Another Bad-Dog Book Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Another Bad-Dog Book

  ELI AND ME LIFE, LOVE, AND NEUROTIC HUMAN BEHAVIOR

  THE ADVENTURES OF SUPER JONI! (AND HER AMAZING DOG E-PIE-PIE)

  Winning Women

  Best Friends Forever

  A Real Bozo

  Oh, Didn’t I Tell You?

  A Vermonty State of Mind

  The Rest Home

  The Boy of Summer

  My People

  Almost a Clean Getaway

  Strangers on a Train

  Criminal Minds

  A Few Minutes of My Time

  A Real American Idol

  Still My Dad

  Tween a Rock and a Heart Place

  But Enough about Me

  The Secret

  Water, Water Everywhere

  A Cure for Aging Vermonters

  Copy. Paste.

  Identity Theft

  Grieving My Left Foot

  How to Write More, Write Better, and Be Happier

  Winning the Lottery

  Breaking Dawn

  Walking the Labyrinth

  The Year of the Dog

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  To Steve, for twenty-five years and counting

  To Esme, good night, I love you, see you in the morning.

  To Thea, who makes me happy every day.

  Author’s Note

  I have changed the names and identifying features of some individuals to protect their privacy, and because I don’t like it when people are mad at me. Beyond that, these stories are true, albeit my truth, which is sometimes warped.

  Another Bad-Dog Book

  Not another one.

  I had gone to the bookstore to read the gossip magazines for free when I saw it—yet another best-selling book about someone’s adorable, out-of-control dog. Usually these types of bad-dog stories center around a yellow Lab or similar large, loping breed, though the subject of this newest memoir was, according to the title, “a very bad beagle.”

  The description on the back cover read pretty much the same as all those other bad-dog books that fly off the shelves. The doggie main character was an exuberant, incorrigible scamp with a habit of overturning houseplants, eating table legs, and making madcap dashes through restaurants, offices, and other public venues, all while teaching its owners life lessons like the value of commitment, and what it really means to be a family.

  The very bad beagle’s mischievous eyes looked up at me from dozens of display copies, all hogging the most precious of real estate in the bookstore—the new release table at the entrance. Just seeing that cute face and those floppy ears, on a hard cover no less, aroused all of my considerable professional jealousy and frustration. My new release should have been the one on that front table, that is if I had bothered to write a new release. Unfortunately, my career as an author had not been going so well, at least not since I had discovered the Watch Instantly option on Netflix.

  “In this heartwarming and hilarious memoir,” I began reading aloud from the cover copy, my voice dripping with disdain.

  “I’ll be in the music section.” My daughter, who had come to the bookstore with me to kill a rainy afternoon, quickly made her escape. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard me rant about dog books.

  I returned the bad beagle to the table, face down as a form of protest. Of course the store showcased other, equally predictable instant best-sellers: yet another vampire book; another paean to Jane Austen; another celebrity autobiography penned by a ghost writer. Oddly enough, I felt no resentment toward these types of books, maybe because they seemed so far removed from my own realm of interest and ambitions. Vampires? Sure, I’d love to have sex with one, but what’s the fun in writing about it? Jane Austen? To me, Jane Austen was like horses, one of those common female obsessions totally lost on me. And celebrity life stories? I fantasized all the time about how great it would be to be a celebrity, specifically a member of the royal family. But if I was a royal, I wouldn’t deign to talk to anyone as common as a ghost writer.

  But a bad-dog book! As I grabbed some magazines and headed to the café for a Caramocha, it hit me why this breed of book irked me so much. Bad-dog books are the one genre both publishers and readers adore . . . and I should be exploiting.

  I have a bad dog. In fact, I’ve had several bad dogs throughout the years, all of them as incorrigible as any of those troublemakers whose life stories have been made into major motion pictures. What’s more, I am a dog person from a long line of dog people on my mother’s side of the family. (My father’s side, fussy Jews from Romania, are more like plastic slip-cover people.) I’m sure those best-selling bad-dog authors on their fancy book tours endlessly brag about how much they love their pets, but are they dog people like my people? Are they willing to kiss their dogs on the lips, regardless of where those lips have been?

  My current bad dog is named Eli, a tiny creature with blackish, fuzzy fur and big, pointy ears. Given that Eli was a stray, his actual pedigree remains a mystery, but he appears to be a disheveled Chihuahua Bat. Eli weighs only nine pounds but has defied our four-hundred-dollar invisible fencing system. One time when I took him to town, he dashed into the open door of a costume designer’s studio, and peed on her imported Italian silk fabric. He also scratches a lot (though the fleas have finally been eradicated), and won’t let anyone pet our cat in peace. Eli has only lived with our family a short time, but already he has taught us countless life lessons, not the least of which is to forego the idea of carpeting or area rugs for the foreseeable future.

