The Dog Story

The Dog Story

I admit it, I’m a bit of a tinfoil hat kind of girl.  I read Tarot cards, I throw I Ching coins, I look at my horoscope.  I believe in UFOs, too.  I light a votive candle when I make a request to the universe for gifts.  So after my girlfriend said to me on her deathbed that she wanted to come back as one of my dogs, I grew tingly and suspicious.

At that time, Mayme was actually my ex, but we were old friends by then, dreaming of the days when we’d sit on her porch in our dotage on rocking chairs, sipping gin and tonics.  We planned to reminisce about our unfortunately chosen girlfriends over the years and how horribly those relationships ended.

We were sprawled on the bed looking out the back window at a lovely northern California fall day when she said that nonchalantly about the dog.  Mayme was propped up on some pillows, looking pale and defeated.  What a thought!  Mayme as one of my scruffy dogs! Yes, I care for them, like children, but Mayme?  I held her hand gently while she smoked a cigarette with the other.  At least I don’t have lung cancer, she said.  And I have good drugs now.

But I’m ahead of myself.  This all began six months earlier when Mayme called me unexpectedly out of the blue.  I was in New York City at the time and she was in Sacramento.  Don’t freak out, she said immediately into my ear, but I’m in the loony bin.

What is going on?

I tried to kill myself.

This was so unlike Mayme.  That woman was tough like shiny nails and spiked heels, a real hard femme is what we called her back then.  Long dark hair, a leather motorcycle jacket, tight skirts.  Drawers full of sex toys. She knew her way around shops with porny stuff for fun.  She was a connoisseur of lubes, flavored or not.  She was a walking advertisement for adventure in bed.

So why did you do that? This was not particularly scary, but hard for me to comprehend.

I just couldn’t take it anymore, she said.  I came home from work and I felt so fed up, I took every pill in the house, even the dog medication.  My roommate found me passed out and brought me here.  I’m fine, but she’s moving out.

We agreed that we didn’t hold it against the roommate for jumping ship.

Mayme liked to blame that suicide episode on taking the antidepressant, Paxil, and I did too for awhile, but I also thought it was on account of her latest girlfriend who surprised Mayme by running away to Michigan with a straight married lady from down the block.  I would cackle and say, like the dish ran away with the spoon!  Mayme glared at me and t rolled her eyes.

Once Mayme got her cancer diagnosis, I changed my mind about the Paxil and the girlfriend story.  I think her body subconsciously took one look at that big black cancer and said, let’s get the hell out of here now, not wanting to deal with it. But that’s my story and not Mayme’s.

I spent some time out there in California with her during those last two months, which were not as brutal as you would think.  She held open houses with lots of wine and beer on hand for mourners or celebrants.  Her people showed up as early as 8 am and stayed well into the night.  Lots of big grown gay men, weeping and leaning on shoulders.  Mayme would smoke cigarettes and hold court on the porch in her silk bathrobe and advise the crybabies to get real. She would whirl her hand like a pinwheel in their faces.

She was poking at her hair in the bathroom mirror.  Look, here I am dying and my hair is at that in between stage!  I leaned on the doorframe, watching.

I love you.

She got skeptical. And we don’t even have to sleep together?

No..

We read our horoscopes together.  How can I have a horoscope for next year?  I’ll be dead!  We read them anyway and I tried not to put much meaning into it.

I’m not going to linger, she told me as we got nearer to D Day, and she did not, what with her stash of drugs.  Three days before she died, she asked me, will it be all right?  I said to her with all my heart, it will be all right.  I promise.  Did I believe that then?  Yes without a doubt, at that trembling moment.

***

I was angry about this for a long time.  I would yell at my neighbors in the hallway for no reason.  Everyone could see I was in some kind of grief.  I would take walks along Court Street, up and down, trying to sort myself out.

On one of my walks, I met a woman in Cadman Plaza holding a shabby black and white dog on a leash wearing an Adopt Me vest.  The dog crowded me, all happy for nothing.  She had long legs, long hairy black ears, and a big messy tail.  Mitzi needed grooming big time.

I decided to make a commitment to life and I adopted that dog on the spot.

So now you want to know if this dog was Mayme, but Mitzi was not at all like her.  For one thing, she eschewed toys and hated most people and other dogs.  Her favorite sport was to run in a field near the river and roll in goose shit and pick up ticks.

Mitzi also hated my current girlfriend and the feeling was mutual.  My friend would say, Mitzi needs training, Mitzi bites, Mitzi won’t stay off the bed, Mitzi pooped in the kitchen.

I consulted to a dog psychic during this time who told me Mitzi was not the problem in this threesome.  When that fiasco of a relationship ended, Mitzi sat next to me, looking mopey and a bit smug.  Mayme.