Life Will Be the Death of Me: . . . and You Too!(52)

“Why is it so important for you to learn how to clean up dog shit?” Brandon asked. “You have people you pay to do that. Stop torturing yourself with menial tasks.”

“Because!” I wailed. “I’m missing out on culture.”



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Brandon spent the day calling around and found a dog trainer who offered an eight-week course, and—very fortuitously—he had two available spots. Brandon offered to inquire about a third spot, and to see if they took adult women. Behavioral training for eight weeks actually sounded enticing—like a finishing school, for forty-year-olds. I needed someone to reteach me how to accomplish simple tasks and combat the domestic amnesia that I couldn’t seem to shake. For example, I would love to know where the toaster is hidden in my kitchen, but after living in the house for seven years, it’s become one of those questions that is just too embarrassing to ask my housekeeper.

    While Bert and Bernice were away at get-better camp, Brandon, Tanner, and I would get videos and updates on their progress, with notes like Bert passed his first week with flying colors or Bernice is now ringing a bell to go outside to potty. The reports always made it sound like the dogs were right on track, until it was time for them to graduate. That was when we got the call that they had completed their eight-week course, but had failed miserably. The trainer said she couldn’t, in good faith, let them come back to me without properly “graduating,” and that they would need another eight-week course. By the third time they needed to repeat the eight-week course, I asked Brandon if the trainer was planning on keeping the dogs permanently, and if this was the plan all along—hoping I’d forget.

“No,” he reassured me. “She just doesn’t want them to come home until they both graduate magna cum laude. She says they have some behavioral issues and that they are getting better, but they’re not ready.”

“These dogs better be able to roller-skate when they get back. I mean, seriously, Brandon.”

“And mix drinks,” he added.

That’s how I felt about myself. Getting better, but not quite ready.



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I didn’t mind the dogs’ absence so much the first eight weeks, or the second eight weeks, because Chunk and I were on our own for the first time in three years and we were enjoying some serious post-Tammy bonding during that stretch—plus, I was secretly dreading Bert and Bernice’s return. But when Chunk passed away over Christmas while I was at Whistler, I texted Brandon and told him that I couldn’t return to a house without dogs in it.

    Upon the dogs’ re-entry, I had some obvious decisions to make. First, I was going to have to shave Bert’s body and get down to business. I needed to see precisely what kind of physique I was dealing with under all his matted hair. Once shorn, what was unveiled was the exact body type I was hoping for: tons of different folds, flaps, and pockets of extra meat. His body was a wonderland. This was a dog you could use to hide jewelry in, if the situation arose. Cuddling with Bert was what I imagined kneading dough to be like—hypnotic.

Cuddling with Bernice was a bit more sinister. First, you had to catch her. Once caught, Bernice is easily transportable, so I’d bring her over to my bed or a sofa, where she would submit to a two-minute rubdown. But the moment I stopped petting her, she’d pop up—as if suddenly coming to—and like a squirrel spinning through the air, she’d scurry away. She is much more nimble than Bert and can quickly climb up any hillside or jump off a bed in a way that Bert will never experience. Bert can’t jump off a bed; either he’d go straight through the floor or the impact alone would kill him.

Bert is more Scooby-Doo, and Bernice is more honey badger. Bernice doesn’t give a shit about anyone. Not me, not my cleaning lady Big Mama, not even the landscaper. She does her own thing; she is an independent thinker. The best time to make inroads is when Bernice is sleeping on her side. If you go in and start to rub her belly, she will kick her leg up and roll onto her back to assist you in petting her. My bonding with Bernice takes place during car rides, listening to political podcasts, and on trips to my office. When Bert isn’t around, Bernice is a star. When Bert is around, she’s like any other marginalized woman.

    Bert is everything I’ve ever wanted in a dog, except for having the signature Chow personality—which means that one minute he will be sweet and loving, and the next he’ll rebuff my advances with a snap or a flinch. His nighttime personality when we are in bed together is all love and affection—it’s like sleeping with a giant, lifelike teddy bear—but come morning, when we go downstairs, he becomes Daytime Bert, who shuns me and behaves as if we didn’t just spend the entire night in each other’s arms. I’ve had myriad one-night stands—which have also been documented—but never anything quite as degrading. The rejection is fierce.

The first few days the dogs were home, Bert was picking up what I was throwing down, but then things started to shift. In the span of one week, he turned on Brandon, then Tanner, and then me. The only one he chose to have a relationship with was Big Mama.

He’d follow Mama around from room to room every day. If any of us even walked by him, he’d shudder as if we had all taken turns beating him the night before. I couldn’t get anywhere near Bert unless I had fifteen minutes to kill, because it was a multipronged process to gain access. First, he would hear me coming and attempt to run away. I use the word “run” for lack of a better term to describe Bert in motion. Bert’s movements are more labored, and unexpected—like an elephant starting to run and then giving up. Once he capitulated he’d sit down—with his back to me—and I’d have to make my way very gingerly to the front of his body, using a very soft voice, and then wait patiently for an opening. If he made his version of eye contact—essentially side-eye, head down—I would carefully move my hand underneath his chin and rub his chest for a beat, then I’d work my way around his neck to get to his ears and head. Once I got to his ears, he’d finally give in, and then he would allow me to do almost anything to his body. But if there was no gentle prelude and he saw my hand approach his head to pet him, he’d haul ass in the other direction in search of Mama.