Life Will Be the Death of Me: . . . and You Too!(55)

“Sounds like someone just got served,” Brandon said, as he made an overhead tennis-serve motion with the wrong hand.

The bottom line was this: If Bert was too fat to get up the stairs and get in my bed to cuddle with me, then what was the point of having dogs to begin with? If Bert was in fact five, or eight, or any of the other ages suggested to me, then we didn’t have that long before the stairs would become his nemesis. When Chunk got old, I could carry him up the stairs, but carrying Bert was not physically possible for me. So either Bert had to lose some weight or I needed to move into a ranch house. I put Bert on a diet, and I put my house on the market. Whichever happened first, happened first.

What happened first was that I came home from being away for five days and found Bert and Mama strutting around the house both wearing ankle weights—two for her and four for Bert. Bert and Mama had started their very own weight-loss challenge, and guess who didn’t get the group text? This felt like a blow on two fronts. I loved Mama’s big, fat curves, and when she lost weight there was less to squeeze, but I knew on an intellectual level that those feelings were irrelevant. We were now living in a time and place where fondling my cleaning lady was no longer acceptable—no matter how welcome those advances appeared to be. This became a story of not only a weight-loss challenge but a loss of sensory pleasures.

    It also became an exercise in patience. I have had an infinite amount of love for all my dogs, but these two were the first ones whose love I had to work for. They operated in absolutes—black and white, no gray, you’re in or you’re out. I was finally getting a taste of my own medicine.

After a full year, things improved for the most part, but I still don’t have the upper hand. Now, when I’m out of town, Mama will send me daily updates about the dogs, because she knows that for the first time in my life I suffer from guilt at not being home a lot, and when I am, she sees me spend hours on the floor with Bert and Bernice, begging them to cuddle with me. She knows how much I love Bert’s big, fat ass—probably because it’s the view I’m most familiar with—so she is always sure to send me one picture from the front and one from the back.

I send her pictures of Bert sitting at her office door after she has left for the afternoon, awaiting her return. She claims she no longer gives Bert treats, and I claim I no longer give Bert treats, but we both know the other is lying.

    If I’m gone for a few days in a row, sometimes Mama will send me a full body shot of herself in lingerie, just to tide me over.



* * *



? ? ?

If someone logged the amount of time I spend petting Bert and Bernice, I’d probably be arrested. I’m not going to pretend I don’t like Bert’s body more than Bernice’s—because I have a type—but I love them both the same. It’s hard for me not to molest my dogs. I know that if I squeeze them as tight as I want to, I’ll cut off their circulation. If I had gotten Bert before I met Dan, and not learned about impulse control, Bert would probably be dead.

I didn’t know the snugglefest I was missing out on, because Chunk and Tammy were both affectionate, but they weren’t hedonists. Neither was interested in drawn-out body rubs and would always at some point politely let me know they were done being petted by me.

Bert is the type of dog that could wake up to a beer every morning and then walk directly into a massage parlor for twenty-four hours straight. If I stop petting Bert, he will tap me on the shoulder with one of his paws and start whining. If Bernice comes up onto the bed, Bert will reposition his body to face away from her, because he is very jealous and wants attention only for himself. Every morning when Bert wakes up, the fur beneath his eyes is soaked. This dog is so lazy that he is literally drooling out of his eyes while he sleeps. Mama will wipe the tears off his face, on average, three times a day. Bert is the epitome of male privilege at its core. Pure, unadulterated privilege. He is the neediest dog I’ve ever had, and when I hold his body like a giant baby lion in my arms, it feels almost as if he were genetically engineered for me. “Are you my little fat fucker?” I’ll whisper to Bert once I’ve got him in a supine position, or, “I love the way your weight is distributed.” I say these things in Spanish because no one in my house speaks English anymore.

    It took me a while to get past the fact that when Bernice cleans herself, it sounds like a car wash. Or that Bert sounds like a warthog when you turn him on his back, find the fat flaps underneath his two front armpits, and fondle his soft fur—after rearranging his body in whatever position gives me the most pleasure. I have woken up some mornings with him still in my arms from the night before. Something I never knew was possible…until Bert.

It’s pretty remarkable to lose two dogs you love so much, only to find out that you can love two new dogs in a completely different way. It made me wonder—how many more kinds of love was I missing out on?

These two fuckers made me step up my parenting. Chunk and Tammy were along for the ride, whereas I’m the one along for Bert and Bernice’s ride. I still travel all the time, but when I’m home, I deal with the dogs. I take them for walks and I pick up their dog shit. I’m the one who goes home now for their mealtimes, and I’m the one who takes them to the park. The last part of that sentence is not true. It feels awesome to parent and to know that my parenting matters. That these dogs do not love me unconditionally, and they will not spoil me with love. That we are on a day-to-day basis, and I have to work hard every day to prove to them that I am worthy. That I will be consistent and that my love is not contingent on them loving me the same way I love them. Have I turned into a stalker? Yes. Yes, I have.