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Editors' note:
For all you puppy-whipped masses,
here is our list of dog books, our picks of the litter.
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Timbuktu
by Paul Auster
"Auster
does a nimble job of showing what the world might feel
like from a dog's perspective.... [Timbuktu]
emerges as Auster's most touching, most emotionally
accessible book." Michiko Kakutani, The New
York Times
$11.00
(New - Trade Paper)
check
for other copies |
Good Owners, Great
Dogs
by Brian Kilcommons
The
only American to have studied and worked with the renowned
Barbara Woodhouse solves all those "bad dog"
problems by showing owners how to read dogs' body language
and communicate with patience, praise, and clarity.
$15.99
(New - Trade Paper)
check
for other copies |
Lives
of the Monster Dogs
by Kirsten Bakis
"New
York is colonized by giant talking canines in newcomer
Bakis's wry variation on the traditional shaggy dog
story....Serious enough, but also funny and imaginative:
a vivid parable that manages to amuse even as it perplexes
and intrigues." Kirkus Reviews
$12.99
(New - Trade Paper)
check
for other copies |
My Dog Tulip
by J. R. Ackerley
"Her
memorial is the best book ever written about a dog,
partly because it never pretends to be written by one."
John Stokes, Times Literary Supplement
$12.95
(New - Trade Paper)
check
for other copies |
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 've just returned from the store. Aside from a few typical
purchases — organic vegetables from the outdoor market,
a $20 bottle of Merlot from my local wine merchant, a fresh
pair of hypo-allergenic garden gloves — I found in
my grocery bags a case of Susie Qs, a pound of Velveeta,
and a Vin Diesel poster. I am turning into white trash (When
they start calling me Carl, pull the plug). How on earth
did this happen? Well, it's a long story, but it never would
have happened if my brother hadn't hooked up with the current
female in his life.
He found her last June at the beach. She seemed lost and
was wearing nothing that might identify her or help him
locate her family. So, he just took her home. He should
have thought the situation through. Then again, Hank never
was much of a thinker (I told him not to wear that cowboy
hat so tight during his formative years).
It's been a rocky relationship. His first mistake was deciding
to call his new baby Hammer. Sure, at 120 pounds of lean
muscle, she's an imposing creature. She's a Rottweiler;
she can't help it! But looks can be deceiving. When Hammer
was first introduced to her new home, she took one sniff
of the filthy carpets and excused herself to the bathroom
to wash her paws. When my brother sat down in front of the
television with his dinner — two corn dogs and a bucket
of tater tots — Hammer cleared her throat politely
until Hank got the point and remembered to say grace.
Hammer is no drooling brute. She's a well-bred lady, a
sensitive soul. She should be escorting Blanche Dubois at
Belle Reve, not accompanying some cowboy in Carharts to
the Monster Truck Rally. It was clear to anyone paying attention
that Hammer deserved a refined companion, someone capable
of understanding her cultivated needs. She ought to be with...
well, with me.
It wasn't pretty, but there it was. I was jealous. Here's
my brother — trailer park cowboy — possessed of
this glorious creature. And what did I have? Taste, intelligence,
class, and a Valentine's date with a stack of Truffaut videos.
I'd been living alone for years, but until Hammer I'd never
really been lonely. It's only natural I felt a certain guilty
satisfaction when Hammer began running away.
The first time she went missing, Hank gave me a call. It
was obvious — even to my obtuse brother — that
I enjoyed a bond of affinity with his dog that he did not.
I agreed to help and was at his house tout de suite.
When I arrived, Hank was standing on the front porch in
sweats and a Steelers jersey yelling himself hoarse, "Hammer,
Haaaammmmer. C'mon girl. There's a big bowl of Gravy Train
waitin' for ya." His concern was touching, but, really,
Gravy Train? Inside the house, Garth Brooks was playing
full volume on the stereo, one of Hank's alcoholic poker
buddies was on the couch sleeping off last night's bender,
and the house stunk like...what? Putrid pork and wet sawdust?
What is that smell? It's the Gravy Train. No wonder Hammer
ran off.
