Dogs – sparkledame

Roxie

“Beautiful girl, I love you so much. Give me a kiss.”

“Why do you only talk like that to our dog?”

“What?”

“You never call me beautiful. You never tell me you love me and I can’t remember the last time we kissed.”

“You’re being ridiculous. And you’re making Roxie anxious with your weird energy. See how her ears are pointed back? That means she’s worried.”

“Oh Sweet Jesus.”

“It’s okay Roxie, come here. There you go, belly rubs solve everything.”

“And tonight, like every other night, she’ll lie between us – horizontally – separating us so we can’t cuddle.”

“Since when do you like cuddling? You always say that you can’t sleep in my arms, that you need space.”

“I can’t sleep in your arms because I get too hot. But it would be nice to cuddle before going to sleep. You know, like a normal couple.”

“We are a normal couple. Roxie’s eyes are bulging out, the tone of this conversation is upsetting her.”

“Holy fuckety fuck. She’s a dog. I love her, you know I do. But why can’t she sleep in her dog bed? The one in the corner that cost a bazillion dollars.”

“She’s a rescue dog and rescue dogs need extra affection.”

“Do you want out of this marriage?”

“What? No, of course not. Don’t be so dramatic. And don’t raise your voice, you’re scaring Roxie.

“She has you wrapped around her little paws.”

“Roxie, come here, it’s okay. Let’s all just calm down and I’ll turn off the light.”

“I can’t take this.”

“You can’t take what?”

“Your primary relationship is with our dog, not me. You love our dog more than you love me. You engage with our dog more than with me. You show affection to our dog more than with me. Our dog has a better wardrobe than me for God’s sake.”

“I think you’re having one of those hormonal imbalance meltdowns. Why don’t you take a Xanax and we’ll go to sleep. Roxie are you warm enough? Let me just pull this blanket up over you.”

“I just can’t…”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting dressed.”

“It’s eleven thirty, why are you getting dressed?”

“Because I don’t want to drive over to Sheila’s house wearing a nightgown.”

“You’re acting crazy.”

“Actually I’m fully rational and I’m – what’s that saying? – ‘leaning into my power.’ Maybe tomorrow you can take your four-legged wife to her favorite dog park, the one across town. That will give me time to pack my bags.”

“What? Don’t joke about things like that, it’s not funny. We would both be devastated if you left.”

“Actually you might not even notice I’m gone. And Roxie will be ecstatic to have you all to yourself.”

“What if I buy you the wardrobe of your dreams? Will that help?”

“What?”

“You said earlier that Roxie had a better wardrobe than you. So what if I gave you my credit card and you could buy all that Net-A-Porter stuff that I see you coveting on Instagram. Like those black boots with the weird chunky soles.”

“So let me get this straight: your takeaway from everything I just said is, that you think I would be happier in our relationship if I had a wardrobe as nice as Roxie’s?”

“Well, yes. It would be a tangible symbol of my love for you.”

“Wow.”

“Wow what?”

“Just like an all-around wow.”

“Well…”

“How much?”

“What do you mean how much?”

“How much would I get to put on your credit card for my new wardrobe?”

“Three thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand.”

“You’re negotiating with me?”

“You’re a lawyer, you would negotiate too. Plus, you make a ton of money.”

“Fine. It’s a deal. Five thousand dollars to prove that I love you as much as I love Roxie.”

“Okay then.”

“Thank God. Roxie has calmed down, she can tell that things are better between us.”

“I bet she can, she’s an Empath that Roxie.”

“Actually you’re right, she is an Empath. My sweet little girl.”

(Photo: iStock, NY Times article by Jen A. Miller, March 13th, 2018)

Low-Rider Love

Growing up, I was always the girl who dreamt of getting a dog, not of getting married. In the end I did get married and it didn’t work out. The highlight of my marriage was meeting my first real love – a low-rider Corgi with a spirit like no other – I named her Quinny.

Everyone who met Quinny loved her. It was impossible for anyone – even the grumpiest, most miserable souls – not to smile when she strutted by on her two inch stubby legs with her sassy wiggle bum. She was pure Joy! I remember gangbangers driving by in their vintage car and calling out “Hey Low-Rider!” The same thing happened with tough mortorcyle riding men – they got such a kick out of her! And the hipsters at Figaro Bistrot loved her too. The one time she ran away – escaped from the backyard – she went around the corner to Figaro for croissant and Cafe au Lait!

I think of her often and I’m so grateful to her for sharing her spunky spirit with me.

Sally

Sally folded her socks into perfect little balls then lined them up in soldier straight lines. Next she tackled her underwear drawer, folding them in half and placing them in piles according to style: hipster, bikini, briefs. She used plastic dividers that she had bought at the dollar store to separate them. After adding lavender sachets to both drawers, she sat down on the edge of her bed and took a long sip of Chardonnay.