  Yet, for all Eli’s bad-dog behavior, I love him with all my heart. In fact, on my “Happy List,” which I keep taped to my light therapy Sun Box that I use as my desk lamp, I accidentally ranked him above my husband and kids. And if we’re talking about best-selling potential, Eli even has a heartwarming back-story. He was a rescue dog, found wandering the streets of Hartford, Connecticut. After he was picked up and taken to a shelter, the veterinarian who first treated him determined that she needed to pull nine of his little rotten teeth. Unless you happen to be a starving kitten dumped into a library drop box in the middle of a Midwestern snow squall, a back-story doesn’t get any better than that.

  As I sat in the bookstore’s café thinking about my dog and how much more fascinating he was than most celebrities, an idea started to take shape. I pushed aside the gossip magazines I had been skimming, retrieved a notepad from my purse, and began to write.

  ELI AND ME LIFE, LOVE, AND NEUROTIC HUMAN BEHAVIOR

  It started with an email from a friend, with a photo enclosed of an adorable little dog perched on an armchair. Needs a home, read the message. My friend knew about this dog because one of her co-workers was a rescue-dog volunteer who had been fostering him. My friend also knew that I had been pining for just such a pet, or rather I had been pining for something to cuddle that would love me unconditionally. These were the same simple demands I put on my family and friends, yet all of them constantly disappointed.

  The email brought back a recent conversation I’d had with another friend, a woman I particularly appreciated for her ability to listen to me go on and on without trying to get a word in edgewise. We were at a coffee shop in town, talking about mid-life crises, mostly because I suspected I was having one. I couldn’t pinpoint any real problems with my life, except lately I had been feeling restless and under-appreciated, and envious of almost every person who crossed my path.

  “So after the astrologer read my chart, she told me that this was my lucky life.” I continued with the story I had been telling my friend. “But when I
mentioned this to my sister, she actually laughed in my face.”

  My friend started telling me about having her chart read, but quickly it became apparent that, similar to how dreams are really only interesting to the person having them, the same goes for astrology readings.

  My attention drifted to some teenagers across the street. Five of them were hanging out, smoking near the diner. Smoking was cool, I thought, suddenly craving a cigarette, even though I didn’t smoke. Then a really good-looking guy walked by with a dog, which made me crave sex and a cigarette. The dog stayed at his heels even though it wasn’t on a leash, suggesting that the man possessed a gentle but commanding authority. For obvious reasons, this only added to his sex appeal.

  “I want a dog,” I announced, figuring my own sex appeal could use a boost. I hadn’t been flirted with in way too long, not counting the mentally impaired guy who hung around town and couldn’t articulate words, but always blew me kisses.

  My friend gave me a skeptical look. “You don’t want a dog,” she said. “That’s not what you’re really looking for.”

  “Oh yes it is!” I insisted, though I had to admit, this revelation was a surprise even to myself. In truth, I still hadn’t quite recovered from our last dog, Lily, who had died four years ago. Lily was a pit bull mix, and the sweetest pet in the world, not withstanding the fact there is a reason why pit bulls are the dog of choice for people with anger issues and knuckle tattoos. While gangbangers might enjoy seeing, say, their neighbor’s Pomeranian1 pinned to the driveway, yipping for its very life, my whitebread nerves couldn’t take it.

  Lily died at age seventeen, or 119 in people years, though her bladder semi-retired around middle age. While she had the look and constitution of a fireplug, the last three years of her life proved a marathon of near death experiences and miraculous recoveries. Relationship experts claim the number one issue couples argue about is money, but based on personal experience I’d have to say an old dog runs a close second. Neither my husband, Steve, nor I ever wanted Lily to suffer, but our differing sensibilities about when to let her go—me, Never! Steve, about six whopping vet bills ago—made each of her health crises feel like a grudge match between the Pope and Dr. Kevorkian.

  I reread the email message on my computer. The dog in the enclosed photograph was so over-the-top adorable it could have been created by one of those Disney animators who are masters at manipulating emotions using cuteness archetypes. Stick an oversized head on a small pudgy body, throw in some saucer eyes and big, pointy ears, and bam! Instant heart melt. Confronted with this kind of movie magic, no wonder audiences for generations have overlooked the fact that most Disney classics involve some form of matricide.

  According to the email message, the dog’s name was Cricket, or at least that was the name given to him by the rescue-dog volunteer who was fostering him. This was her second stint as his foster mom; he’d already been returned to the shelter once by a family who had decided not to keep him.

  Oh my goodness! Even if I hadn’t been so completely taken by his disheveled appearance, and the way his little pink tongue stuck out between his lips, just the concept of “rescue dog”—and a reject, at that—made me want to rise to my better self. I could save this dog! I could turn his life around! Not being the rescuer type, this could make up for a certainty born of countless bad dreams that if ever I was confronted with an actual rescue situation—say someone being descended upon by zombies—I would a.) scream, but no sound would come out; b.) try to run, except my feet wouldn’t move; and c.) realize that I wasn’t wearing any clothes.