After letting Hank know with a series of tut-tuts what
I thought of the state of his household, I gathered a few
things from my Volvo and set to work. I replaced "The Garth
Brooks Collection" with Maria Callas's "La Divina," cleared
the living room of beer buddies, and dumped the repulsive
mess in Hammer's dog bowl down the toilet. I flushed three
times then threw the bowl away for good measure. After I'd
filled a Hefty bag with beer cans and old Playboys,
I set out a proper meal, stepped onto the front porch, and
announced, as if to no one in particular, "What am I going
to do? I have imported goose liver pate, a wedge of ripe
French cheese, a nice bottle of Bordeaux, and no one willing
to share it with me."
Within five minutes Hammer had emerged from under the house
(so obvious no one thought to look, I guess) and joined
me in the dining room, where we shared a leisurely meal
and reminisced about memories past. "It doesn't take much,"
I told my brother, "but a woman needs respect, and deserves
a touch of culture." Hank, sheepish and chastened, sat on
the couch picking lint balls off his sweats.
I gave Hank pointers on how to please a lady, and in all
fairness he did make an effort. He kept the house clear
of rubbish, he bought a painting of two sad clowns (well,
it's the thought that counts), and he alternated his country
music with the odd Celine Dion CD ("Chicks love her.
She's a real class act!").
But you can't turn Budweiser into Bushmills. Eventually,
a desperate Hammer made another break for it. This time,
she wandered a little further than her own back yard and
had ended up in the pound. Hank, too embarrassed to face
her alone, asked me to accompany him when we went to pick
her up.
I'll admit that during the drive down, I indulged a fantasy
that given the proper coaxing, my feckless brother would
realize that it would be better for everyone if Hammer went
home with me to a nice tidy apartment, and not to my brother's
disaster zone.
But I realized my error when an attendant led us to kennel
A-20 and Hank and Hammer were reunited. Hammer leapt toward
my brother, her tail thumping a steady beat against the
side of her cage. When the door was opened, she threw her
paws over Hank's shoulders. Hank, relieved and radiant,
cooed timid apologies while Hammer bathed him in forgiveness
with her colossal, leathery tongue. Apparently Hank and
Hammer really did belong to one another. Embarrassed and
vaguely ashamed, I stepped out of the room to give the pair
a few moments of privacy.
While I waited, I wandered the aisles of dogs. They came
in all shapes and sizes: jowly hounds, hunky Pitt bulls,
lanky Labs, weedy Wippets... I knew just how they were feeling:
lost, abandoned, and all alone. In the very last kennel
was the smallest dog I had ever seen, a tiny bit of fluff
the color of perfectly browned toast, no bigger than an
adolescent cat. She was curled up like
a croissant on a blanket the size of a napkin so I couldn't
get a good look at her. I coughed softly, and she raised
her head, a mop of silk on a racquetball, and looked vaguely
in my direction, her black bead eyes betraying, I was sure,
a deep well of melancholia. When she saw me, she staggered
to her feet and, still groggy from sleep, made a few tenuous
steps in my direction. A strange sensation caught in my
chest, as though some vital internal organ had slipped loose
and tumbled into free fall. And that was that. I found an
attendant and made the arrangements to adopt her.
I'll admit that I acted rashly. I didn't really know anything
about this dog. However, I sensed a vulnerability, a delicacy
of nature to mirror my own, and I felt sure we were destined
to be together. If, as it turned out, my initial impressions
were mistaken — okay, grossly inaccurate — it
really didn't matter. It was too late. Such decisions were
already out of my hands.
On the way home I decided to call her Audrey, after waifish
Miss Hepburn. The next morning, I made her a special welcome
breakfast: tuna sashimi and a nori roll artfully displayed
on Japanese porcelain. After sniffing the plate, she cocked
her little head up at me and fixed me with an unreadable
stare. She then made her feelings quite clear. Turning around,
she squatted over the plate and peed on her breakfast. While
I stood there stunned, she walked over to the refrigerator
and barked. Realizing what was expected of me, I opened
the door. She put her front paws up on the bottom shelf
and, craning her little neck, surveyed the refrigerator's
contents: Greek olives, French cheese, German ham, Turkish
halvah, etc. Unsatisfied, she returned all four feet to
the floor, and, head shaking from side to side, trotted
into the bedroom. She crawled onto the bed and fell asleep
in the middle of my pillow.
