The Dog and Pony Show

I told Dan I want to write a post, which I do from time to time. Well, most of the time I just say, “Write a post and make it funny, Monkey Boy. Now dance for me!” But sometimes, I do the brunt work myself. Part of the reason I don’t blog more often is that I write all day. And like a hooker who can’t get intimate with her boyfriend, it’s hard to do it just for fun. (Hi, Redacted Mom. I miss you!) Dan suggested I write about how I came to have Puppy. Shocker – I’m not going to say that Dan’s love for Puppy is unnatural. But I will say that if Puppy were an actual child, I would be seriously concerned that he was getting all Law & Order: SVU with his step-kid. But their special relationship makes me happy. And if Dan cheated on me or insisted on taking more drawer space or didn’t finish painting the bedroom even when he said he would, I would leave him and he’d never see the dog again.

The truth is when I first got Puppy it didn’t seem like a big deal. You know, owning a living being. People owned other people for years before slavery went bust. (Too soon?) It all started as this store in L.A. The owner had a shih tzu that you could hold like a baby while you walked around. It made me feel warm and fuzzy and connected to my infinitesimal maternal side without having to nurture or teach values to anyone. So in the impetuous ways of my early twenties, I decided I needed a shih tzu – and then promptly forgot about it.

Months later, I passed a dog store and in the window was a little puppy shih tzu. Just to see how it felt, I asked if I could hold him. They let me take him into this cornered off sitting area, where he nuzzled in my arms and then promptly leaped off my lap, landed on his head, and started screaming bloody murder. Like if a squawking parrot was being eaten by a singing pterodactyl that was being mauled by a small tiger – but higher pitched. A non-stop cry-bark-scream. Everyone in the store came around the corner to stare at me, prepared to think I was a horrible person until they discovered I was young and pretty and could probably be redeemed. But regardless, I felt like, you break him, you bought him. So I packed up my new dog and some dog food and drove home, lighting a cigarette on the way, telling the new breathing animal, “Look, this is how it’s gonna be and you better get used to it. Cause if not, I’ll send you back where you came from" – but loving-like. (Hi again, Redacted Mom. I used to smoke. I know it’s awful and I don’t do it anymore. Except when I’m drinking. Like coffee or water. Kidding! Booze. I only smoke when I drink booze. Mmm, booze.)

Have you ever driven with a new born baby? That’s how it felt driving for the first time with Puppy. (I’m guessing. I’ve never had a baby. Though once there was a really close call. Bullet dodged.) But I’d always been a laissez-faire driver. I had pretty strong weaving skills and drove a beat up old convertible that eventually ended up on Pimp My Ride (true story). But now I’ve got this living being in the car, and while I may be immortal – or at least I was at 23 – I wasn’t so sure about him. So I drove slow, steady, and terrified.

I finally get this three-pound living thing home and freak out. Cause I might kill it. By accident, obviously. I wasn’t going to smother it with a pillow. It’s just, I’ve never been very responsible. More the type to lose a shoe, not an easy thing when you think about it, as it requires coming home half barefoot. Easier though on Halloween. So now I have this pseudo-baby at my apartment. An apartment which I share with my then boyfriend, who is a country musician (what, I existed before Dan invented me).

Suddenly it occurred to me that I should have mentioned the new, living being to said boyfriend before agreeing to raise him. So I call the Country Musician, who was in Nashville or Germany or somewhere that they appreciate the twang of a mandolin and pronounce “ashtray” like “ice tray” – which incidentally once led to a harrowing cocktail incident. Anyhow, I tell him I’m now the mother of a tiny living being. “I’m unpredictable! It’s charming!”

Now this ex grew up outside of Austin … way outside. The first night I visited his hometown I went to a rodeo and watched his brother rope cattle. It was the first time I had ever seen a cow. (It’s fine that I talk about my ex on Dan’s blog because he was a lousy lover and had a very small penis.) So when I tell him that I’ve got this new dog, he wants to know what he does. “What do you mean, what does he do? He lies on your lap and looks cute.” “But can he hunt? Or round up sheep? “No, he just blinks occasionally. But when sheep invade Hollywood, we can get a new dog.” So we made a deal: Since I picked out the dog, he gets to name him. The Musician was on the road for three more weeks. During that time I continued to call the dog puppy. The name stuck.

And that’s the story of how Puppy got his name. It’s also the story behind the country music song, Bitch Took My Dog and Left Me Brokenhearted with Her Crappy Car.