Better than fuzzity, way better

So what if she wears ass-pancaking beige capris with white socks and puts her make-up on in the dark? I like her. This woman was ahead of me in line at Videotron, renting Sandra Bullock's entire filmography (which I'm willing to overlook in this context only), when she took a few selfless moments to make my day.

Lately, I've been feeling invisible, as though I exist only to field non-stop, unvarying questions about what is apparently, by neighbourhood consensus, "the-cutest-puppy-in-the-world". I've been fostering her thanks to a local assistance-canine training program.

People are drawn to her like crazed, moronic zombies. They stumble toward us, their arms extended forward and hands grabbing at air, babbling unintelligibly. All I can make out are words like "toutou-ou-ou" and "fuzzity-wuzzity" and "puppy-wuppy". It's so disturbing, I started taking less-populated side streets.

My puppy's been stalked and fondled by many a Montrealer this past month (including members of most Montreal bands you know), mentioned in "Missed Connections" on Craigslist, even serenaded by the schizophrenic busker outside our neighbourhood budget grocery store. More than anything, people wanted to know her name, but never mine. Twice, I was asked for her phone number, for dog dates. Truer than ever before (and I have significant experience with the phenomenon), I'm the pretty girl's best friend. She gets all the attention, even though she's a bitch.

So, when the woman in the unflattering pants at the video store overlooked my puppy and asked me if my "gorgeous hair" was natural, or, to please tell her where I'd gotten it done, I was willing to overlook her poor taste in clothes and movies, take her compliment and run.

"So there," I said to my puppy on the walk home, with a sneer. "My hair is way better than fuzzity-wuzzity."

Return of the filthy puppy

You know that cruel and common saying that's supposed to make you feel better about splitting up with someone, but totally doesn't? The one that begins, "If you love something set it free...", and then goes on to suggest there's a glimmer of hope for a future together, and, even though you'd never admit it, when you're really bummed you reassure yourself with it anyway? Well, I tested it, for real, and it worked. My discovery was accidental, and not very scientific, but as for much research concerning matters of the heart (and other essential organs), it began with animal testing.

Last Friday, I said good-bye to a puppy I'd been fostering for a foundation that will later train her as a Super Dog to assist a child with special needs.

While I'd grown completely attached to her in the little time I was able to keep her, the foundation found her an "excellent", more permanent foster-family, with kids and a yard and stability---all things I can't offer.

Saying good-bye sucked the big one, even though I knew it was for the greater, longer-term good, because once something turns you upside-down, righting yourself can be a challenge. Anyway, I let her go. I had to. I signed a contract that said so. Short of puppy-napping her, and running off to Mexico in disguises, there was nothing I could do to make the relationship last.

Yet, right now, the little carnivore is sleeping on my lap, dreaming of chasing a warm-blooded and delicious snack. She came back, the same foster puppy that left me last Friday, the one I cried myself to sleep missing.

During the first two days of her absence, I'd consoled myself knowing that she was better off in her new home, with more people to love her and snuggle her and give her chewy treats. She'd be having so much fun in her wonderful new home, I told myself, that I'd soon be a mere memory of a friendly kibble dispenser to her.

So, when I got the call from the foundation early Monday morning, I was shocked, re-traumatized. Every consolation I'd offered myself in the days she'd been gone, which I spent gorging on comfort food, was annihilated with the declaration, "They don't want her." She'd eaten their child's homework, they said.

Of course, I agreed to love her more, while the foundation searches for a new, more reliable home. One where all my hopes and expectations for her are realized, although I'll have to try a lot harder to convince myself it's true next time.

I love her and I let her go, and she came back to me, tail wagging. But somewhere, in the small-print of that cruel and common saying, is the warning that even if what you let go comes back, there's no guarantee it'll stay. You might as well enjoy the time you have, and I have two bonus upside-down weeks with the puppy of my dreams.

The night before she left, I interviewed her about how she felt. She was terribly filthy (we'd gotten caught in the rain) and not the most cooperative subject. Looking back at the way she licked her butt, slobbered mystery bits onto my hand, and ultimately tried to destroy me, I think she knew the new family wasn't going to work out, and was trying to tell me:

Man vs. Mimbo

It was the moment of truth, the day-time equivalent to last call. If he didn't close the deal before we parted ways this sunny afternoon, he may never have another chance.

"Is this where it ends?" he asked when we reached the park boundary, and seductively peeled off his sunglasses (if that's still possible since the Eighties). In the same movement, he turned to face me, allowing his sparkling green eyes opportunity to enchant me, and hit me where it hurts so good. He did it with such confidence, that it was clear the move has worked before, but likely on younger, far less jaded prey.

