The Dog Pervert

I approach most aspects of life with general neutrality and a seemingly impervious laid back attitude. It’s difficult to get me worked up over most things that titillate a 20-something gal like myself: fashion, gossip, politics, career paths, celebrities. A coworker brought her wedding gown into work the other day. The other entry level female employees swarmed around to bob up and down while twittering with big googly eyes. Then they turned to me and I actually said, “that’s nice” before excusing myself. On the other polar extreme, I sometimes go overboard in pursuit of whatever DOES manage to hold my attention. For example, booze and literature. I’m quite sure that my brain chemistry has been permanently altered from soaking in rum for all of the 21st century. I collect, on average, 1 to 3 novels per week, meaning that they are beginning to crowd us out of our own apartment. Not to mention my willingness to throw many thousand dollars towards a Master’s in Books. Some people are alarmed by the swings in behavior from calm, docile Dangerous K to energized, arm-flapping, shrieking Dangerous K. I’m beginning to get there myself folks.

You see, I like dogs. A lot. Dogs go in the rum and books category. I make friends with people in the neighborhood based solely off of the cuteness of their pet. There’s an old Russian woman down the street who I chit chat with on my morning stroll to the train station because she has the sweetest golden lab (who incidentally has an unpronounceable Russian name that consists only of consonants. Something like Jpyhfnk). In the park, I lower my sunglasses and make suggestive faces at anything furry with four paws. Sometimes I cop a feel as we walk past. When Mrs. First Floor Apartment asks me to watch Chica, I usually scream “YES” before she’s finished with the question. I’ve purposely cancelled plans to do it. So the following story should come as no surprise.

This Sunday, Beau and I woke up early to go yard sale-ing on the Cape. I was perusing a box of paperbacks when some kind of Sheppard mix ran out of the woods and began circling the tables, clearly lost, scared, and dehydrated. The homeowners stopped sales-pitching Beau on an antique Elvis record to get pots full of water before chasing after the dog, shouting and clanging the pans together. He retreated across the street. Who could blame him? While the homeowners were occupied counting Beau’s change, I whistled to the poor thing. He perked up his ears at the familiar sound and immediately sat down. I gently called him over. I was inches from grabbing his collar, looking at his tags for an address, and stuffing him into the car to take to his rightful home when the damn blue hairs starting hollering and running around again. The Sheppard took off into the woods but this time, he didn’t come back out.

In the car on the way to the next yard sale, Beau noticed my uncharacteristic reticence and reached over to pat my leg. I immediately starting sobbing and cursing The Retarded Old People With The Pots And Pans. I was ruined for further bargain hunting and now Elvis is inextricably linked with lost puppies that I failed to rescue.

I thought I spied redemption on our way to the grocery store last night. As we pulled around the corner at the end of the block, I saw a sole Weimaraner sniffing her way through the gas station. I shouted, “STOP THE CAR!” until Beau pulled towards the curb. Before he’d come to a complete halt, I jumped out and speed-walked towards the pooch, whistling. She poked her head out from her hiding spot and tilted her head. I could see her ID tags. As I approached with my hand held out in offering, a well dressed woman rounded the corner with her fists on her hips. While I did some mental math, the Weimaraner crouched down to take a dump. I called out, “Is she yours?” to the woman who just nodded and started to tap her foot. I managed to get out “I thought she was lost” before scurrying back to Beau and loudly complaining that the dog-owner didn’t have to get in such a bitchy huff; I was just trying to be a Good Samaritan.

But let’s turn the situation around, shall we?

You’re out on a beautiful May evening, walking your pure-bred, prize-winning Precious. She’s excited to be out of the house finally and keeps pulling at the leash, so you let her off with full faith in her usual obedience. As you’re passing the gas station, she starts that intent sniffing which could only mean one thing: doody. You’d really prefer she didn’t take a shit at the Exxon but on the bright side, if she does it now, you'll definitely get back in time to see Hell's Kitchen. You stoop to tie your shoe when a dark vehicle comes to a screeching halt about ten feet from your baby. Before it has completely stopped, a crazed looking girl in a tie dye t-shirt and Bermuda shorts opens the door and jumps out. She begins running towards your pet making enticing noises and promising it candy and a new bike if it gets in the car. When she sees you, she stutters a phony excuse about a lost dog and bolts.

You know what that makes me? A dog pervert. Dateline is going to make a show about me.