Suzy Says

There was a knock at the door this morning. Rita started barking, like the good watch dog she is, explaining to the visitor that any evil deeds toward her girl would be rewarded with teeth and claws. Rita got to the door before I did, my heart pounding with fear in case it was Phil repoing Rita. Could Fate be that cruel?

Fate wasn’t. Imagine my relief when I found out that it was only a Jehovah’s Witness/Witless. Rita and I both told him how very uninterested we were, and shut the door. I bet it’s one of the few times someone was actually relieved to see one of those itinerant religion-pushers.

They can certainly be persistent. One actually found his way to my brother’s house a few years ago. Bear in mind that my brother lives at the end of a long dirt road in the depths of the country. I don’t know why the guy thought there were any souls to be saved there, but he didn’t get the chance, since my brother greeted him with his barking dog and a shotgun (unloaded), saying, “We don’t need no God ’round here.” The missionary departed hastily, mission unaccomplished.

I hope possession really is 9/10 of the law, because I still have Rita, and after a month of her undivided adorableness, I really don’t want to return her to her lawful owner. I haven’t heard a peep from him lately, so I’m hoping he feels too guilty to take her away, and/or realizes that she’s perfectly happy with me and my toddler-free zone.

After looking at her picture, can you blame me?

And it’s not just Self who finds her irresistible. Far from it. One day in the park, all the dogs were cavorting around her. And yesterday, a big French poodle seemed to fall head over paws for her at first sight. He followed her around in the manner of Pepe Le Pew, and like the cats who so attracted Monsieur Le Pew, Rita was uninterested and unimpressed. This progressed to irritation when her admirer wouldn’t stop sniffing her butt. She had things to do. She looked at me pleadingly, and I managed to distract Monsieur Poodle long enough for her to get things done. I thought he was going to follow us home. Ah, those amorous Frenchmen!

On to the dog supply store, where dog treats are displayed on shelves at dog level on the outside part of the counter where the cash register is. I know that this is the usual method of selling impulse purchases, but it seems to me that the dogs are more likely to simply grab a treat and not pay for it. Possibly dogs are more polite and self-controlled than I give them credit for, but I still think it’s weird.

Time to wander home. Fortunately, Rita and I are tolerant of each other’s window shopping, hers for news of neighborhood dogs, and mine for shoes and handbags. We’re meant for each other.

Given the spate of bad birthdays lately, I decided it’s time to stem that tide. No Birthday Week – just a Birthday Weekend. Baby steps, my friends. Here’s the plan:

Saturday:

Sleep in.

Walk Rita.

Check mail for cards’n’presents.

Mani-pedi. Possible nail art, but I’m leaning toward French toes & fingers.

Walk Rita again to show off Rita and nails.

Bad Girl Bad Movie Fest: She Shoulda Said No (1949): “How Bad Can a Good Girl Get…Without Losing Her Virtue and Self-Respect?”

Accompanied by champagne. As classy as it gets ’round here.

Sunday:

Sleep In.

Walk Rita.

Brunch with friends and admirers, including mimosas, and I’m almost certain, Eggs Florentine.

Possibly more cards’n’presents.

Leisurely shopping for fun things. Probably window shopping, but still.

Birthday dinner: at fancy-pants restaurant, or Do It Myself lobster fest with all the fixin’s. More champagne. Maybe a cupcake.

Not feeling a day older than 18. Yes, yes.

Really, I should change my blog’s name to DogBlog, since my almost-dog seems to be my favorite topic these days. I’ve had Miz Rita’s company for almost three weeks straight, so I’m beginning to feel less like the Other Owner (much like being the Other Woman, only without the guilt and scandal) and more like the Actual Owner. I pretty much take credit for her now when strangers admire her, and have even begun to accessorize her presence in my life by buying her a brush, bowls, and her very own bed.

Rita woke me up at 6:30 this morning, with a request for a walk. While dog walking is about the only thing I can do when pre-caffeinated, 6:30 is not, in my opinion, a good time to do it. I tried to explain to Rita that the only 6:30 I use is the evening one, when it’s time for cocktails, starting dinner (or thinking about starting dinner), and avoiding the evening news. I got the big eyes, so I hauled Self out of my cozy bed and pulled a coat on over my nightgown, shoving my feet into sneakers on my way out the door.