Obviously, he'd been told---aside from his dark brown skin, athletic build, sculpted facial structure and caramel-smooth voice---that his eyes are his most striking feature, the big guns, and that's why he saved them for this final play. After spending an hour with him, I believe that to be true; they are his best feature. At least he has something to fall back on.

Essentially, bringing a puppy to a city park is an invitation to speed-dating. A floppity, irresistible "in". This particular candidate's off-leash, tennis ball-addicted Boxer facilitated our initial introductions by shamelessly sliming my legs, toppling my coffee and, finally, snuggling up to my own furry-fiasco in a disarmingly cute display of puppy love. She was sweet and clever, and more subtle than her master, her end game well-executed.

I wasn't impervious to the twenty-something's immediate charms, physical (and fleeting) though they were, and my body language is the likely culprit that encouraged him to settle onto the grassy patch beside me. From there, he asked all the right questions while I wondered if I had croissant flakes stuck to my problem tooth, the one that seems to attract them.

He spoke to his dog with calm respect and control, and he touched on my small-talk favourites right away: bicycles and travel. Since my daily necessity is to exhaust my puppy (so I can work at home without sacrificing a summer shoe or two for a few moments of chew-free peace) I welcomed this harmless flirting to pervert my routine, and suggested we walk our dogs together.

Maybe it was beginner's luck, but he was off to a big, strong start. Despite his shortcomings, he did better than most so far this season, and it took him at least twenty minutes to out himself as a graphic sex-talking, bestiality-references-are-funny-thinkin', agree-with-everything, urban legend-believing, pretty-boy with an eye for my ass. When we stopped for a drink at a kiosk near the park exit, I found myself explaining that, although it looks similar, Sprite is not "sparkling water". I'd gotten myself a Mimbo. A male bimbo.

And now it was last call, and he'd made his move. There we stood, face-to-face in the moment of truth. "Thanks for the dog-walk," I said, edging away. One cute, needy mammal is really all I can handle. I softened the split with a gentle "see you in the park someday".

"I hope so," he yelled at my back, and a few more comments, but I thought it best not to stop. I kept walking until I was out of range of his enchanting green eyes, his best feature, and then circled around. Sure he'd gone home to ponder what went wrong and then promptly forget about me, I returned to the grassy patch, where my puppy slept at my feet, and avoided eye contact with strangers for the rest of that sunny afternoon.

Dear Puppy,

This is one of those letters parents write to their children when they're small and unreasonable, so when they get a little older, they'll understand the cruel and usual punishments of parenthood, and that they were loved and/or tolerated regardless. Writing letters also helps parents sort through stockpiled last straws, and remember that there are cleaner and calmer days to come. Probably, anyway. At worst, documentation will help doctors pinpoint exactly when things started to go wrong.

What makes this letter different is that, after this morning, I may never see you again. That, and you're a dog, and you will never read this. You're leaving to join your new, more permanent foster family, one with a yard to poop in and kids to fight over who has to walk you.

I worry about you, but I know in a week's time you won't give a flying crap-in-a-baggie about me. Your new people will give you cheese-and-bacon-flavoured Buddy Biscuits, and we all know, just like the musicians I crush on and their bands, your relationship with chewy treats takes priority over all others. I would only ever have come second to you anyway.

The weeks we spent together were intense. At times, you were a total pain in my ass, and others, you were the sweetest, most wonderful hairy mammal I've ever cuddled. You followed me everywhere, forgiving me daily for making you go outside to poop, to where people would coo, "What a cute puppy!" while your back was arched and tail lifted. You'd shoot me a sideways glance, and I knew what you were thinking.

I fell in love with you, fast and hard. When you first moved in, I was really nervous. I wondered what we'd talk about all day, how I'd keep you entertained. You followed me everywhere, which is great, because again like some musicians I've dated, you couldn't be trusted alone.

Once, I was in the shower washing my hair, and when I rinsed the suds from my eyes, there you were, watching me. You'd pushed the curtain aside with your snout, and poked your tiny head over the edge of the tub. The spray was hitting your face, and you were blinking furiously, looking slightly miserable. It was then I knew you loved me, too.

Now, you have to go. I agreed to give you love and attention until the Foundation was able to find you a more permanent foster home, where you will stay until you are all grown-up and ready to be an assistant dog for someone who really needs you, not just someone who really wants you, like me. I can't give you the commitment you require, so it's the right thing to do, to let you go and do your good work. Yes, I'm reassuring myself.

