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ANIMAL AFFAIRS
Clementine
and Otto
are best
buddies
Otto ate socks. And chair
legs. And banana cakes
cooling on the countertop
banana layer cakes that were cooling
on the countertop. Perhaps this is why
he grew so big so quickly, tipping the
scales at 80 pounds before he was a
year old. He liked an expensive organic
dog food, obtainable from only one
store in a 20-mile radius, which my husband insisted on buying because it was
“good for his coat.” Have you ever seen
a dog with a bad coat? How would you
know? Does it clash with its handbag?
Otto’s gourmet chow turned out to be
an appetizer. His favorite meal was my
shoes. “Why are you so angry?” my husband asked as I waved the ruined heels
of my Manolo Blahnik pumps in his face.
“Whenever you wore them, you complained that your feet smelled like pee.”
Otto’s single-minded dedication to
eating caused other problems. The day
we took him along to visit friends in the
Hamptons comes to mind. From the
moment we pulled into Joan and Neil’s
driveway and heard the crunch of
expensive pea gravel under our
wheels, things went wrong.
Otto jumped from the station wagon,
brushed past our waiting host and lifted
a leg against a clump of artfully placed
hydrangeas. Neil, who was raised in the
city, asked, “Is that a pit bull?”
I remembered, too late, that Joan
and Neil had no pets, just two well-behaved children and a lot of tastefully
upholstered couches. I secretly empathized with the stricken look on Joan’s
face as she watched Otto head straight
for the backyard picnic table. After my
husband wrenched the slobbering dog
away from two unprotected bowls of
guacamole and chips, Otto spent the
afternoon swimming laps and joyously
drinking gallons of chlorinated water.
Later, as the sun set over the barbecue
grill, Neil handed his young son a hamburger fresh from the fire. The boy took a
single bite and then, holding the hot,
fragrant meat patty at waist level, strolled
across the lawn toward the pool.
Scientists say that time seems to slow
down in a disaster. You note, with clinical
detachment, that the sky is blue, a radio
is playing and a fly is buzzing against the
windshield. Yet there’s nothing you can
do to change the course of history.
Still, you try. “Nooooo,” I screamed as
Otto’s brown snout broke the water’s
surface and sniffed the air.
Before I could move he bounded out
of the pool—a wet, frothing, wild-eyed
hound with an appetite that makes
Mario Batali look like a picky girl—and
raced like a meat-seeking missile toward the hamburger that dangled from
the child’s hand. Otto grabbed the
burger deftly and disappeared with his
prize into the deep end of the pool.
I was speechless. The boy began
to cry. Neil cursed. Joan counted her
son’s fingers to make sure they were all
still there. My husband apologized. The
excitement was just dying down when
Otto galloped over to see what was
going on. Helpfully, he shook water on
everyone. Then, with an enormous
heave, he vomited pool water, grass
and ground beef all over Neil’s feet.
Neil wore very expensive loafers.
We tried to make amends, but
hosing off leather does little to improve
its texture.
Later, as we herded Otto into the
car and stood in the driveway making
strained jokes about how Neil was welcome to come over any time and throw
up on our patio, I heard his son whisper,
“How big do pit bulls get, Daddy?”
tto may have gotten me
Obanned for life from the
Hamptons, yet I couldn’t
entirely dismiss him as a
big lug. He had a knack the rest of my
family lacked: He was a cat whisperer.
Silver, so afraid of all live things that
LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL
MAY 09