Sally had just finished reading “De-Clutter & Manifest your Dreams!” by Dr. Bryanne Goodwyn. Dr. Goodwyn – a Lifestyle Psychiatrist – wrote that a disorganized home reflected a chaotic psyche, a psyche unfit to receive the universe’s abundance. Therefore, in order to manifest one’s dreams, a person had to first get their home in order. “De-Clutter & Manifest your Dreams!” had come into Sally’s life at the perfect moment. She had been struggling with how to talk with her boyfriend, Derek, about the fact that he had not yet asked her to marry him. But since reading Dr. Goodwyn’s book, Sally realized that she was partly to blame for the fact that she still didn’t have an engagement ring. Sally’s closets, drawers and cupboards were completely disorganized, there wasn’t any room for Derek’s belongings. The message that Sally was sending him was: “You’re not important enough to me for me to make space for you.” Thank God for Dr. Goodwyn, it it were not for her book Sally would’t have realized that she could manifest her dreams, which included marrying Derek.

After organizing all nine dresser drawers and emptying out three of them for Derek, Sally decided to take a break and work on her visualization board. Dr. Goodwyn recommended creating a visualization board for all the things that one wanted to manifest in one’s life. Every morning she advised focusing on the board while repeating these words: “I have de-cluttered my life to make room for my dreams. I am deserving. Thank you universe for your eternal love & please help me on my journey of manifestation.”

Sally’s visualization board was massive, she had a long Manifestation List. The top left corner was dedicated to her wedding, with photos torn out of bridal magazines. It was going to be a summer wedding, the theme – Rustic-Chic, with flowers in mason jars and long, country farm tables. Her dress, designed by Jessica McClintock, was strapless with a sweetheart neckline and was ivory – not white – lace.

The top right corner of Sally’s visualization board was dedicated to her obsession with Corgis – the breed of low-rider dogs that the of Queen of England was famous for owning. She wanted two of them and she had already located a breeder in a nearby state. Their names would be Petal and Charlie. Unfortunately Derek didn’t like dogs, he preferred cats. In fact he took care of his neighborhood’s feral cats, about fifteen of them, leaving food and water out every night and building elaborate cat hang-outs on his front porch. During the winter months he even had specially heated covered cat beds. Sally had some serious visualization work to do on this issue – there was no way in hell that she was going to be known as The Crazy Cat Lady and she didn’t want Petal and Charlie getting fleas or worse, from the wretched creatures. Sally drained her glass of wine and walked over to the fridge to pour herself another one. For a brief moment she worried that perhaps Derek was mentally unstable. The feral cat caretaker thing was a bit much – I mean what kind of person does that?

At eight o’clock sharp the phone rang. It was Derek, he always called her at 8:00 PM on nights when he had to work late. “Guess what?!” he asked happily. “What?!” cried Sally, trying to contain her excitement. “Remember how you told me about that de-cluttering book you were reading and about how in order to manifest our dreams we had to first get our house in order?” Sally was pleasantly surprised that Derek remembered her telling him about Dr. Goodwyn’s book. She always figured that he kind of tuned her out when she started talking about her newest self-help book. “Yes, it’s such a great book, really empowering,” Sally said. “I know, it’s amazing! I read the whole thing in one sitting. Then I took the day off work today and re-organized my entire condo. I gave away eleven bags of stuff to The Salvation Army.” Sally felt a little irritated at the idea that Derek had co-opted her book and one-upped her by de-cluttering his entire place, Sally had only finished her bedroom. “Wow. Congrats to you,” she said, “How do you feel?” she asked. “I feel SO good! Organizing and purging was somehow like the jolt that I needed to move forward with my life. I see things more clearly now.” Sally held her breath, this was the moment she had been waiting for. Although a marriage proposal over the phone was not ideal, the important things was that it was happening. She took a sip of wine as Derek continued. “I’ve realized that my dream is to open a cat sanctuary. I’m taking a six week intensive training course on Animal Rescue, it starts next week in Denver. My neighbor, Mrs. Jubas, is going to take care of my feral cats while I’m away.” Sally exhaled. You have got to be kidding me, she thought. “Sally, I have you to thank for this incredible turn of events in my life. If you hadn’t told me about Dr. Goodwyn’s book, I never would have de-cluttered and manifested my dream. I hope that you manifest all your dreams too. Sally, are you still there?” Not only was her Rustic-Chic wedding not happening, but Derek was a better Manifestor than her. Sally turned off her phone and walked over to her visualization board. She tore off all the wedding pictures, but left up the sections entitled “Dream Home,” “Health & Beauty,” and “Career.” She also kept her Corgi pictures up. Tomorrow she would call the Corgi Breeder. Fuck Derek and his stupid cats anyways.