I was horrified to discover how many people are out and about at such an early hour. The construction workers were all convening to start on the daily ration of roar and racket at the site across the street, and they were feeling all friendly. I was feeling all embarrassed in my dog walking attire, which was even worse than usual. I was glad not to be a celebrity, since I would have been prime tabloid fodder with my un-brushed hair, no make-up, glasses, and next to homeless person outfit.

No fewer than three people stopped to pet Rita and chat within the space of one block. I couldn’t wait to get behind the building to the vacant lot where no-one would see me. And I sneaked back in through the back door, unphotographed.

I sure love that dog!

Escorting Miz Rita around has made me notice my surroundings more, especially now that she’s the Dog Detective, meandering along and sniffing thoroughly to discover who’s been there and what they’ve been up to. It seems that investigation is more interesting than chasing the ball these days, though she remains the terror of pigeons and squirrels alike.

While waiting for Rita to be ready to move on to the next scent, it occurred to me that the zoning on my street must be on the eccentric side, if not on the wild side. Within one block, there are:

• A Domino’s Pizza.
• A huge construction site with accompanying noise, from workers and machinery alike (Question: why are men so fascinated with construction sites? Even on days when no-one’s working, there is always at least one guy standing there, staring at the rubble as if the answer to the universe is there.).
• Narrow Victorian row houses (former housing for workers in the former coffin factory down the street?).
• A halfway house and daycare.
• The former coffin factory, where I live (in what used to be the wood working shop). It’s an unofficial live-work place, housing artists, photographers, and miscellaneous businesses, including a one man printing press and a paint store specializing in reproducing antique colors and finishes.
• An art gallery.
• A City building, suitably bland, with a sign saying “Corporate Services”.
• A restaurant with a sign that says “Speedy Restaurant” on one side and “Smile Restaurant” on the other. It’s never open. Once I saw an elderly Chinese woman scuttle in and slam the door, though. She wasn’t smiling, but she was definitely speedy.
• Behind the Speedy/Smile restaurant is a slaughterhouse, which can be all too fragrant at times.

For all these things to be on one block, the zoning laws must be the legal equivalent of Miss Havisham, or Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria. No wonder I fit right in.

Rita and I ambled some errands together this weekend. Remarkably, there are stores which do not enjoy Rita’s presence, even though she is better-behaved and sheds less than I do. It may have something to do with how she, like the Queen*, rarely carries cash.

I left her outside one of these biased establishments, and when I came out, she was barking at two guys who had stopped to pet her. I apologized, and Guy One said, “She must smell my dog on me.” Guy Two said, “Nah, she just doesn’t like him. I don’t, either!” and they walked away, laughing.

I think she’s just getting choosier these days. I mean, I’m not too crazy about strange guys walking up to me on the street and petting me, either. Rita and I also share an aversion to small, yappy dogs, though this does not extend to puppies. Puppies are always good.

*Imagine how weird it would be to carry around money with your face on it? And do her kids have to do it? If they did, the money would literally be a note from their mother.

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds”* – nor dog guardians, even part-time ones, from walking their charges. Fortunately, the rain had stopped by the time I took Rita to the park.

Rita is really very attractive. Not only did she get the attention of the Meet Cute guy and his dog (sadly, I haven’t seen them again, though I hope that they’re still together), but today she literally got a follower – an adorable brown Labrador puppy!! He was so darling I could hardly stand it. He came bounding over to Rita and sniffed her enthusiastically, tail wagging madly, bouncing with puppy joy (the most joyful kind of joy).

Rita, being a grande dame at approximately 70 people years**, was not as enthusiastic about the puppy as the puppy was about her, or I was about the puppy. She walked majestically off, and the puppy followed her faithfully, trying to charm her with his antics. She remained un-charmed. I didn’t. The puppy’s guardian let me pick him up (the puppy, I mean, not the guy) and cuddle him. This didn’t last long, as the puppy wanted to play with Rita, not me.

Finally, we went our separate ways. I want to get a puppy and name him/her Taxi. Then I’ll always get a Taxi when I call for one, whether there’s rain, heat, or gloom of night. But only if Rita approves.

Update: I was having a bath when it started thundering outside. Rita came into the bathroom to hide from the thunder (she hates it as much as I do), while I contemplated the advisability of having a bath in a thunderstorm. Rita and I both got through the storm unscathed.

