Heavy Petting

For Travis (3/26/83-8/24/21)

As my friend Sarah concluded giving me a brief tour of the new apartment she recently rented, I couldn’t resist asking her about a pressing topic.

“So, tell me…is a collie the most fuckable dog?”

“Uh…”

“Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“I mean…” she trailed off, not that I gave her much time.

“You’re more into huskies, huh? Especially well-groomed ones, I’m sure.”

“They’re nice,” she said to humor me.

“What about a beagle?”

This halted things before she drove us to dinner. The question arose after trying for years to find a way to mortify dog owners, a group of people I detest, mainly the ones teeming with unchecked self-importance about their rescued friends. (You saved the dog, asshole.)

“I’m gonna start bringing some of my favorite records with me into Home Depot and the bank,” I told my mother a few months ago. “How can I let them be lonely in the basement while I’m not home?”

“It’s not the same thing!” she said, a woman who gets paid to walk other people’s dogs.

“But I love them the way you love Billie. ‘Do you want to see my first pressing of Kind of Blue?’ I’ll ask a cashier.”

“People are gonna think you’re insane.”

“Kind of like the people who bring their dogs everywhere and don’t get told the same thing?”

My contempt for dog owners is based on two criteria. First is the assumption that I want anything to do with a dog, an animal that slobbers, sheds, jumps, and must be cared for like a baby for its entire lifespan. The second (and more important) reason is the endless barking, the primary complaint I have about my neighbors’ dogs.

“It’s been eerily quiet at the apartment,” Sarah said later. “Then I realized it’s because no dogs are allowed.”

“My friend Sam was almost yelling in my driveway at midnight recently,” I said. “I told her to pipe down. But then she argued, ‘Oh, am I being any louder than all the fuckin’ dogs on this street?’ Brilliant insight. Made me tell her to yell louder.”

When I met my neighbor Cindy, her beagle stood by her feet and loudly barked throughout our conversation. Attempting to maintain politeness as long as possible, I finally broke and said, “Does it ever shut up?”

“That’s just how Daisy is. Our puppy’s better behaved.”

“Maybe bring her to the place where the puppy got trained.”

“Oh, she’ll come around…”

“You hate to see such a fuckable dog misbehaving,” I thought of saying before telling her, “I dunnoooo…”

A dog on a neighboring street barked for an hour straight every morning during the work week for a couple months last summer — drowning out the music in my headphones at times — until I finally called Animal Control, almost apologizing for reporting a dog and telling the man that when he checked on the issue, the animal would inevitably be docile to prove I am a malcontent. There’s no glory in disliking an animal that resides in seventy percent of American homes, which is why whenever I’m in public with another person who knows me and a dog’s being a dick, my new line is going to be telling its owner how beautiful it is.

“Wow, that dog sure is somethin’. Could probably win People’s Sexiest Dog Alive contest.”

“He’s actually a handsome boy. Aren’t you?!”

“Almost too handsome, if you know what I mean.”

“What do you mean?” I assume will be an inevitable reply.

“If you’re lonely and have an active imagination like me, well.…”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” the stranger will ask as she clutches the dog’s leash tighter and timidly pets its back while checking to make sure no sticky or wet spots dot its fur.

“Man, your dog has a long…tail. Sorry, what do you think I’m saying?”

“That you want to,” and then a whisper is affected, “have relations with my Tyrion?”

“Not with a name like that! Does he have a brother, by chance?”

As Sarah and I dined at a vegan restaurant, images reflected off the window behind her. The owner routinely plays slideshows of animals in nature, often in tropical settings, but this time she’d conveniently chosen man’s best friend (with benefits) as the day’s star subject.

“A husky keeps appearing on that screen every minute,” Sarah told me.

“I know,” I said. “I can see it above your head. Tempted?”

“Kinda,” she said in jest.

All in due time, I thought.

Sarah backed her car into a parking spot at a grocery store following our meal, a typical New Englander move. To our left was another backed in sedan, one with a gray-colored mutt sitting on the back seat staring at us.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” she asked me.

“Oh yeah. It’s looking at you like…”

“It wants it,” we said in unison before laughing.

Upon arriving home an hour later, I heard a dog caterwauling somewhere in the neighborhood, a reminder that canines would be here to ruin my favorite time of year. If only birds sang loud enough to drown them out. While I wouldn’t be inclined to test my dog fuckability postulate on solo walks in the weeks to follow, I considered making sexual noises when walking by them or muttering “Would” as a test.

When telling Sam the details outlined above — her own boyfriend had agreed that collies are the most fuckable, and when she called him on it, he simply said, “I mean, Lassie…” — I created a meme to send Sarah.

The image featured a handsome husky, ears pointed skyward with a glistening wet tongue on display. I added a caption: IF I CUM IN 3 MINUTES THAT’S 21 MINUTES “HUSKY STYLE”

“Omgggg,” Sarah replied.

I assumed she was upset that her lease had another ten months remaining, not that it prevented her from visiting a dog park. No lipstick or even a sun dress would be required. Unlike the consideration we’d given the subject, it’s worth noting that dogs will fuck anything that moves. With the nonstop howling soundtracking each day, maybe my neighbors were already hip to my idea, each of them as sick as a dog.