Dog Dates

I've been dating recently. No one else but me is surprised by this, because I just don't think I'm very datable. Maybe only slightly better than average physically, I'm reaching the point where I can say I've 'passed my prime,' and I certainly have enough baggage for a round-the-world cruise. Twice round-the-world. And I don't think that's a stretch. (I'm not fishing for compliments.)

I went on a date with this really amazing guy. He's sweet and considerate, he's smart and funny, really really handsome, incredible body, good job....

I don't think it's going to work out. I want to be wrong, because there's nothing wrong with him - he would make someone very very happy. I don't think that I'm that person. WHAT DID MY PARENTS DO TO ME????!????? Is there any reason why I can't do this? Can I date a nice guy for once? GAWD!

When I was in seventh grade, our black Labrador, Lady, was hit by a car. She was a beautiful, smart, fast gentle dog whose only setback was her predisposition to roll in shit and dead birds.

Immediately after that, my dad rescued a male Dalmatian from an old man who was, I think, going to put him down. The old man named the dalmatian LBJ, but we changed his name to Pongo, from '101 Dalmatians.' We never knew his age, but he was young when we acquired him. No older than two.

He was a jerk.

He constantly killed the neighbor's cats. Constantly. And for no other reason other than that he could. I saw him do it once. This unsuspecting and naive cat was strolling by, on the border of where our yard met our neighbor's yard. And this cat had obviously no ill will to Pongo, and I think was approaching Pongo just to say hi and throw out a peace pipe, so to speak. Pongo's ears perked up and his tail wagged, a crafty ploy to lure the cat closer. As the cat got close enough, Pongo lowered his head, grabbed the cat by the neck and shook with all his might. The cat's neck broke and was immediately killed. To which Pongo dropped the body and continued on as if nothing happened, as I imagine Jeffery Dahmer did. And no lie, this happened constantly. (I blame the neighbors: Really?? You HAD to have cat after cat?)

He would also puke. Gallon upon gallon. On my bed. Pongo would plead to go out at 2 or 3 in the morning by scratching at the door and barking and crying - he had one of those obnoxiously loud barks and yelps that shot through your ears and right into your fillings. He was the Fran Drescher of dogs. So after a half hour of constant argument with him, he would win and I would open the door to let him out (we lived in an unincorporated area, where there were no leash laws and barely any traffic, so dogs off their lead was common.) So on his nightly hunts, he would turn over the (same) neighbor's garbage cans and eat everything in it - corn cobs, paper, bones. I mean literally everything in that garbage can ended up being eaten by him. And I know this because he would come back home, jump up on my bed, whimper with discomfort from being so bloated with garbage, and vomit as if he were auditioning for 'Doggie Exorcist.' So I saw what he ate.And it was A LOT! Never could you imagine that much fitting in the stomach of any animal, let alone a 50 pound dog.

And he was very territorial. That's the nice way to say 'malicious.' If you didn't know Pongo and you came over, God help you, because you were on your own. There was no one in that house that could hold him back if he decided that he was going to send a message through his teeth. Band-Aids and alcohol had a special shelf near the front door at our house for those occasions when we couldn't get Pongo in the rear bedroom fast enough. And all my friends and my sibling's friends knew that our house was always the last resort for any get-togethers, and I think our sympathy as a family waned after the 7th or 8th nip. I can still hear my mother's exasperated sighs and tone when she tried to be sympathetic to Pongo's victims, because, like anyone who has been in a long-running stage show knows, it takes a lot of good acting to make the same lines appear genuine and heart-felt, when its really just a script that you've had to repeat for 8 shows a week for two years and counting. Mother was never that good of an actor.

(At this point I do have to offer Dolly a genuine apology for Pongo jumping up to bite her nose. DON'T BLOW KISSES AT PONGO! He hated that. Apparently.)

And don't even get me started on the fleas he brought into the house, the footprints, the white hair that covered everything, the fights with the neighbor dogs, the pot roast... OH! the pot roast!

Mother took a pot roast out of the freezer and put it on top of the refrigerator to thaw out overnight. Mind you, this was a roast for a family of six. Well, in the middle of the night, the house is awoken to Pongo's crying and yelping. So we all get up to find that he has somehow climbed his up to the top of the 6 feet tall refrigerator, has eaten the ENTIRE pot roast, and couldn't make his way back off the refrigerator. So he had to be lifted off from on top of the refrigerator and brought to the ground, where he subsequently vomited the entire pot roast onto the kitchen floor. He went and hid, then fell asleep, while we all cleaned up dog vomit at 3 in the morning.

He was a horrible animal - totally untrained and untrainable, a huge bully, an obnoxious bulimic, and a street thug, to say the least. I loved him. Like he was the flesh of my flesh: I loved that dog so much, and I'll still shed a tear for him and the tribulations he had to go through (he was only a dog and really can't be held responsible, so I think he was way over-punished!). I will never ever meet a dog again without thinking, 'Sure - it's a nice dog. It's no Pongo, but it seems nice enough.'

That's how I date. Ugh.