*I thought this phrase was the motto of the US Postal service, but according to the Big Apple, it’s actually a bon mot of Greek historian Herodotus, who wrote it before the birth of Christ or the Post Office.

**Another misconception: one dog year equals seven human years. It’s more complicated than that. You can calculate your dog’s human age here. Warning: it doesn’t go beyond 15 years, which is quite depressing when your part-time pooch is 11.

Faithful readers may remember that Phil, the owner of Rita the Wonder Dog, fell in love last Fall. It’s been good news all around: Phil is now engaged, and I have become a part-time dog owner. Phil’s fianc&eacutee has two small children, who have yet to understand how to play with a dog of a certain age (or any dog). Oddly, dogs tend to dislike having their ears pulled, or being ridden like a horse. So do most people, in most circumstances.

So Phil quite often leaves Miss Rita with me while he tends to his other family. I have to admit to a certain indignation on Rita’s behalf, being that he kind of ditches her in favor of the new family, but I love her company and she does make me get some much-needed cardio. The canine timeshare has progressed to the point that I just keep a leash and a supply of Rita food on hand at all times, and she has her own bed beside mine.

On Valentine’s Day morning, I took her for a walk in the park. She is so well-behaved that I always let her off the leash. She soon met a big black dog with a curved tail, who bounded happily toward her. After the customary butt-sniffing niceties, they ran off to play together. The black dog’s owner was a handsome young man with bright blue eyes. He confided that the dog had followed him home the night before. The dog had no collar or tags, but he looked well-fed and was very sweet-natured.

The guy said the dog followed him all over his apartment that night. He called the Humane Society and Animal Control, and they both said that if no-one had called looking for the dog within three days, the dog was his. The guy said, “I only have a one bedroom apartment.” Pause. “And now it seems really small.” I said, “Well, it looks like you got yourself a dog.” He said, “I know”, and laughed.

Wouldn’t that make a perfect Meet Cute for a movie?

Paint It Black

Today I followed the Rolling Stones’ advice and painted my front door black (though I probably wouldn’t take their advice on anything else, especially dating and cosmetic surgery). It’s all shiny and looks great. Now, if I could just find a way to haul home the two cement lions discarded outside a defunct night club down the street, I’d be all set.

Somehow painting your door black seems so Halloween. I also have a plastic light-up pumpkin in my window, but I doubt if I’ll get any trick-or-treaters, since I’m a little off the beaten track. The building was originally a coffin factory (and how Halloween is that?) in the 19th century. It was built onto as needed, so it’s full of strange passages (some underground) and weirdly-shaped rooms. Some of it is used as businesses, but most are live-work lofts, though officially, no-one lives here.

The part I live in is the former woodworking shop, and is attached to the big building, but has its own front door. Everyone else has to share. And to get to my shiny black door, you have to go through a semi-creepy brick, pigeon-infested passageway and then there’s the courtyard and Chez Suzy.

This can be a little annoying when having necessities of life like booze and groceries delivered, since I almost inevitably get a semi-irate delivery guy on his cell phone, saying, “I’m right outside, where are you?” and I have to direct him in. Nothing like a guy frustrated from making his delivery, is there?

In other building news, Boob Girl has been thrown out of her roommate’s apartment, but is still living somewhere in the building. Rumor has it that it’s a windowless room which used to be an office. Charlie has stopped answering his door at night.

Phil, the owner of Rita the Wonder Dog, has a new ladylove, which is good for me, since I get to keep Rita when he’s away at his girlfriend’s overnight. And you know how love is, especially in the first throes. So I get companionship, too, and I have to get my voluptuous butt out to the park twice a day to walk the dog, so that’s good, too.

However, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to picking up poop. I’m just not scatologically inclined. I laughed so hard when I read this on PostSecret. I wonder if I could teach an old dog that new trick?

Well, the good will toward the Howler has left the building as suddenly as it came. She escaped through the window again, only this time, she attacked Rita the Wonder Dog, who was on her way home with her owner after spending the weekend with me. It was a brief, yet terrifying encounter. No-one was hurt, and I hope Upstairs Guy is suitably embarrassed. They have caused an astonishing amount of trouble in the short time they have lived here. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot (or paw)!