February

The air smelled clean, like Ivory soap. But then you felt the wind, a cold hard slap on your soft skin. Like a strike in the face from your lover that you didn’t see coming.

Dirty snow crunching. Discarded cans, bottles and garbage seemingly everywhere. Who still litters? It’s 2016, not the 1970’s. The snow is angry. It should be pristine and wedding-dress white. Instead it is brown and mucky, like an old forgotten river.

Crunch. A mitten propped up doll-like on a tree branch. One boot, laces un-done, lying in a bush like a body about to be discovered by the special victim’s unit. A hoodie left lonely and abandoned on a bench. Maybe this was an urban art exhibit by one of those media savvy types, soon to be featured in The New York Times.

The snow actually does make a crunching sound, it’s true. Crunch. Crunch. “Is your dog a lover or a fighter?” asks the man. His eyes are both watery and wild, his energy a mixture of deep sadness and frantic rage. “He’s a Lover” you say, trying to act casual, even though you want to take your elderly one eyed dog and run away across the street. “Good boy, good boy,” the man says as he lovingly strokes your dog. His watery eyes no longer wild, but soft, like pillows. He walks off and you and your elderly one eyed dog watch him go, both suddenly missing him. Why didn’t he stay longer?

Mister Lover stealthily slithers up to a large pizza crust and starts eating. You consider wrestling with him to try and retrieve the dirty pizza, but change your mind. He is old. Let him enjoy his garbage picking, it makes him feel like the King of the streets he once was.

Crunch, crunch. A couple walks by, two women holding hands. They look content. They look like they know that if one of them gets sick, the other will take care of her. A guy wearing grey skinny jeans and a low ponytail ambles along. He is carrying a granny style purse with giant knitting needles sticking out of it.

We finally arrive home. “Slowly baby, slowly” I say to Mister Lover. The front porch steps are slippery and his once powerful legs are now just little twigs. We make it up to the door and he lets out a soulful howl. A “damn that was a good walk girl!” kind of howl. February is really not so bad.

Balls

“Do you have an extra ball at home?” he asked, his voice tinged with harshness. “Excuse me?” I answered, confused and annoyed. I’d been enjoying my daily shot of bliss – hanging out at the dog park – and I didn’t want to chat with a random peacoat wearing hipster boy with facial hair and faux broken-in chinos. I looked at him sideways, hoping that if I just ignored him he would disappear. But he crept towards me, one fake workboot at a time. “Your dog stole my dog’s ball. I recognize his sweater.” I stared at him and was about to start laughing when I realized he was dead serious. His eyes were full of well-seasoned anger, anger that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with balls.

A swoosh of fur went flying by, as a bossy Corgi herded a crew of six dogs, including mine. Surely I possessed enough feminine charms to get Random Hipster Boy to calm the fuck down. I smiled, flashing what I hoped was a Julia Roberts style warm grin. “That’s too bad about your dog’s ball, but Leroy didn’t take it, he’s not into balls and never has been.” I kept my tone light and airy, imagining pink spun sugar swirling out of my mouth. The spun sugar seemed to work against me, as Random Hipster Boy seethed with a newly enhanced level of anger. “I saw YOUR dog, in that red sweater, leave the dog park with my dog’s ball in his mouth.” My smile froze, pink spun sugar stuck to my lips. He was probably the type who would toss poisoned chunks of hot dog into his neighbor’s backyard, killing their pooch in retaliation for a perceived act of aggression, like their Maple Tree’s leaves falling on his deck. “Well, I’m not sure who stole your dog’s ball and again, I’m very sorry for your loss, but I assure you it wasn’t Leroy. But, you know, I have a 20% off coupon for PetLand and I’d be happy to buy a few new balls for the park.” As if on cue his dog ran up to him. Sweet Jesus it was ugly. It looked like a caramel dipped ferret. “Good boy Hashtag, good boy,” he said. “His name is Hashtag?!!” I cried. I couldn’t help myself, the words just flew past my lips, I tried grabbing them out of the air but it was too late. Random Hipster Boy eyeballed me hard, while Hashtag barfed up some kind of pebble-grass mix. “Next time you come to the park bring Hashtag’s ball with you!” He was fuming like a cartoon character from a 1940’s comic book drawn with its head exploding. He turned to leave. A ragtag pack of two Beagles, a Pitbull, three Chihuahuas and Leroy flew by, the same bossy Corgi herding them from behind. Sand and dirt filled the air and the Beagles howled.