Of Dogs and Men

 

If my friend Josh were to buy the puppy he’s always wanted, it would no doubt be the kind of dog that approaches any breed, regardless of its size or intimidation factor. He would wag his tail, threaten to jump up on your lap, but not quite take that next leap, and given the chance, beg to be taken on a hike through some god forsaken mountain trail on a sweltering hot summer’s day, stopping to pee every five minutes.

I’m sure Josh would agree with me because, one night last week, we both came to the same conclusion after watching the boys of the South End walking their dogs: the man you may be interested in dating is best understood by spending five minutes with his four legged companion. The two may not look alike, but their personalities are directly and inexplicably linked.

Dog number one was a black lab puppy. Four months old, still a bit tentative on his paws, but willing to walk over and let us pet him. The tall, young twenty something who controlled the leash stood just off to the side and smiled, answering only the questions we asked about the puppy, never venturing any more or less. Though it would be a one-sided conversation with him in a bar, we agreed that the boy would no doubt get the attention of all of your friends.

Dog number two was a boxer regulated to the window of an Audi A4. Its owner, instead of inconveniencing the drivers along Tremont Street, pulled into the Doris Day spot in front of us. He left the dog inside with the window rolled down just far enough to prevent escape from the front seat.

“We’ll watch him,” Josh offered, to which the boy smiled and hurried off to the corner liquor store. And there the boxer sat. Not a sound. No barking. No whimpering. Just staring down the street, patiently waiting for his owner.

“He’s cute,” Josh ventured.

“A little nelly for me,” I replied. “I don’t think he’s worth waiting, all happy and obedient for. Though he does have nice tastes in cars and clothes.” Josh made no comment and rolled his eyes at me.

Then the nelly boy strolled back with his brown bag. Josh motioned to the patient boxer, not panting in anticipation of his owner’s return.  

“He’s still in there,” Josh chuckled. “Didn’t go anywhere.”

“Oh,” said the well-dressed owner. “She’s a good girl.”

Josh turned to me and whispered. “It’s a girl.”

I have to admit, female dogs are my favorite, and not because I get to call their owners the same slang term. An acquaintance of mine, Devin, owns one of the cutest dogs I have ever met. Of course, she’s cute despite Devin’s fur dying her any color that sparks his fancy. Pink. Blue. Green. Color combinations that even rival the gay flag during pride. It doesn’t matter, he says, since she’s colorblind. My friend David loves the dog more than I do, and takes her out running whenever he can, but he’s always prepared with his usual statement lest he be mistaken for her crazy pent up cosmetologist owner.

“She’s not my dog.”

He says it very emphatically and articulates every word so he doesn’t have to repeat it, which would mean that if you dated David, he’d take care of you no matter who you belonged to and what shape you were in. He’d just add the disclaimer to someone else that you were definitely not his boyfriend and was available to date. You can guess what dating Devin would do to you psyche, let alone your hair color.

Of course, my favorite dogs of that milkshake drinking night were two miniature Jack Russell Terriers. Without hesitation, and not even waiting for an invitation, or allowing me time to put my drink down, that bundle of energy pup was on my lap and licking my entire face. The other sat watching, wanting to join in, but not quite ready for a group scene. The two owners laughed, loosely yanked on the frisky terrier’s leash, at which point, he jumped quickly jumped over to Josh. Once they left, I turned to my friend.

“Now, they’d be fun. Couldn’t commit, but fun.”

And then, the two of us stopped slurping our shakes when we saw the beefiest boy of the night. He emerged from the brownstone next door, dressed in eye-popping color sweats that were loose, but tight enough to wonder what good was imagination? Following him were two lumbering bulldogs. They finally reached the sidewalk, and all three bowlegged, walked in the other direction. Ten minutes later, the three made their reappearance from around the block, the two grumpy bulldogs, without a leash, taking a wide berth and moving like sloths across the sidewalk, out of our reach. 

“They just love taking their time, don’t they?” Josh laughed.

“Huh?” replied the beef, his feet dragging along the pavement in his flip-flops.

Josh tried again.

“Yeah,” came the mumbled response from the beef without even a show of teeth. Josh shrugged his shoulders, and I slurped the rest of my milkshake, taking the top off the cup and greedily spooning the chocolate chips into my mouth.

“You pig,” Josh said to me. Then he shook his head. “I have to pee.”