I just want you to know that you've changed me for the better (and my house and its chewed and punctured contents are changed only slightly for the worse). You were my first, for this kind of love anyway, and someday, when I grow up, I want a puppy just like you, for keeps.

Love,
Your belly-scratching provider-of-treats.

New puppy-owner lesson #99

"Are you doing what I think you're doing?" my friend asked when she came out of the bathroom and saw me crouched low to the floor, shaking my head and making noises.

"That depends," I said, looking up, removing long, coarse and strangely salty hairs from my mouth. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"I think you're blowing on the dog's belly. That doesn't even work," she said.

"Yeah, I figured that out."

The Pocket-Kibbling Puppy Fraud

I've moved to an entirely different, but parallel, city and time zone, one where I'm exotic and irresistible, and it's great. This one is mapped according to grassy patches and trash cans. I've made a lot of new friends here, Luna, Gustav, Turner and countless others, but they're into public defecation and it's hard for me to embrace their subculture. My roommate is doing her best to integrate me, it comes so naturally to her.

This morning, I spoke to 25 people more people than usual, using language I barely grasp (heavy on breeds and canine health references), about four hours earlier than I'd normally interact with anyone at all. I did so before coffee and wearing no make-up, motivated to leave my house only by the prospect of not having to wipe urine from my refinished wood floor. But, to the untrained eye, I am a "dog person", and that gets me major "cute" points.

The truth is, I am a pocket-kibbling puppy fraud. It's not my puppy, she's a foster puppy belonging to an organization with a much higher purpose, and the only reason she listens to me is because I have a pocket full of kibble. My other pockets bulge with poo-bags and emergency squishy, meaty treats in case I really need some pull. Seriously, I don't usually smell like dog food.

To her credit, she's the cutest puppy I've ever met, and it's she who is irresistible, not me, even if she eats shit sometimes. Recently, in the classifieds section of a local publication, an anonymous admirer declared that I am "nearly as cute as [my] puppy", and he'd like to meet us. Before my foster-puppy arrived, I might have been offended by any comparison to an animal, but my context is now kibble crumb-coated, and I'm starting to get it.

Already she's shaken my existence, but when she grows up, this noble little puppy will be an assistant to a child with special needs, and make a more significant contribution to that child's life than most people ever could, and I love her for it. A lot. It's an honour to be her sidekick, for however long that may be, even if it means that I am, once again, just the pretty girl's best friend.

My mother on a short leash

My mother's index finger has gone arthritic, and is crooked slightly to the side, making it look more like the witch finger she claims it is. It's one of those unfortunate health issues that's turned family joke, and I suspect she enjoys the additional power she wields when she points it at us. We recoil as though she's growled our full names: first, middle and last. It's that scary.

It's that finger I imagine hovering over the keypad of my parents' phone right now, waiting to call me and say, "I told you so." She's the only person who can get away with saying this to me, and not just because I'm scared of her finger.

Of all the voices in my head, my mother's is the loudest. While she's given me some crap tidbits of advice in the past, she always delivers them with my best interests in mind. On occasion, I regret that my disgusted "I know" moans, have caused her to keep her opinions to herself when it most matters, leaving me completely vulnerable to her follow-up "I told you so," a phrase she's reluctant to surrender.

My parents outsmarted me several times when I was a kid, concerning my want for pets. When I asked for a rabbit, they said yes, but first, I'd have to endure child labour and toil for my opportunistic neighbours, to afford the rabbit and all its trimmings (the cage and food). The lesson taught me well. Now, I always set a rate in advance, and I know rabbits aren't worth the trouble, they are the trouble.

Still, when the opportunity arose to temporarily foster a puppy, bred to be docile and compliant, with a gorgeous fox-face, I fell into the same trap. The dog is destined to become an assistance dog for children with special needs, and all I have to do is give it love. Lots and lots of love, until it finds a semi-permanent foster home (in days, or weeks, or at most, a month). Oh, and there was something about training.

During these first few days of the experience, nearly everything's gone smoothly, all until the otherwise floppity, waggity, semi-comatose fluffball spies a larger dog in the park and barks uncontrollably. That's why, I suspect, my mother hasn't called yet, there's no need. She's channeling through the puppy: "I-wowowowow told-rrrrwarrrrwwrr you-bowowowow so-oh-oh-oh-ohhhhhh!" I'd know her voice anywhere.

Regardless of the readjustment and challenges ahead (missed debauchery, bike-ride hiatus, picking up feces), and all the whining I'll be doing because of it, I know that even my mother's witch finger, in all its cynical glory, would disappear in this puppy's fuzzity coat.