin the exquisite sweetness of mashed banana or the tang of kefir counterpointed with a drop of miel de lavande.

Yes thats right I said miel de lavande as in from France or to be precise the South of France. PL got a lovely parcel fom the Côte d'Azur a little while back. Both he and I have struck a friendship with Jilly who writes Postcards from Pension Milou who sent us a delightful care package all the way from the South of France. I thought she might have preferred me over PL as she has written some very nice things about me and even has a picture of me on her wall but the contents of the package tended to favor PL somewhat. He was clearly thrilled with this box of Mediterranean goodness. He sniffed the hand milled soaps (he let me have a whiff too- lovely), spooned rich red pastes onto his lunctime sandwiches or snacked on cubes of pickled cheese or slices of sun dried tomatoes, his eyes closed, transported as I was when I had my (small) share of the young Parmesan to somewhere sunnier and far far away from cold NYC.

Butt I digress. Now what was I saying before I got sidetracked to the outskirts of Monte Carlo.....I've completely forgotten how I started this post. Oh well, onward.