Life Will Be the Death of Me: . . . and You Too!(29)
The first leg to Germany was uneventful. Chunk sat at my feet during takeoff and I used him as a footstool. Once we were airborne and I was able to recline my seat into a bed, he hopped up, and I positioned him as a headrest. This configuration worked well in that he wouldn’t be able to get up without waking me—and his breath would help keep me knocked out. (From this vantage point, I realized the two connected seats in the middle aisle of the first-class cabin would be an even better configuration, so I texted Brandon to purchase those two seats for our return flight, so that Chunk and I could return to our homeland like a real husband and wife.)
Chunk’s breath got trickier as he got older. I had received multiple complaints from some of my closest friends, who pointed out that it was hot and strong—but to me it smelled like home. It also smelled like littleneck clams, but I’m a fan of littleneck clams. Chunk is also a fan of littleneck clams, which explained his breath—but I digress. The important part of this story is that I was able to tolerate Chunk’s breath, which means I am capable of accepting people’s shortcomings—but usually only if that person never speaks. Chunk had the only terrible breath I’ve ever loved. That’s how I knew I was capable of unconditional love—his breath and his slender body. Neither was my first choice.
My vet warned me that the sleeping pill could make Chunk very thirsty—which, as usual, didn’t add up. Why would I give him a pill that would make him thirsty during the only window of time when I wasn’t allowed to give him water?
I decided to abstain from giving Chunk or myself a sleeping pill on the flight. That’s what good parents do; they make sacrifices for their children. Chunk was a complete champ the entire way to Spain. We got up a couple times to do a lap or two, and when I had to use the restroom, I just tied his leash to my cup holder. People kept coming over and commenting on how well-behaved Chunk was—and on his looks, of course. People were always searching for the right word to describe him. Regal, debonair, rakish. Chunk was always polite with strangers, but never effusive. He would entertain a stranger with a smile and perhaps a paw shake, but he wouldn’t be caught dead licking someone. He had too much dignity for that.
Once we got to Formentera, my sister Simone took him for his first long walk. When she came back she described it as a “disembowelment”—another reason I loved Chunk: saving his excrement for someone in my family. My brothers and sisters know I am not equipped to deal with any of the responsibilities that come with parenting, so they immediately take charge of my dependents. Likewise, Chunk knows it’s better to go for a walk with anyone other than me.
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Halfway through the trip, predictably, I became irritated with my family. I came home from a sailing excursion and took a closer look at Chunk’s “meds.” It’s not often I come across a sleeping agent I’m unfamiliar with, but it does happen. I googled “alprazolam” and discovered that Chunk’s medicine was just a generic form of Xanax. I could have high-fived myself if I had gotten more air. “It’s doggy Xanax!” I exclaimed to my aunt Gaby, who was in the kitchen making everyone lunch. “This is a game changer.”
My brother is married to a Russian woman with whom he bickers about almost anything—it could be a bicycle helmet. It is of my opinion that their three sons—my three nephews—are prisoners in their home, but that may be because I grew up in my home and can’t relate to any kind of hands-on parenting. My sister-in-law is more than just hands-on—I believe she would actually live inside one of her sons’ ears if she could. She is supremely overprotective and consumed with everything from their grades to the temperature of all foods and liquids that enter their bloodstream—everything has to be room temperature. Much to my dismay, I’ve seen this woman heat up orange juice. She is an enemy of ice, and therefore—in my opinion—an enemy of the state.
The first half of the week was spent finding opportunities for me and my two older nephews, ages thirteen and sixteen, to sneak out of the house to swim in caves or jump off of cliffs, where their mother couldn’t find us. Advance work was necessary to introduce the boys to fun. If Olga sees anything adjacent to danger—which in her mind could be an open body of water, a lap pool, or a can opener—she will insert herself and cancel the fun. One must always be one step ahead of her. In the beginning of the trip, I held high hopes for the adventures I would take the boys on. By the end of the week, I was beaten down, having given up on the hope of a meaningful relationship with my nephews until they graduated from high school and became legal.
“Can you believe how annoying Olga and Glen are with the kids?” I asked Gaby.
“It’s pretty unreasonable,” she agreed.
“I mean, how much sunblock can you put on someone before it stops working?”
“I’m surprised she doesn’t put it in their mouths,” Gaby said, handing me a plate of jamón to put on the table. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
My aunt doesn’t say a lot, and it’s a nice quality in a person, but “nice” isn’t the word anyone would use to describe Gaby. Every time she sees me, she shakes her head, almost as if she can’t believe what I’ve gotten away with in life. When I moved to Los Angeles at nineteen and lived on her sofa, she told me if I wanted to be in the entertainment industry, I had better drop some weight.