  Still, despite the heady rush of imagining myself saving this precious creature, I knew I needed to think things through. First was the obvious question: Did I really want the responsibility of dog ownership? Of course not, but that was hardly a deterrent. More problematic was the fact that Steve was unlikely to want to take care of another dog. This would be a challenge, to convince someone who was more of a dog tolerator than a dog person that fur on the furniture and poop in the yard would greatly enhance his life.

  And then there were other issues to consider. Like so many people who find themselves with a closet full of Bacon Genies, Snuggies, and Ronco Rotisseries, I tended to be an impulse shopper, and sometimes those impulses brought home pets. I didn’t regret bringing home any of these wonderful creatures; still, the memories weren’t all happy ones.

  In second grade, for example, I acquired a classmate’s adorable, albeit rheumy-eyed mouse, and hid it in a shoebox in my closet. My mother discovered my secret pet running around my room while she was cleaning, and blew her stack. Given her affection for animals, the only reason I can fathom for her anger is that she probably thought it would clog her vacuum.

  When I was in high school, I brought home a friend’s dog because her parents were going to take it to the pound. In those days, everyone understood the pound was just another way of saying doggie death row. In this case, my mother agreed we should take in this shy, wispy blond mutt. What was one more dog when our family already owned three? Tragically, Daisy died just a few months later, after choking on a steak bone she had pulled from the trash.

  And then there were the pets I acquired after I reached adulthood. Sherwood, my fluffy, white bunny, is what happens when you find yourself single and alone at the King of Prussia mall on yet another dateless Saturday night. It’s a certain kind of loneliness that allows you to believe a Pretty Pets salesclerk who insists, “Of course you can house-train a rabbit!”

  Shortly after marriage, Steve and I acquired Foo Foo the cat, who originally belonged to our neighbors in graduate student housing. Over time, my campaign of obsessive petting convinced everyone involved that a better home awaited Foo Foo on our side of the duplex. The cat was still with us when Steve and I moved into our current house, an historic cape with a secret closet allegedly used to hide runaway slaves, and a three-hearth fireplace with a built-in beehive oven. Not being the fireplace-stoking-bread-baking-type, I have never been inclined to make use of the oven, but Foo Foo found comfort in it when he needed a place to die.

  Eight years into marriage, Steve and I realized we probably should get around to having children. That’s when I went to the pet store and brought home Pierre the cockatiel. We kept Pierre’s cage in the master bathroom, though he spent considerable time on my shoulder, preening his feathers and dropping bird doo down the back of my shirt. I don’t recall Pierre ever causing a bit of trouble, at least not until the day he died, when I caught Steve about to toss his stiffening corpse into the bathroom trash.

  By this time, we did have children—two little girls—and one day they decided they wanted pet rats. Ugh. When it came to furry creatures, even I drew the line somewhere. All I could think about were the Ratzillas that used to get into our house, until Steve did something with poison and a hammer that I’d rather not think about.

  “We can go to the pet store to look,” I told my daughters, “but there is no way in hell I’m bringing one of those disgusting things home.”

  The minute I saw the two baby fancy rats, curled up together in their cage, I was smitten. According to the handbook Best Pets for Small Children (conveniently available for browsing in the pet store’s rodent room), the rat’s black beady eyes belie an innate intelligence and gentle playfulness. How could we not bring Squeakums and Charlie home with us, along with a two-story rat condo, an elaborate play-tube-slash-mega-maze, and just about every other type of rodent accessory imaginable, save for tiny, yellow LiveStrong wristbands?

  Charlie passed away within two years, marking one of my children’s early encounters with grief, not to mention irony, given it was Squeakums who had developed two tumors on his side resembling conjoined Hackey Sacks. Even so, Squeakums soldiered on and on and on, long after he could no longer squeeze into his mega-maze.

  By the time the email about Cricket arrived in my inbox, our family was down to one pet, Milo the cat. I’d brought Milo home a couple Christmases ago, and like every one of m
y previous pets, I loved him with all my heart. Still, a cat was not a dog.

  How old is Cricket? I typed. What would it hurt to ask the rescue-dog volunteer a few questions?

  Between two and four, she emailed back. At least that’s the vet’s best guess.

  Does he get along with other animals?

  Yep.

  Children?

  Yep.

  “Cricket.” I said the name aloud. Of course it would have to be changed. Given how I thought of dogs more as surrogate children than pets, it seemed more appropriate to give them human names.

  That evening, I showed Cricket’s photo to Steve. You would think, given the dog’s cuteness, this would have been all the convincing necessary. “Just look at his oversized head,” I pointed out. “Check out those saucer eyes.”

  Steve looked, but apparently was immune to the Disney magic.

  “What is it?” he asked, nonplussed. Given his lack of enthusiasm, I knew to choose my next words with care.

  “The rescue-dog volunteer said we could bring him home for the weekend.” I kept my tone light, casual. “Just a trial run, to see how he fits in with our family. No commitment, of course.”