Puppy Love

I wasn’t looking for it. As a matter of fact, it was the last thing I needed. If someone told me that I’d soon be sharing my one-bedroom apartment (and my bed) with a stinky male who thought nothing of trashing sand and mud across my carpet and onto my down quilt, who had no respect for my cherished first editions and who insisted on getting me up at 6:30 a.m. to run on the beach, rain or shine, I’d laugh hysterically, just like I did when a psychic told me that I wouldn’t understand the universe after burying something purple in the woods during the next full moon. But when my new love approached me in the parking lot, awkward and needy and slightly frightened, I melted. It was puppy love.

It was clear he was unattached (it was hard to believe someone let this one go), so I took him home with me. It was impulsive, but these things sometimes happen. You meet ‘em and, bam, you know. He was quiet in the car, staring out the window, and when we got home, he looked around, drank some water, ate a piece of bread, and fell asleep on my couch.
    
He was curled on his side so, careful not to wake him, I rolled him over. He put his head on my lap and let out a snort. Carefully, quietly, I decided to check out his privates. I was confused for a moment, slightly disappointed even, but he, it turned out, was a she. I soon found myself singing to her, a song from a Broadway musical, and a lullaby. She opened her eyes and licked my face, then jumped up, bit my nose and peed on the couch.     
    
The puppy paradox: Like a man who gives you puppy eyes after forgetting lunch with your parents, a puppy is hard to discipline because they lick you on the mouth when you’re yelling at them.
    
And even though my life is forever changed: the hours I sleep, the time I spend away from home, the responsibility, the added expense, I think about the puppy when I’m at work. I wonder what she’s doing, what she’s thinking, if she misses me, if she thinks I've abandoned her. Because of her, I’ve met more people in the past few weeks than I have in five years, and I’ve learned some things about myself, about how quick I am to judge.

Like Sarah and Mark, this beautiful long-haired Laguna Beach couple who I was convinced were hippies and potheads because their dog was named after a now-deceased reggae singer. Turns out they’re really interesting, funny, athletic yuppies, an art director and an advertising executive who recently moved here from Chicago. And the guy across the street from me, who I thought was insane because I’ve heard him speaking in what sounded like tongues. Turns out he’s a doctor who happens to talk to his dog at times like I’ve found myself talking to mine: “Oh jojojo goo goo girl.”

“Whicha whicha whicha oook koo koo.”

Grown men in business suits who you’d think looked as cold as a recent stormy night, smile and say “puppy” in baby talk when they see my dog. Without even asking, dog owners will offer loads of training advice ranging from puppy kindergarten (more for the owner than the dog) to a personal trainer to home videos and they have equal wrath for the city laws that impose huge fines on dog owners for walking the beaches with their pets sans leashes. I have learned you can be fined for not having the proper poop receptacle (one that ties) and you can be fined for having a leash that’s too long.

And if you’re caught twice playing with your unleashed pooch, the fine doubles. Ditto if you set paw on the beach during the summer. Though recently, a police officer did not ticket me for having my dog off the leash; he helped me catch her as she ran off down the street. Then she licked him. “Cute dog,” he said.

I came home the other day and all my pens had been chewed, the ink spotting my couch. All the buttons had been removed from the quilt cover, and chewed. The New York Times travel section I had saved was in a zillion little pieces, a little snow storm which ran from the kitchen to the bathroom. My favorite silk nightshirt had been pulled from its hook, the lace torn off and the collar eaten. She wagged her tail as I surveyed the damage, cowering a bit, since she’s no dumb mutt. I wondered why I wasn’t angry, why I did not feel compelled to yell at her or bop her on the rump. Then I realized what had happened. This dog has softened me. She’s made me, well, nicer. At least I thought so until the other day when my boyfriend dropped some lasagna on the floor and I thought about pushing his nose in it.