He doesn’t seem to register my less than enthusiastic reception to his affection. He simply toddles toward me on uncoordinated paws, made even more clumsy by the uneven surface of the air mattress, mouth hanging open in a toothy expression of joy. I didn’t know dogs could grin, but he’s most definitely grinningatme.
It’s pretty freaking cute, I have toadmit.
“You know, if we could just get the licking under control, this thing between us wouldn’t be so bad,” I inform him, flopping back onto the pillows and reaching out to strokehisear.
In response, he startspeeing.
Onmybed.
Directly besidemyhead.
“Fuck!” I yell, scrambling out of bed, seizing him by the sides, and racing for the door. “No, no, no! Bad dog! BadFenway!”
Naturally, by the time I manage to wrestle open my back door and get him outside, he’s already finished. He sits on the grass, staring up at me and wagginghistail.
“See this?” I point at the ground. “This isgrass. This is where you take care of doggie business. Not on my bed anddefinitelynever near my head.Understand?”
He continues to wag, still grinning upatme.
Isigh.
The sun’s barely risen and already my day is off to a stellarstart.
After cleaning up the trail of pee leading from my bed to the back door, I strip the sheets and feed my incontinent puppy the last remaining bit of kibble left behind in his doggie bag. There’s something wrong with a dog eating from a hundred dollar Anthropologie bowl set, but it was the first thing my hands landed on in the box of kitchen stuff, and I don’t have the energy to dig for the cheaperchina.
I sniff the kibble dubiously before I set it down — it smells like dirt and looks wholly unappetizing, but Fenway devours it so fast you’d think it were the finest Frenchcaviar.
“What do they put in there,crack?”
His tail wags inaffirmation.
After attempting to call Duncan — it goes straight to voicemail, what a shocker! — I slug down a few cups of coffee, take a quick shower, and change into a passably cute outfit: Stuart Weitzman sandals and a gauzy sage green sundress. It’s too hot outside to waste time styling my hair — the humidity frizz factor is no joke — so I sweep it back into a high ponytail with my favorite tortoiseshell clip, swipe on some mascara and lip-gloss, and grab Fenway’s leash from the hook bythedoor.
“Come on, boy,” I call, snapping my fingers to get his attention. “Let’s go get you a bed.” I pause. “And maybe some disposablepee-pads.”
We step out into the gloriously sunny morning. It’s Friday, and Beacon Hill is bustling with vacationing tourists out for breakfast at open-air cafes, commuters heading downtown to work, and more than a few early-bird Instagrammers capturing views of Acorn Street — which, according to Google, is the most photographed street in America. Shutterbugs and amateurs alike flock here all year round to snap pictures of its sloping cobblestones and symmetrical brick-faced rowhouses.
I soon discover that Fenway is something of a celebrity. Everyone we meet wants to know how old he is (I have no idea, so I sayten weeksat random, which seems to satisfy those asking) his breed (an Irish Something?) and, of course, his name. (Finally, something Iactuallyknow!)
He soaks up the attention with glee, wagging his tail and giving out kisses to small children like a tiny four-pawed politician. Between stopping to greet his adoring fans and pausing to pee twice (YAY! YOU WENT ON THE GRASS! WHO’S A GOOD BOY? WHO’S THE BEST BOY IN THE WHOLE WORLD?!) our “quick trip” to the pet shop takes three times longer than I wasexpecting.
It’s nearly noon by the time we make it back to my apartment, armed with a plush doggie bed, a bag of kibble, training treats, three different toys, and several informative pamphlets about the housebreaking process, which the girl working the counter shoved in my direction after I told her about Fenway’s rather wetwakeupcall.
I try not to think about the fact that my meager funds are now even more depleted as I hand over most of the babysitting money I earned lastnight.
Who knew dogs were so effingexpensive?
Seventy dollars poorer, sweating through my sundress, and winded from the walk home, I’m juggling the heavy bag of loot along with Fenway’s leash while digging around in my purse for my keys when the hair on the back of my neck rises. I can’t explain exactly what triggers it, but I’m overcome by the sudden sensation that I’m beingwatched.
Heart pounding, I whirl around and scan the street, half expecting to see two henchman lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce. Instead, I find my whole block is totally tranquil: the brick awash with summer sunshine, the window boxes bursting with colorful blooms. Fenway looks up at me curiously, probably wondering why I’m sotense.
“If someone gets the jump on us, defend me, okay boy?” I murmur, turning back to my door. “By that, I clearly mean lick them to death. Or pee on them. Since those seem to be the only skills you’ve masteredthusfar.”
Once inside, I unearth one of his toys — a soft foam-filled toy shaped like a hippo, which he promptly picks up in his mouth and carries off to chew from the comfort of his new bed. My heart flips as I examine him cuddled up in a red ball of fluff. I’m filled with the unfamiliar urge to lie down beside him so I can watch his every yawn and yip and tail wag from mereinchesaway.
Dear lord, what is happeningtome?
When did I become suchasap?