Dogs Don't Hold Grudges

Tonight I was coming back from our nightly walk and the dog and I ran into a neighbor in the stairway of my building. He was holding up a very large Christmas tree on the landing. My dog seemed a bit confused about why the tree was in the house. The man holding the tree reached down, patted the him, and said, "hello, Buddy." (Earlier this morning, I yelled "Stop" -- and nothing else -- at the dog when he began to eat some trash off the street and one of the high school kids on the corner of 49th and 8th said, "Don't eat garbage, Buddy!" We're becoming known around these parts.) The greeting in the stairwell was a nice moment of familiarity with a neighbor, and contrasted greatly with one of my first meetings back in the spring when I moved in.

There is a woman who comes every morning to one of the apartments downstairs and leaves her two children with a relative or a friend. The first time I met them, I decided I would break out all the charm and I said to the mother regarding the little girl, "and who do we have here?" "That's Sophie," she said and instructed the little girl to say hi. Instead of greeting me, with all the vigor a three year old kid can muster, she wound up and spit at me. "SOPHIA!" the mother shouted.

We've seen each other many times since the spitting incident, however, and she's remained civil. This evening Sophie asked if she could pet the dog on the stoop when we were coming in from a walk. I said, "of course," and Sophie took a step towards Buddy and when they were nose-to-nose, he licked her all over her face. She squealed with delight. There's loyalty for you -- imagine how friendly Buddy would have been if she'd kicked me in the ankle after spitting at me.

The Face is Peculiar, But I Remember the Name

One of the things about living in a big city is that you walk around with a certain assumption that you are usually anonymous as you make your way through the city streets. The few occasions when I see someone I know randomly on the street are truly remarkable. I think I am probably a fairly average looking white guy on the street and therefore mostly forgettable. Forgettable that is, unless I happen to be walking the eskimo dog that likes to eat garbage. People remember him.

On Sunday night I was walking down 50th Street with my dog and some tourists came up to talk to me. They told me that they too had an eskimo dog, and oh by the way, could I recommend a pizza place in the neighborhood. I recommended Southside 49 a little place down the block that had recently opened. They said "Merry Christmas" and went on their way.

This morning I watching the dog carefully as we walked down 49th street. As if I don't have enough problems trying to keep him from eating chicken bones and pizza crusts off the street, now I have to keep him from eating the dirty snow that is piled up all over the city. I've also discovered that the ice melt stuff people throw on the sidewalk burns his little eskimo paws and he has zero threshhold for pain. While trying to keep an eye on the dog, my headed jerked up when I heard someone say, "hey, thanks for the recommendation on the pizza. It was delicious." My tourists had returned. So much for anonymity. I'm officially the guy in the neighborhood with the fluffy white dog.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Last week my Eskimo Dog injured himself while we were out walking. I picked him up in my arms to quickly cross 49th Street and when I put him down on the sidewalk he began howling in pain. I couldn't imagine what had happened. I checked his pads to see if he had cut or pinched himself but he seemed fine. He was clearly in excruciating pain and his 2 minutes of howling drew a crowd. A few people at the bus stop came over to see if they could help. We all looked around the sidewalk to see if he had stepped on something but couldn't find anything. (One lady said to me, "isn't it funny how if an animal is in trouble people come running. Do you think they'd do the same for us?") I suspected that he had strained himself because his hips seem a little stiff these days when he gets up after lying down for a long time. I decided I would see if he could walk it off. He wouldn't put any weight on his back right leg and I had to carry him up the stairs to the 4th floor to our apartment.

That night, I decided I would let him walk it off and took him for his 11pm walk as always. BuddE was getting along ok with a pronounced limp. It was garbage night on my street and there was practically no room to walk on the sidewalk.

A guy in a Fed Ex shirt said "excuse me" and I tried to get out of his way.
He said, "No, I'm not trying to get by. I just wanted to know, is this the dog from the bus stop earlier?"
I nodded yes, sort of surprised by his recognition.
"How's he doing?"
"He seems to be doing a little better," I said.
"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it," he said and he slid by us up the alley of garbage and went on his way.

Sometimes Hell's Kitchen feels like a small town. That's nice.

Just One Big All-You-Can-Eat Buffet

During a lull in our conversation my graduate school advisor would often ask, "so how's the dog?" Yes, THE DOG. My dog has been a big part of my life for the last 10 years and now we've hit yet another adjustment for him. Not only have I moved him from the comforts of suburbia to Manhattan, but he also has the pleasures of a 4th floor walkup to face every day. He seems to be coping -- maybe too well.

You see this is a dog who after six months of living with my parents could stand to miss a meal if you know what I mean. Anyway he has discovered that 9th avenue across the street from McDonalds, the area behind the hotdog cart on 50th street, 8th avenue near the subway all are great spots for finding food on the sidewalk -- like it's been laid out for him by a bunch of unrelated caterers. Two days ago I pulled a chicken bone out of his mouth and got my finger chomped on. What was on the menu tonight for my eskimo dog during our walk?

• One dropped soft serve cone (probably from the Mister Softee truck at 51st and 8th.
• Big thick krinkle cut fries (very unlike McDonald's)
• McDonald's French fries (exactly like McDonald's)
• One smushed piece of bread (I think)
• And the topper --some kind of regurgitated stuff at the base of a tree that just had to be vomit

This is one of those moments when my dog looks at me as if I am just plain stupid. I try to explain to him that eating garbage off the street is a bad idea. And he looks at me as if to say, "What are you an idiot? Free food! It's right here like 6 inches from my nose. Eating garbage is what dogs do. That's how we became domesticated!" I pull him away from whatever he's trying to eat and we begin walking again. He looks at me resignedly as if to say, "This poor guy. Doesn't know a good meal when he sees one and he follows me around cleaning up my poop. He pulled me away from perfectly good french fries tonight ... eh, maybe if I just pee on his bathroom rug he'll get the message. He does seem a little vacant though. Always asking me who a good boy is. How should I know?"

Union Square on Saturday

I love going to the greenmarket in Union Square on Saturdays. It is teeming with activity, and even though I rarely buy anything beyond a bag of apples (the really good ones from upstate NY with the snap), I love the atmosphere.

After managing to blow $75 in Petco (it's where the pets go and where my money goes apparently), I came outside where the animal rescue groups had some dogs up for adoption. I saw this little guy and knew he was really an American Eskimo because the cage was marked "do not touch this cage." Like my ex-wife, the eskimo dog is beautiful but difficult.