I didn't know what to make of it, so I called Hank. "You
gave her raw fish? Dude, she's not a dolphin; she's a dawg!
She wants red meat." I was so eager to please my pet, it
didn't occur to me to point out that Hank's "dawg" loved
my cooking. But, as it turned out, we were both wrong. Following
Hank's suggestion, I bought Audrey a beautiful porterhouse
steak, seared it lightly, and served it with baby red potatoes
and braised young asparagus. What a lucky puppy, I thought.
But Audrey only nibbled on her 12-dollar steak, showing
no signs of enthusiasm or gratitude, and ignored the rest
entirely. I felt rejected. But maybe, I told myself, her
system is just too delicate for such rich foods. She probably
just needs something lighter. I was that deluded.
That afternoon, I decided to spend some quality time with
Audrey, so we headed out for a lovely stroll through the
Peninsula Park rose garden. Near the entrance to the park,
we approached an immense woman in pink baseball pants and
a voluminous T-shirt with STOP STARING AT MY TITS printed
boldly across the front. She was accompanied by a feral,
little girl with rat's nest hair and pudgy, dirt-streaked
cheeks. In their wake a trail of brightly colored McDonald's
wrappers extended toward the horizon. As we drew near, the
woman had just shoved an enormous fistful of French fries
into her cavernous mouth and the child was getting ready
to do the same with the last half of a Big Mac.
I reached down to comfort poor Audrey. I thought the sight
of such vulgarity might make her nervous. I was wrong. With
an efficient snap of her head she threw off her collar and
bounded off in their direction. Just before reaching the
pair, she leapt from the ground in a graceful arc at whose
apex she snatched the Big Mac from the girl's filthy fingers.
Before anyone could realize what had happened, Audrey had
bolted the entire burger into her tiny belly.
The girl was the first to recover: "That little fucker
took my burger." Her mother, whose response more considered,
was right behind her: "Mister. That'll cost you twenty
dollars. Less you want me to tell the next policeman I see
that little rat of yours bit my daughter."
Giving money to that hydrogenated gold digger was humiliating
enough. But I was deeply hurt when I noticed that, while
I was making my apologies and trolling my wallet for a twenty,
Audrey began courting the affections of that squalid girl.
The child was apparently quick to forgive, for by the time
our sordid transaction was complete, she was giggling uncontrollably
as Audrey — my darling, dainty dog — sat licking her
grubby face.
There's more. Before she would allow me to put her collar
back on, my little Audrey retrieved a single Big Mac wrapper
and dropped it at my feet. She then looked me squarely in
the eye and emitted a pair of sharp, no-nonsense barks.
Her message was clear. The next day my Volvo made its debut
voyage, the first of many, through the McDonald's drive
through window.
÷ ÷ ÷
We aren't allowed to choose who we love. Our hearts —
the little dictators — make those decisions for us.
We can only do — we must do — the best we can
with who we're given.
That is why shortly after that incident in the park, I
found myself sitting on my beautiful parquet floor amidst
a sea of greasy fast food wrappers enduring yet another
excruciating episode of "Fear Factor," the pooch
perched comfortably behind me in my $2,000 leather armchair.
That is why Vin Diesel now hangs in my bedroom.
That is why yesterday I sat dialing through radio stations
until Audrey barked her approval at KGON, "Portland's
Real Classic Rock." They were playing a seemingly endless
block of Sammy Hagar. I felt nauseous. Audrey played air
guitar.
That is why my brother and I now trade advice. He tells
me where to get twenty pound wheels of cheese for five dollars.
I explain to him that Hammer isn't "singing along"
when she howl's to Celine Dion.
And, that's why this Valentine's Day I will have the same
dazed, servile, and — yes — happy, look on my
face as my puppy-whipped brother.
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