My sister had an unpleasant experience of her own this weekend. While swimming at the river, someone stole her wallet out of the trunk of her car. No-one locks their car doors there in the depths of the country, but she figured, why tempt people more than necessary, so she put the wallet in the trunk. One of the other swimmers left, and then came back to tell my sister and the other swimmers that her car had had its windshield smashed.

I would have gone up right away to see if my car had been interfered with, but Megan figured, it is what it is, and finished her swim before returning to the parking lot. There was a whopping six dollars in the wallet, and now she has to replace her ambulance driver’s license along with her regular one, and all the other stuff. The worst thing was she carried around a little something I sent with her for encouragement as she nursed Dad through his last illness, and now it’s gone forever.

On the other hand, she’s getting this adorable replacement wallet. Nothing like shopping to cheer a girl up.

And just when I’d pretty much lost all faith in both human- and dog-nature, my friend Charlie returned from a trip to Venice with an adorable handbag for my collection and two shotglasses (Venetian glass!). He knows me too well. Cheered me right up, shallow Suzy that I am.

I am once again fortunate enough to have my friend Phil’s dog Rita, aka the Queen of the Dog Park (I am unfailingly asked if she’s Phil’s Rita whenever I take her to the park. It’s like accompanying a celebrity) for a couple of days. Being a dog aunt is as great as being an ordinary aunt. You can play with them, have a great time, and then give them back to their regularly scheduled guardians. You can take credit for them if they reflect well on you, or blame the parents/guardians if they don’t. All the fun, none of the responsibility, unlike most things in a grown-up’s life. Sorry, kids, but it’s almost all responsibility and hardly any fun. So don’t be in a hurry to get here.

So I was used to having a dog around these days, but I still got the canine surprise of my life yesterday. I had left the front door open so the spring breeze could waft in (Rita is so well trained that she will not sneak out), and it wasn’t the only thing. Suddenly, I found a 130 pound rottweiler on my lap. Both Rita and I were astonished. One minute, it was just Rita and me; the next, a giant dog is licking my face with glee. It was Fidel, the huge, silly two year old rottweiler who lives in my building and sounds like the Hound of the Baskervilles when he barks.

The two dogs started playing together just as Fidel’s guardian came to my rescue…with Fidel’s brother Che (on a leash). That’s a lot of dog for one day. And some serious canine cardio.

I’m fortunate to have the company of lovely Rita this weekend while her guardian is at a Tai Chi workshop.

Rita reminds me a lot of Jed the Wonder Dog. They’re both girls, both adorable, both around 10 years old (despite the whole dog years thing, dogs don’t seem to worry about their age as much as girls do), both well-trained, both smart and sweet-natured and both want to be with the people. They would both chase the stick until their big old hearts gave out. They both charm complete strangers. If I were a single guy, walking either Jed or Rita would be an infallible way of meeting girls. They both have very high “Awwww” factors, which would reflect well on me. Does anyway.

Having a temp dog is great. For one thing, it gets me out of the house a couple of times a day to go to the park and throw the stick. Being underemployed has somehow translated to my being underexercised, too. You’d think that not having to waste 8+ hours a day at the office would make it possible to go to the gym all the time and get all kinds of things accomplished, but not the way I do it (or don’t do it). Fortunately for me and my cellulite, Rita is very motivational.

This morning, I shoved my feet into sandals, grabbed Rita’s leash, and headed to the park in a non-caffeinated state. Walking dogs seems to be the only thing I can do pre-coffee. She chased the stick happily (she has more moderate stick taste than Jed, who prefers the huge and unwieldy style, bigger than your head and often accessorized with pine cones or nails or other hazards) and wandered around on the grass.

It was a perfect summer day: not a cloud in the resolutely blue sky; warm, but not hot; a light breeze; the air scented with flowers and cut grass; the trees lush with green leaves. It reminded me of the summers of my long-ago childhood. When you look back through the soft focus of 25 to 30 years, you only seem to remember the good things. It seems like it was always summer then. We were fearless in those days. My sister and I walked to school together through the woods, unconcerned. We could stay on the beach without our parents for hours at a time. Our parents limited our TV watching, avoiding our exposure to violence both real and fictional, and we played outside year-round. It was a more innocent time, pre-9/11, pre-Internet. I’m glad I grew up when I did.

Guess Rita traded me a walk in the park for a walk down memory lane. And we’re both happy with the trade.