“I had a dream last night that someone told me eighty percent of lesbians have five-letter names,” says my sister Shannon on the phone. “And I think it’s true. Ellen, Rosie, Jodie, my friend Marcy… I know a lesbian named Heather, but I think she’s part of the other twenty percent.”
“Maybe it’s just eighty percent of the lesbians you know,” I say.
“That’s why I’m telling you. You can test it out better than I can, since you’ve got a bigger lesbian pool.”
“I can already report that you’re wrong.”
“Even still, I know you’ll be counting letters in names all day.”
Damn it, she’s right. I already am. Cindy, Laura, Katie… Hmm…
“SIMON!” Shannon screams into the phone.
“Jesus,” I say. “Warn me before you do that.”
“If I don’t find this damn dog before five o’ clock, my husband’s gonna kill me. I don’t understand how he got out.”
My sister is wandering through the woods behind her house, once again searching for one of her giant, unmanageable dogs. Their great escapes are a fairly common occurrence at her house, sometimes stretching well into the next day, before she or her husband will find their pony-sized canine rolling in a ditch somewhere, covered in mud, delighted by his freedom.
She brought this on herself.
“Maybe it’s just eighty percent of the lesbians you know,” I say.
“That’s why I’m telling you. You can test it out better than I can, since you’ve got a bigger lesbian pool.”
“I can already report that you’re wrong.”
“Even still, I know you’ll be counting letters in names all day.”
Damn it, she’s right. I already am. Cindy, Laura, Katie… Hmm…
“SIMON!” Shannon screams into the phone.
“Jesus,” I say. “Warn me before you do that.”
“If I don’t find this damn dog before five o’ clock, my husband’s gonna kill me. I don’t understand how he got out.”
My sister is wandering through the woods behind her house, once again searching for one of her giant, unmanageable dogs. Their great escapes are a fairly common occurrence at her house, sometimes stretching well into the next day, before she or her husband will find their pony-sized canine rolling in a ditch somewhere, covered in mud, delighted by his freedom.
She brought this on herself.
They acquired each of their three dogs when they were tiny little puppies- adorable fuzzy little things who would gnaw on your finger and make cute puppy sounds. Then they grew into the hulking monsters they are today, but apparently nobody clued them in on the fact that they aren’t tiny little puppies anymore. They’re not stupid, really, they just lack self-awareness.
I grew up with a series of malcontented cats- fuzzy, angry lumps of fur that only seemed to bond with my father. One survives to this day. Chloe is nearly eighteen, arthritic and wicked. She hates my nephew, but is shrewd enough to recognize she cannot eliminate him without upsetting my parents, so she avoids him altogether. Cats don’t really DO anything, a feature my friend Slutty Mandy considers a fine selling point. She has two of them, and apparently they enjoy companionable silence. That idea bores me to tears, which is why I wanted a dog: An action pet. I would name him Benjamin. We could go for walks, and he’d greet me at the door, and do that thing where he sits beside me and puts his paw on my leg, saying, “Hey, Topher. I love you, man.” My dog-ownership fantasies stretch all the way back to childhood and are incredibly elaborate. I knew I’d have one eventually, but whenever I reported that to my boyfriend Preppy, he’d give me a funny look and say, “Okay… sure.”
Now I understand why. While we’re in the holding pattern of purchasing a house, Preppy and I have been living at his former home in Smyrna with his old roommates… and their dogs. Brutus is a Great Dane, with a powerful tail that always manages to whack one’s testicles as soon as one’s guard is down, rendering one breathless for about ninety seconds. Kaiser is a “Standard Poodle”, which confuses me because I thought the standard for poodles was small and yippy, with little bows on their ears. Kaiser defies this logic, standing nearly as tall as Brutus, though thankfully without a ball-busting tail.
They wrestle. They bark. They knock me over in the kitchen. They growl at the walls and bark at the pizza guy. They drop chew toys on my clean sheets.
I grew up with a series of malcontented cats- fuzzy, angry lumps of fur that only seemed to bond with my father. One survives to this day. Chloe is nearly eighteen, arthritic and wicked. She hates my nephew, but is shrewd enough to recognize she cannot eliminate him without upsetting my parents, so she avoids him altogether. Cats don’t really DO anything, a feature my friend Slutty Mandy considers a fine selling point. She has two of them, and apparently they enjoy companionable silence. That idea bores me to tears, which is why I wanted a dog: An action pet. I would name him Benjamin. We could go for walks, and he’d greet me at the door, and do that thing where he sits beside me and puts his paw on my leg, saying, “Hey, Topher. I love you, man.” My dog-ownership fantasies stretch all the way back to childhood and are incredibly elaborate. I knew I’d have one eventually, but whenever I reported that to my boyfriend Preppy, he’d give me a funny look and say, “Okay… sure.”
Now I understand why. While we’re in the holding pattern of purchasing a house, Preppy and I have been living at his former home in Smyrna with his old roommates… and their dogs. Brutus is a Great Dane, with a powerful tail that always manages to whack one’s testicles as soon as one’s guard is down, rendering one breathless for about ninety seconds. Kaiser is a “Standard Poodle”, which confuses me because I thought the standard for poodles was small and yippy, with little bows on their ears. Kaiser defies this logic, standing nearly as tall as Brutus, though thankfully without a ball-busting tail.
They wrestle. They bark. They knock me over in the kitchen. They growl at the walls and bark at the pizza guy. They drop chew toys on my clean sheets.
And they slobber, leaving doorknobs dripping and lakes of saliva on the floor, awaiting unsuspecting bare feet.
This, I am now told, is the stark reality of being the parent of a dog. This isn’t to say the animals aren’t loveable. They’re really well-behaved, you know, for dogs. But it never occurred to me that in living with a canine, I would be sharing space with something that is messier and requires more attention than I do.
That simply cannot happen.
So my childhood fantasy of walks, rawhide bones, and the paw on the knee is tucked away, replaced by a new fantasy: one of clean floors, quiet nights, and being able to move freely about the house without one hand in front of my nuts. And as I listen to my sister crunching through the leaves, cursing her four-legged nemesis, I revel in the fact that this is not my future. That leaves me plenty of time for more important pursuits. Like counting lesbians.
This, I am now told, is the stark reality of being the parent of a dog. This isn’t to say the animals aren’t loveable. They’re really well-behaved, you know, for dogs. But it never occurred to me that in living with a canine, I would be sharing space with something that is messier and requires more attention than I do.
That simply cannot happen.
So my childhood fantasy of walks, rawhide bones, and the paw on the knee is tucked away, replaced by a new fantasy: one of clean floors, quiet nights, and being able to move freely about the house without one hand in front of my nuts. And as I listen to my sister crunching through the leaves, cursing her four-legged nemesis, I revel in the fact that this is not my future. That leaves me plenty of time for more important pursuits. Like counting lesbians.
